Chapter 25

No. Yes. Maybe.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

He steps even closer, his body nearly touching mine. “That’s the wisest thing you’ve said all night.”

I should step back. If there’s distance between us, then there’s room to pretend professionalism didn’t fly the coop a long, long time ago. I just need air between our bodies. Space. Safety.

For a long moment, Vince says nothing. Just watches me, his face impossible to read.

Then he smiles—a cold, dangerous curve of his lips that makes my blood freeze.

“Not everything is as black and white as you think, little doe.” He traces a finger down my bare arm. “Business is business. Sometimes, that means removing obstacles. Sometimes, those obstacles are people.”

My stomach drops. “So you are going to kill someone.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t deny it, either.”

His hand moves to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. Not pulling, just holding. Reminding me that he could hurt me if he wanted to.

“Let me ask you something,” he says softly. “If someone threatened your mother’s life, what would you do to stop them?”

The question cuts straight to my core. “Anything,” I whisper without hesitation.

“Exactly.” His grip tightens. “That’s what separates us from the animals, Rowan. Not the things we’re willing to do. But the reasons we do them.”

It’s twisted logic. Justification for violence.

And yet…

“We should get back inside,” I say, trying to pull away. “People will wonder where we are.”

He doesn’t release me. “Answer one more question first.”

I wait, heart pounding.

“Does it frighten you?” he asks. “Knowing what I am? What I do?”

I could lie. Should lie. But something in his eyes demands the truth.

“Yes,” I admit. “And no.”

His eyebrow raises. “Explain.”

“I’m afraid of what you’re capable of,” I say slowly. “But also… drawn to it. And that scares me even more.”

A slow smile spreads across his face—genuine this time, reaching his eyes.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Honesty suits you better than fear.” He releases me, stepping back. “Let’s return to the party. I’ve seen everything I needed to see tonight.”

As I follow him back inside, I wonder what exactly he means. What he saw. What he was looking for.

And I wonder why, despite everything I just learned, I’m still following him at all.

18

VINCE

The drive to my father’s house is familiar. Every bend, every turn, every stoplight burned into my memory from thousands of trips over the years.

I don’t need to focus on the road. Which is good, because my mind is elsewhere.

It’s on last night’s gala. On green silk. On wide eyes that somehow managed to look both terrified and tempted at the same damn time.

Rowan St. Clair. My little assistant with the steel spine and trembling hands.

My father noticed her. As in noticed her. Not just the passing of his gaze over her and the deeming of her as insignificant. No, he stopped and he looked.

And he found her wanting.

I saw it in his eyes—the calculation, the dismissal, the warning. He thinks she’s beneath me. A distraction. A liability.

He’s wrong.

I pull through the gates of the Akopov estate, the security team nodding as I pass. The sprawling mansion looms ahead, all stone and glass and Moscow gravitas transplanted to American soil.

Home. Though it’s never really felt that way.

It’s hard to feel fondly about a place that’s swallowed your blood and screamed for more.

I park in the circular driveway and cut the engine. For a moment, I sit in silence, preparing myself for whatever bullshit my father has summoned me here to discuss. His text was cryptic: Family dinner. 7PM sharp. Important matters to discuss.

In Andrei Akopov’s world, “important matters” usually means he’s about to make my life way more fucking complicated.

The front door opens before I reach it.

“Vincent.” Marta, the housekeeper, greets me with a warm smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re late.”

“By two minutes.” I kiss her cheek, inhaling the familiar scent of her perfume—Yves Saint Laurent Opium, the same bottle I buy her every Christmas. “Traffic.”

She links her arm through mine. “He’s in a mood,” she warns quietly as we walk toward the dining room. “Tread carefully.”

“When is he not in a mood?”

“Fair point.” She squeezes my arm. “But tonight feels different. Don’t ask me why.”

Before I can ask what she means, we enter the dining room. My father sits at the head of the table, a glass of vodka in his hand, a stack of folders beside his plate.

“Seven minutes late,” he announces without looking up.

“Two minutes,” I correct, taking my usual seat to his right. “The traffic⁠—”

“I don’t care.” He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. “We have business to discuss.”

Marta slips into her chair silently, eyes downcast. After thirty-five years in the Akopovs’ employ, she knows when to fade into the background.

I pour myself a vodka from the crystal decanter. “What kind of business?”

“Your future.” He pushes the stack of folders toward me. “Open them.”

I take the first folder, flip it open, and find myself staring at a photograph of a young woman. Beautiful, in that cold, calculated way favored by the daughters of powerful men. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dark, expensive clothes.

“Irina Petrov,” my father says. “Twenty-eight. MBA from Moscow State. Grigor’s only daughter.”

I flip to the next page. Financial information. Family connections. Medical history.

It’s a fucking dossier.

“What is this?” I ask, though I already know.

“Candidates.” His voice is matter-of-fact. “For marriage.”

I close the folder. “I don’t need your help finding a wife.”

“Evidence suggests otherwise.” He takes a long sip of vodka. “The timeline has shortened. You have two months, Vincent. I’ve arranged meetings with each of these women over the next three weeks.”

“Two months?” I repeat. “My birthday is in six.”

“The paperwork takes time.” He taps the folders. “And I need to be assured of your choice before the transfer of power. The board meeting is in twelve weeks. This needs to be settled before then.”

I open the second folder. Another beautiful woman. Another set of statistics and qualifications, laid out like a resume.

“Katerina Volkov,” my father supplies. “Twenty-five. Mikhail’s niece. Harvard Law.”

“And the third?” I ask, not bothering to open the last folder.

“Anastasia Kuznetsov. Twenty-four. Dual PhDs in International Relations and Economics.”

I push the folders away. “I’ll find my own wife.”

“You’ve had years to do that.” My father’s voice hardens. “Time’s up.”

A servant enters with the first course—borscht, steaming in fine china bowls. We fall silent as she serves us, then disappears back into the kitchen.

“I won’t be forced into marriage with a stranger,” I say once we’re alone again.

“They’re hardly strangers. You’ve known these families your entire life.”

“That doesn’t make them suitable. It doesn’t mean I want to fucking marry them.”

My father’s eyes narrow. “They’re more suitable than some mousy, nobody secretary, I assure you.”

And there it is. The real reason for this dinner.

“Rowan,” I say, watching his reaction. “That’s what this is about.”

“The girl from the gala?” He spits the words like they taste bitter, as if erasing her name is the only fate she deserves. Like having a proper name is a level of importance she has not and will never earn. “I made inquiries. No family connections. No money. No education worth mentioning. Nothing to offer the Bratva.”

“She has… other qualities.”

“Such as?” He sneers. “A pretty face? A willing body? You can get those anywhere without putting a ring on her fucking finger, moy syn.”

“I won’t justify my choices to you,” I say. “The terms of the inheritance require marriage. They don’t specify to whom.”

“Don’t play games with me, boy!” He slams his fist on the table, making the silverware jump. “I built this empire from nothing. I won’t see it handed to an impulsive brat who makes decisions with his dick instead of his head.”

I remain calm, taking a spoonful of borscht. “Is the food getting cold?”

“This isn’t a joke, Vincent.” His voice descends into a dangerous growl. “For fuck’s sake, how many times must I repeat myself? The Bratva isn’t just business. It’s family. Tradition. Legacy. The woman you marry becomes part of that legacy.”

“Times change.”