Chapter 26

“Some things never change.” He leans forward, elbows planted hard on the table, rheumy eyes unblinking as he skewers me with a gaze that’s seen far, far too much in his six decades on this planet. “You need connections. What does this girl bring to the table? Medical bills? A job she’s unqualified for? A virgin’s naivety?”

My grip tightens on my spoon. “You’ve been investigating her.”

“Of course I have.” He scoffs. “I investigate everyone who gets close to my son. Especially when that son is about to inherit everything I’ve built.”

I set down my spoon with deliberate care. “You’re right. It is business. And in business, you evaluate all potential investments before making a decision.”

“She’s not an investment. She’s a liability.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“It’s a fact.” He pulls another folder from beside his chair and tosses it onto the table. It slides toward me, stopping just short of my bowl. “See for yourself.”

I open it to find more information on Rowan. It’s nothing I haven’t dug up myself already. Her mother’s medical records. Financial statements showing years of debt. Academic transcripts, employment history, blah blah fucking blah.

But then…

Surveillance photos.

Dozens of them. Rowan leaving her apartment. Visiting her mother in the hospital. Sitting at her desk in my office.

Even one of us talking on the terrace at last night’s gala, her face tilted up to mine, eyes bright and shining.

Something hot and dangerous unfurls in my chest.

“You had her followed,” I say, my voice deadly quiet.

“I protect what’s mine.”

“She’s not a threat.”

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. “She knows about the gun in your desk. About the shipments. About Mikhail and the others. How long before she runs to the police, eh?”

I close the folder, pushing it back toward him. “She won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can. And I do.”

My father studies me for a long moment. “You care for her,” he finally says in utter disgust, like it’s a diagnosis of terminal illness.

I don’t answer.

I don’t need to.

“This is worse than I thought.” He shakes his head. “Caring makes you vulnerable, Vincent. I taught you better than that.”

“You taught me many things,” I agree. “Not all of them worth remembering.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to cut.

“You have two months,” he finally says. “You will meet with each of these women. You will choose one of them. You will announce your engagement at the board meeting.” He leans forward. “Or you get nothing. Not the company. Not the Bratva. Not a single share or dollar or ounce of respect from me or anyone else in our world.”

“And if I choose someone else?”

“Then you’re on your own.” His eyes are as cold as the winters he was born into. “Not a penny of mine will pass into your hands. It will be just you and whatever gutter rat you’ve decided is worth throwing away your birthright for.”

I consider my options carefully. I could tell him to go fuck himself. Walk away from all of it. Start fresh.

But the Bratva doesn’t work that way. Walking away isn’t just leaving a job or a family—it’s leaving a way of life. One that comes with enemies who would immediately see me as vulnerable. Fair game.

And by extension, anyone close to me would be fair game, too.

“I’ll meet with them,” I say finally. “All three.”

Relief flashes across my father’s face, quickly masked. “Good. The first meeting is tomorrow night. Dinner with Irina Petrov at Per Se. Eight o’clock.”

“Fine.” I take a drink of vodka, feeling it burn all the way down. “But I make no promises about the outcome.”

“Two months, Vincent.” He taps the stack of folders. “Choose wisely.”

The rest of dinner passes in strained conversation about business matters. By the time dessert arrives—a traditional Russian honey cake that tastes like radioactive ash in my mouth—I’ve made my decision.

I’ll play my father’s game. Meet these women. Pretend to consider them.

But I’ll do it on my terms.

I drop my fork clattering onto my plate and stand. “Where are you going?” my father asks in surprise.

“To throw myself a bachelor party,” I say sarcastically.

I turn and leave, though I bring the glass of vodka with me. I drain it dry, then leave it on the stoop as I brush through the front door and out into the night again. The purr of my car rocketing down the drive settles into my bones. Steadies me. Orients me.

“I’m afraid of what you’re capable of. But also… drawn to it. And that scares me even more.” I smile into the darkness as Manhattan’s skyline rises before me.

My father thinks he’s going to drag me down into the hell of his choosing. And fuck it, maybe he will.

But I won’t be going alone.

19

ROWAN

I’m halfway through a rerun of The Great British Bake Off when someone knocks on my door.

Actually, “knocks” isn’t the right word. It’s more like a furious, impatient pounding that makes me nearly slosh my Solo cup full of boxed wine all over my threadbare couch.

Nobody visits me unannounced. Ever. Natalie always texts first, Mom’s in the hospital, and the building super only shows up when something’s been broken for a minimum of three weeks.

I mute the TV and tiptoe to the peephole, wine cup still clutched in my hand like a sad weapon.

My heart stops.

Vincent Akopov is standing in my hallway.

“I know you’re in there, Rowan,” he calls through the door. “I can hear you breathing.”

I glance down at my outfit in horror. Gray flannel pajama shorts with little cartoon sloths on them. A faded NYU t-shirt with a coffee stain right between my boobs. Hair piled on top of my head in a disgusting knot. Calling it a “filthy rat’s nest” would be an insult to filth, rats, and nests.

“One minute!” I call, my voice way too high-pitched, like a teakettle on helium.

I scramble around my tiny studio, looking for something—anything—more presentable to throw on. But there’s no time. He’s already seen the light under my door, already knows I’m home.

Taking a deep breath, I open the door just enough to peek out.

“Mr. Akopov,” I say, trying to sound professional despite my attire. “This is unexpected.”

He’s devastating in dark, tailored slacks and a charcoal cashmere sweater that looks like he tugged a cloud out of the night sky and molded it to his biceps. His hair is tousled, like he’s been running his fingers through it over and over again, and there’s a tightness to the clench of his jaw that makes my thighs do a clench of their own.

“Are you going to invite me in?” he asks, one eyebrow arched.

“I’m not exactly dressed for company.”