Chapter 180 181

Chapter 180 181
I place Sofiya in her portable crib, ensuring she’s settled before turning back to Rowan. The fight sluices away from me, replaced by a grudging admiration I can’t suppress.

“You’re terrifying,” I tell her. It’s the highest compliment I can offer.

“Takes one to know one.”

I close the distance between us again, this time with different intent. My hands find her hips and drag her roughly against me. “Don’t ever go behind my back like that again.”

“Then don’t give me a reason to.”

Her defiance ignites something in me. I crush my mouth to hers. It’s punishment; it’s praise; it’s both; it’s everything. She responds instantly, her body melting into mine even as her teeth nip at my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

I lift her until her legs wrap around my waist. We collide with the wall, but neither of us notice or care.

“I should be furious with you,” I growl against her throat, leaving marks that will bloom purple by morning.

“You are,” she gasps as my fingers sneak beneath her skirt. “But you’re also impressed.”

I thrust two fingers inside her, feeling her clench around me. “You think you’re so fucking clever.”

“I am.” She throws her head back as I curl my fingers against the spot that makes her shudder. “I— Fuck, Vince.”

My cock strains against my pants, desperate to be inside her. I free myself with my other hand and hike her leg over my hip.

“What you did today,” I say, pausing at her threshold, “was either the bravest thing I’ve ever seen or the stupidest.”

“It was necessary.” Her nails dig into my shoulders through my shirt. “Now, stop talking and fuck me.”

I drive into her with one brutal thrust, swallowing her cry with another kiss. There’s no gentleness between us now. We’re long past that.

I fuck her against the wall, her legs locked around my waist, her body taking every punishing thrust like she was made for me.

And she was, I realize. Made to challenge me. To defy me. To complete me in ways I never knew I needed.

“I want you pregnant again,” I growl into her ear as I feel her tightening around me. “I want to put another baby inside you. Tonight.”

Her eyes fly open, meeting mine as I drive deeper. “Yes,” she gasps, and I can’t tell if she’s agreeing or just responding to the pleasure until she adds, “Yes, Vince. Give me another baby.”

The words send me over the edge. I come with a roar, spilling deep inside her, making her mine in the most savage way possible. She follows before I’m even halfway finished, her body convulsing around mine, milking every drop.

“Next time,” I murmur against her lips, “tell me before you invite my worst enemy to dinner.”

Rowan smiles, the wild, dangerous smile I’ve come to crave. “Where would the fun be in that?”

60

ROWAN

Things change fast in this life. I’d know that better than anyone. You grow and evolve and leave the old ways behind.

It’s darkly funny to watch the old pieces of yourself flake off and drift away. There’s a new person inside, as it turns out. Someone you never thought you were capable of being.

And yet you are.

I am.

I stand in the glittering ballroom of the Akopov Manhattan compound, wearing a gleaming emerald dress, with an ocean of attendees eyeing my every move. The guests assembled today have no idea they’re witnessing history unfold before them—the careful dismantling of generations of hatred.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” Anastasia murmurs as she appears beside me in a cloud of French perfume. Her cream-colored dress emphasizes her perfect figure, but even more noticeable is the enormous diamond on her finger catching light with every gesture. “Vincent Akopov and my soon-tobe father-in-law, sharing the same oxygen without bloodshed.”

“For now,” I say. I’m still a little wary, unable to fully trust the fragile peace that has made tonight possible. “Let’s see if it survives the ceremony.”

The ceremony in question? Formally dissolving Vince’s arrangement with Anastasia and publicly announcing her engagement to Daniil Petrov.

Daniil joins us, sliding an arm around Anastasia’s waist. The tension in his body betrays his nerves. “Your husband hasn’t stopped checking the security feed since we arrived,” he tells me. “Is he expecting trouble?”

“Vince always expects trouble,” I say. “It’s what’s kept him alive this long.”

The murmur of conversation fades as Vince steps to the center of the room, commanding attention without effort. The silver in his black hair catches the light, giving him an otherworldly aura of power.

“Today, we honor tradition while embracing change,” he begins, his voice carrying to every corner. “For too long, our families have been divided by old hatreds, old wrongs.”

I watch the faces around me—Bratva men whose loyalties run generations deep, women whose survival depends on reading the room correctly. They’re confused, uncertain, waiting to see where this leads.

“Anastasia Kuznetsov and I entered into an arrangement that would have united our families through marriage,” Vince continues. “Today, with mutual respect, we dissolve that agreement—not to sever ties, but to strengthen them through a different bond.”

He gestures toward Daniil and Anastasia. “Daniil Petrov and Anastasia will unite our families in a way that honors their choice, their love. With the blessing of Grigor Petrov and myself.”

The shock ripples through the room like an electric current. Daniil’s true identity as Grigor’s son—long kept secret—is now public knowledge. Most already had some inkling, but it’s a bit of a head trip to hear it spoken into the ether.

“To new beginnings.” Vince raises his glass, eyes finding mine across the room. “And to the bridges that connect us.”

The toast is echoed throughout the room, though I note several of the older Bratva members drink with visible reluctance. Change comes slowly to men who’ve spent decades nursing grudges and counting kills.

It’s alright. They’ll come around one way or another.

With that, Vince bows and steps down from the microphone. The crowd dissolves back into their twos and threes and fours, gossiping about what this might mean for the future of the New York underworld.

I weave through the crowd toward my husband, who has reclaimed Sofiya from Grigor. My daughter rests on his hip, playing with his tie as he converses with a group of businessmen—legitimate ones, carefully invited to witness this very public display of our legitimate connections.

“Mrs. Akopov.” Vince’s smile is automatic when I approach. “The men were just discussing our Costa Rica development.”

“A remarkable venture,” one of them—Thompson from First National— says. “Particularly impressive how quickly you’ve secured the environmental approvals.”

“We believe in responsible development,” I reply. The corporate bullshit flows easily after months of rehearsal. “Sustainability is both good ethics and good business.”

Vince’s hand tightens at my waist. A warning. I turn slightly, following his gaze to the entrance…

… where Agent Carver stands.

He’s surveying the room with a sneer he doesn’t bother hiding. My stomach twists into a knot. The FBI’s presence at what is essentially a Bratva gathering—however disguised as a legitimate social event—is a power move.

“Excuse us,” Vince murmurs to the businessmen. “My daughter needs a moment.”

I take Sofiya from him. Her vocabulary is still small enough to keep her from blabbing about how we use her to worm our way out of social situations, but at the rate she’s growing, that won’t last much longer.

For tonight, though, it remains useful.

We move to a quieter corner, tucked behind a column. Vince positions himself between us and Carver’s line of sight.