Chapter 43: Filthy Lies: Chapter 43

I don’t like the way she’s looking at me.

Ever since I came home from Costa Rica, Rowan’s eyes track me around rooms like I’m a wild animal she expects to turn on her at any moment.

Not that there isn’t a kernel of truth to that—I am a predator. I’ve spent my life becoming one.

But never toward her. Never toward my family.

The negative pregnancy test rattled her more than she wants to admit; that much is clear. But there’s something else—something darker—eclipsing her usual fire.

It’s in all the signs. The way she clutched those papers to her chest when I caught her rifling through my briefcase. The way she scurried out of our bedroom with panic bleeding from every pore.

She found something. And whatever it was, it’s making her look at me the way people look at snakes in glass terrariums: wondering if the glass is thick enough to keep them safe.

I’m still trying to figure out exactly what she discovered when Arkady marches into my study without knocking, phone pressed to his ear, eyes wide with what can only be described as pure fucking glee.

“The Solovyovs are crumbling,” he announces, tossing a thick folder onto my desk. “The FBI raid happened twenty minutes ago. Federal agents are swarming their warehouses from Brighton Beach to Staten Island.”

I lean forward and pass an eye over the surveillance photos inside the folder. The picture they paint is grim, if you’re in the Solovyov business. Men in tactical gear hauling crates from buildings. Solovyov lieutenants in handcuffs being shoved into unmarked vans. A glimpse of Agent Carver’s smug face directing operations, grinning from ear to ear like the Cheshire Cat.

“What exactly did you give the FBI?” I ask Arkady. “The intel Rowan provided couldn’t have been this comprehensive.”

“That’s just it.” He beams as he flops into the chair across from me. “We didn’t have to give them anything beyond the initial tip. The momentum of their investigation did the rest. Carver’s people got one thread and pulled until the whole fucking sweater unraveled.”

My eyes narrow. “And our operation?”

“Utterly and completely untouched. Damn near virginal, baby.” He spreads his hands and laughs incredulously. “The FBI is so focused on the Solovyovs they haven’t spared a single glance in our direction. It’s like we’ve become goddamn invisible.”

I lean back and let this news settle into my bones. When Rowan first told me about her meeting with Carver, I’d been furious. When she explained her strategy—offering the Solovyovs as sacrifice to redirect FBI attention—I’d been skeptical at best.

But now…

Well, fuck. She was right.

“There’s more,” Arkady continues. He taps something on his phone before sliding it across the desk to me. “The Barkov family—what’s left of them—has reached out. They want to meet. The Yershovs, too. Even the fucking Kozlovs are making noise about a potential alliance.”

“Opportunistic fucks,” I mutter in disgust.

“They’re rats fleeing a sinking ship,” Arkady corrects. “Afraid they’re next on the FBI’s hit list. They want our protection—and they’re willing to pay top fuckin’ dollar for it, man. This shit is a gold mine.”

The irony isn’t lost on me. For months, we’ve been fighting a multifront war—Solovyovs, my father’s loyalists, the FBI, various disgruntled Bratva families who saw us as vulnerable.

Now, those same enemies are crawling on their bellies to our door, begging for sanctuary.

“My wife,” I say slowly, a vicious pride spreading through my chest like blood in water, “is a fucking genius.”

Arkady snorts. “Don’t tell her that. Her ego’s already big enough.”

“Schedule the meetings. One by one, not all at once. We negotiate from a position of strength.” I stand, gathering the files. “And double the security detail on the compound. Just because they’re asking for alliance doesn’t mean they won’t try to eliminate competition if the opportunity presents itself.”

“As always, it is already done, because I’m the best.” Arkady rises, then pauses halfway to his feet. “You going to tell her?”

“Tell who what?”

“Rowan, dumbass.” He gives me a look that suggests I’m being deliberately dense. “That her crazy plan actually worked.”

I look toward the open door and the yawning hallway beyond it. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m going to tell her.”

I find Rowan in our bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the bed with a book open in her lap. She’s not reading it. The pages haven’t turned in the three minutes I’ve been standing in the doorway watching her stare at nothing.

“You were right,” I say, finally stepping into the room.

Her head jerks up, startled. Those green eyes—Grigor’s eyes, not that I’ll ever say that out loud—widen with something that looks dangerously like fear.

“About…?”

“The FBI.” I close the door behind me. “Your plan worked. Better than we could have imagined. They’re dismantling the Solovyovs as we speak.”

For a split second, triumph flashes across her face—a glimpse of the fierce woman I married. Then it’s gone, replaced by the same guarded wariness that’s been shadowing her eyes since I came home.

“That’s good,” she says at last.

“Good?” I laugh as I join her on the edge of the bed. “It’s fucking brilliant, Rowan. The Bratva families that have been gunning for us are now begging for protection. The FBI is so focused on the Solovyovs they’ve forgotten we exist. You turned our worst enemies into our biggest opportunity.”

She nods, eyes averted. “I’m glad.”

“Glad? That’s all you have to say?” I reach for her hand, but she pulls it back. I frown. “Talk to me, Rowan. What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.” She closes her book with a snap. “I’m tired, Vince. It’s been a long few days.”

“Bullshit.” I stand. Frustration crackles through me like lightning seeking ground. “You’ve been looking at me like I’m a stranger since I got back from Costa Rica. Like you’re afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she says, but there’s no conviction in it.

“Then what? The pregnancy test? I told you, we can try again when⁠—”

“The Cayman Islands,” she blurts out, looking immediately like she wishes she could stuff the words back down her throat. “Does that mean anything to you?”

Understanding dawns cold and sharp. It’s absurd that I didn’t see it before, but all she had to say was those three little words and the whole piece swims into resolution.

“You think I’m planning… You found the offshore accounts in my name and thought—what? That I’m building myself an escape hatch without you and Sofiya?”

Her silence is answer enough.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“You actually believe I could do that,” I say flatly.

“I didn’t know what to think, Vince.” She wraps her arms around herself, suddenly small and vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache. “All those accounts in your name only. Properties I’ve never heard of. Money I didn’t know existed. Two plus two is four, you know?”

I scrub a hand down my face, marveling at how spectacularly I’ve failed to communicate with the one person who matters most.

“Those accounts are a decoy, Rowan.”

Her eyes snap to mine. “What?”

“A red herring. Breadcrumbs.” I sit beside her again, close enough to touch but not reaching for her yet. “The FBI, the Bratva, our enemies—they’re all looking for my assets. For leverage they can use against us.” I gesture toward the door, where somewhere beyond it, Sofiya sleeps in her crib. “For ways to hurt the people I love.”

Her lips part in shock as I keep talking.

“So I built a convincing trap. Accounts that look like hidden assets but are actually monitored by the FBI. Properties that appear to be secret hideaways but are under surveillance. Money trails designed specifically to be found and followed—leading everyone away from where the real assets are kept.”

“And where are the real assets kept?” she asks, still not entirely convinced.

I hold her gaze steadily. “In trusts under shell companies—registered to you and Sofiya. All that stuff is protected by lawyers who don’t know they’re working for me, and it’s accessible to you—and only to you—in the event of my death or imprisonment.”

Her jaw falls all the way open. “You… you put everything in our names?”

“Everything that matters.” I reach for her hand again, and this time, she doesn’t wrench away. “I’m not building an escape route for myself, Rowan. I’m building a safety net for my girls.”

Tears well in her eyes, threatening to spill over. “I thought you were planning to leave us behind.”

“Never.” I cup her face in my hands, willing her to believe me. “You and Sofiya are the only things in this world I wouldn’t leave behind.”

A tear slips down her cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for doubting you. I’m an idiot.”

“No.” I brush the tear away with my thumb. “I’m sorry for not telling you. For letting you think, even for a moment, that I’d abandon my family.”

“It’s not just that.” She shakes her head. “I’ve been so unstable since the pregnancy test. The way I went from dreading it to wanting it to mourning it… I don’t even recognize myself anymore.”

I pull her to me, tucking her head under my chin. She burrows there with a grateful sigh like it’s the exact medicine she needed. “You’ve been through hell, Rowan. We both have. You’re allowed to want things, even if they scare you. You’re allowed to grieve for things that never were.”

Her arms wind around me, holding on as if I’m the only solid thing in a world gone liquid with uncertainty.

“I want to try again,” she whispers against my throat. “For another baby, I mean. When things are more stable.”

“When things are more stable,” I agree, running my hand down the slender curve of her spine. “I promise you, we’re getting there.”

She tilts her face up to mine, and I see it there—the trust creeping back into her eyes. She used to always look at me like this before the world taught her to be wary.

I’d like to make it so that’s the only way she ever looks at me again.

“Show me,” she says, echoing her words from earlier.

But this time, there’s no challenge in them. Only invitation.

I don’t need to be asked twice.

My mouth meets hers with a hunger that’s been building since I first saw her sitting on our bed, looking lost and broken. She melts against me. A soft sound of surrender catches in her throat as my tongue pushes into her mouth.

I want to devour her. To consume her doubt and fear and replace it with the bone-deep certainty that she is mine and I am hers and nothing—nothing—will ever change that.

She moans when I lay her back on the bed. My body covers hers like a shield against all the darkness in the world.

Including the darkness in me.

“I missed you,” she breathes as I trail kisses down her throat, lingering over her pulse point where her heart thuds with growing arousal. “Even when you were right here, I missed you.”

“I know.” I tug her shirt over her head and cast it aside. “I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere.”

My hands and mouth worship her body—the curves that still carry the memory of bearing our child, the scars that tell the story of all she’s survived.

When I reach the waistband of her leggings, I glance up, seeking permission.

Sometimes, I take.

Sometimes, I ask.

This is the latter.

She nods and lifts her hips so I can peel the fabric down her legs. Her body trembles as I pepper reverent kisses along her inner thighs and work my way towards her core.

“Vince,” she gasps when my tongue finally finds her center. “Oh, God, Vince.”

I devour her, each flick of my tongue a silent promise, each press of my fingers a vow. She comes apart under my mouth, back arching, hands fisted in my hair, my name a broken stutter on her lips.

But I’m not done with her. Not by a long shot.

I shed my own clothes, never taking my eyes off her flushed face, the way she watches me with hunger that matches my own. When I finally slide inside her, we both groan at the perfection of it.

No two things have ever fit together so well.

“Mine,” I growl against her ear as I begin to move. “No matter what happens, no matter what comes for us. You’re mine, Rowan. You and Sofiya. Always.”

“Yours,” she agrees. Her nails rake down my back hard enough to leave marks. Good. I want to be marked by her. Claimed by her just as thoroughly as I claim her.

We move together with growing urgency, my thrusts becoming harder, deeper, more desperate. The slick heat of her surrounds me, pulls me deeper, urges me toward completion.

But I hold back. I want her to come before me.

“Come for me,” I command against her lips. “Let me feel you, Rowan.”

She does exactly that, tipping over the edge into a spasming orgasm. Only ironclad will keeps me moving, prolonging her pleasure until she’s sobbing my name, begging for mercy.

Then and only then do I allow myself release, pouring into her with a groan that comes from somewhere deeper than my bones.

We collapse together. Her ear comes to rest right over my heart. I wonder if she can hear what it’s saying—the complicated tangle of love and fear and fierce possessiveness that drives every beat.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs against my skin.

“Don’t be.” I press a kiss to the top of her head. “I haven’t always given you reason to trust me.”

“I do trust you.” She props herself up on one elbow to look at me properly. “With my life. With Sofiya’s life, too. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

Her eyes search mine. “Sometimes, I wonder if we’re just delaying the inevitable. If there’s any way to actually escape this life we’ve built.”

“We escaped today,” I remind her. “The FBI is hunting the Solovyovs instead of us. Our enemies are becoming our allies. The Costa Rica development is back on track.” I comb a stray lock of hair out of her face. “There is a happy ever after waiting for us, Rowan. We just have to hold onto each other long enough to reach it.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, absorbing this. Then she leans down to kiss me, soft and sweet and full of a trust I’m still not sure I deserve.

“Just promise me one thing,” she whispers against my lips.

“Anything.”

“Promise me that if it comes down to it—if we ever have to choose between power and peace—we choose peace.”

I stare into those green eyes, so different from my own, yet familiar in ways I can’t explain. In them, I see a future I never believed possible. A future that might just be within our grasp if we’re willing to strive for it.

“I promise,” I tell her.

I mean it more than I’ve ever meant anything in my whole cursed life.