Chapter 36

ROWAN

“I want to go home.”

My voice breaks the tense silence of the penthouse. We’ve been here for hours—Vince’s fortress in the sky, fifty-seven floors above Manhattan.

After Arkady dropped us off, Vince led me inside like I might shatter at any moment. A doctor appeared, examined us both, cleaned and dressed our wounds. Vince spoke to him in Russian, and I didn’t miss how the doctor’s eyes kept darting nervously to me.

I was the variable. The unknown. The liability.

Then came the phone calls. Dozens of them, Vince moving to another room, voice cast too low for me to eavesdrop.

Now, dawn is breaking over the city, casting everything in cold, clear light.

I feel sick.

“Did you hear me? I want to go home.”

Vince looks up from his laptop, brows drawn together. “That’s not possible right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because Solovyov’s men are likely watching your apartment. Also, you’re still in shock and I need to know you’re safe. Take your pick.”

I rise from the couch where I’ve been curled up for the past hour, wrapped in one of Vince’s shirts because my dress was torn beyond repair. The silk fabric—once red as a warning flag—is now even redder than that, stained with blood and dirt, abandoned in a bathroom hamper.

“I have a life,” I insist. “And a family. I need to check on my mother.”

“Your mother is fine. I have men at the hospital.”

That stops me cold. “You what?”

Vince closes his laptop, giving me his full attention. “After what happened tonight, I took precautions. Your mother is safe. She doesn’t know anything about the attack.”

“You put men at my mother’s hospital room? Without asking me?!”

“Yes.” No apology. No explanation beyond that single, unapologetic syllable.

“Why?”

“Because Solovyov will target anyone connected to me.” His voice is matter-of-fact, as if explaining a simple business transaction. “You’re connected to me and your mother is connected to you. Therefore, she becomes a potential target.”

The clinical logic of it makes my blood run cold.

“This is insane,” I whisper, sinking back onto the couch. “All of this—it’s completely insane.”

Vince moves to sit beside me, keeping a careful distance between us. Gone is the man who touched me so intimately in the car, who held me close as we ran from gunfire.

In his place is someone far more controlled. Infinitely more cautious.

“I understand this is a lot to process,” he says, like he’s talking to a skittish animal. “But you need to understand the reality of the situation. What happened tonight wasn’t random. It was a direct attack on me—and by extension, on you.”

“Because of the Bratva,” I say, watching his reaction. “Because you’re involved in organized crime.”

He doesn’t flinch at the accusation. “Yes.”

“And those men… they’re your rivals?”

“The Solovyov family has been pushing into our territory for months.” His jaw tightens. “I’ve been trying to handle it diplomatically. Clearly, they’ve chosen a different approach.”

I stand again, too restless to remain still. His penthouse is beautiful—sleek lines and minimalist elegance, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city.

I’ve never felt more caged.

“I need to resign,” I say, the words tumbling out. “I can’t do this. I can’t be part of whatever this is.”

Vince rises and snorts in derision. “Do you really believe you can walk away now? Pretend none of this happened? Go back to your marketing job and forget everything you’ve seen?”

“I don’t know!” I snap, anger burning through the shock. “But I know I didn’t sign up for this. For car crashes and gunfights and men dying in the street!”

“No, you didn’t,” he agrees, surprisingly gentle. “And if I could have shielded you from it, I would have.”

“But you can’t,” I finish for him. “Because this is your life. The real one, behind all the corporate bullshit.”

He doesn’t deny it. “Yes.”

I turn away, staring out at the city below us. Somewhere out there is my tiny apartment.

My normal life.

My safety.

Or maybe not. Maybe all those things are gone for good.

“I’m scared,” I admit, voice barely above a whisper.

I hear him move closer, feel the heat of him behind me. Not touching, but near enough that I could lean back and be engulfed by him if I chose to.

“I know,” he says softly. “You have every right to be.”

“You killed a man in front of me.” I turn to face him, needing to see his eyes when I say this. “You executed him.”

Vince meets my gaze unflinchingly. “He would have killed us both. Or worse.”

“Worse?”

“Solovyov’s men aren’t known for their mercy, especially not with women.”

The implication turns my stomach. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the penthouse.

“So those are my options?” I ask. “Stay with you and be protected, or leave and be… what? Kidnapped? Killed?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Then explain it to me,” I challenge. “Make me understand why my life has suddenly turned into some kind of mafia movie.”

Vince runs a hand through his hair, the gesture more human than I’m used to seeing from him. For a moment, he looks almost vulnerable.

Then it vanishes.

“The Bratva is more than a criminal organization,” he begins. “It’s a family. A way of life. One I was born into, not one I chose.”

“But you’re the boss,” I say. “The… what do they call it? The pakhan?”

“Not yet. My father still holds that title. But soon…” He trails off, eyes distant. “Soon, it will pass to me.”

“And there’s no way out? You can’t just quit?”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “The only way out is death, Rowan. Mine or someone else’s.” The finality in his voice silences me.

“What happens now?” I ask, changing tack. “To me, I mean.”

“That depends.” He moves closer, halving the distance between us. “On what you want.”

“What I want?” I laugh, the sound brittle. “I want my life back. I want to not have seen a man killed right in front of me. I want to go back to a week ago when my biggest problem was an inappropriate crush on my boss.”

Vince’s expression softens. “A week ago, you were drowning in medical debt, working a job beneath your talents, and living in an apartment with mold in the bathroom ceiling.”

“How do you⁠—”

“I’ve had you investigated, remember?” He reaches out, fingers brushing mine, a tentative touch. “I know everything about you, Rowan. Your struggles. Your sacrifices. Your resilience.”

I gulp. The thought of Vince prying into every corner of my life without permission is, on the face of it, abhorrent. Any reasonable person would be offended. Slap him, yell at him—those are the rational responses. A strange, pleased purr between my legs? That does not make any sense whatsoever.

So guess which one my body chooses?

“So what are you saying?” I ask, swallowing back the satisfied murmur in my veins at the thought of Vince watching me the way I’ve spent five years watching him. “That being involved with this—” I gesture vaguely at him, at the penthouse, at the bloody shirt I’m wearing. “—is somehow better than my old life?”

“I’m saying you have a choice.” His fingers wrap around mine now, holding tight. “Stay. Let me protect you. Or walk away and take your chances.”

“That’s not much of a choice.”

“It’s more than most people get in my world.”

I pull my hand from his, needing distance to think clearly. “And if I stay, what does that mean exactly? Am I your employee? Your mistress? Your prisoner?”

He does not answer.

I gulp again and decide perhaps that’s for the best.

“And what about your father’s marriage ultimatum?” I press. “The deadline to choose a bride?”