Chapter 182 183

Chapter 182 183
Hope flickers across her face. “That’s good, right?”

“It’s not prison,” I concede. “But it’s still a leash.”

“A leash we can work with,” she says, her hand finding mine beneath the bar. “What do you need from me?”

God, I love this woman. No hesitation, no judgment—just immediate, unwavering support. What did I do to deserve her?

Nothing. That’s the answer. I’ve done nothing to deserve Rowan St. Clair. I’ve only taken and taken and taken, bleeding her dry of her innocence, her normalcy, her chance at a life unmarked by violence.

And yet she stays. She fights. She fucks me like she’s dying for it and challenges me like she’s unafraid of the consequences.

I didn’t think I could ever love something as much as I love her.

“I need you to keep Grigor distracted,” I tell her. “I don’t want him getting wind of this until I’ve had a chance to negotiate the final terms.”

She nods, already scanning the room for her father. “I’ll handle it. How long do you need?”

“An hour. Maybe less.”

“Consider it done.” She squeezes my hand once, then slips away, moving through the crowd with effortless grace.

I watch her go, marveling at how seamlessly she’s adapted to this life. The frightened marketing assistant who stumbled into my office five years ago has become a force of nature, capable of manipulating Bratva leaders and FBI agents with equal skill.

I’ve created a monster. A beautiful, brilliant monster who matches me step for step in this blood-soaked dance.

My phone pings with a text from my lawyer: Agreement looks solid. Negotiate for quarterly audits instead of monthly and push for higher cash transaction limits for international operations. Otherwise, take the deal.

I find Carver by the bar, nursing a scotch that I paid for. “I’ll sign,” I tell him without preamble. “With two conditions.”

His eyebrows rise. “Didn’t we just discuss how you’re not in a position to make demands?”

“Quarterly audits, not monthly. And the cash transaction limit needs to be twenty-five grand for international operations. The Costa Rica project requires flexibility.”

He considers this, swirling his drink. “Quarterly audits are acceptable. Fifteen K for cash transactions, and that’s my final offer.”

I extend my hand. “Deal.”

As we shake, I feel a weight lift from my shoulders. Not completely—never completely—but enough to breathe.

“I’ll have the revised agreement sent over tomorrow,” Carver says. “In the meantime, congratulations on your alliance with the Petrovs. Or whatever you’re calling it. Quite the political maneuver.” He downs the rest of his scotch and sets the glass on the bar. “I’ll see myself out.”

I watch him leave. What a strange victory this is. The Solovyovs are finished. Barkov’s organization is on its last legs. And the Akopov-Petrov alliance, however new and fragile, gives us strength against future threats.

For the first time in months, I allow myself to feel like perhaps the end is in sight.

Only one piece on the board has yet to fall.

I find Rowan again. Our daughter is drowsy in her arms, her head resting on her mother’s shoulder, dark curls spilling over emerald silk.

“It’s done,” I tell her quietly. “I took the deal.”

The relief in her eyes mirrors what I feel in my chest. “So we’re safe? Really safe?”

“As safe as people like us ever get.”

I take Sofiya from her arms, cradling my daughter against my chest. She smells of baby shampoo and innocence—a scent that grounds me, reminds me why I’ve fought so hard to change our family’s path.

“We should celebrate,” Rowan says, her hand resting on my arm. “Just the three of us. Just a normal family dinner.”

The thought is so appealing it makes my chest ache. “I’d like that.”

For a moment, we stand together in the middle of the ballroom, an island of quiet in the sea of noise. Sofiya’s breathing deepens as she falls asleep against my shoulder. Rowan’s hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining.

This is what I’ve been fighting for. This moment. This feeling. This family.

The universe, of course, can’t let me have it for long.

The ballroom doors crash open with enough force to silence the entire room. Heads turn. Conversations halt mid-sentence. The string quartet stops playing.

And there, framed in the doorway like the harbinger of doom he is, stands the last remaining obstacle.

My father.

62

VINCE

My father stands in the doorway like Death himself, though he’s dressed in a three-piece suit instead of a black hood and scythe.

The sudden, suffocating silence in the ballroom is broken only by the clink of champagne flutes and the soft murmur of confusion. Everyone’s collectively holding their breath, waiting to see which Akopov will draw first blood.

My money’s on me.

Andrei’s silver hair catches the light, a mirror image of the premature streaks in mine—a genetic curse binding us together even as we prepare to tear each other apart.

I instinctively shield Sofiya with my body. I don’t even want his eyes to reach my daughter, much less his scarred fucking fingers. Rowan moves closer to me, my little doe pressed to my side.

I just secured our family’s future.

And here he is, ready to rip it all to shreds.

Dimitri appears at my side, face grim. “Boss, we have a situation,” he murmurs.

“I’m pretty fucking aware of that, Dimitri,” I snarl back.

He shakes his head. “It’s not just that. Your father has been approaching council members. Telling them about your arrangement with the feds. I just found out.”

“How the fuck does he know about that?” I keep my voice controlled, but inside, I’m already calculating the damage. The bodies that will drop before this night is over.

“Someone must have talked. Maybe someone in Carver’s office, maybe one of ours—I can’t say right now.” Dimitri’s eyes flick to Andrei, who’s now making his way through the crowd, accepting handshakes and claps on the back like he still runs this fucking family. “He’s gaining traction. Old guard respects him, and betraying the Bratva to the feds… that’s unforgivable in their eyes.”

I hand Sofiya to Rowan. “Get our daughter out of here.”

Her eyes widen, recognizing the storm brewing. “Vince —”

“Now, Rowan.”

She searches my face, then nods. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she whispers. “Please.”

But we both know it’s too late for that. The moment my father stepped into this room, stupid became inevitable.

As Rowan slips away with our daughter, I turn to Dimitri. “Secure the exits. No one leaves until I say so. And get Carver out of here if he’s still around. I don’t need a federal witness for what’s about to happen.”

My father’s eyes find mine across the room. There’s a cruel twist to his mouth that I’ve seen in the mirror too many times to count.

I cross the ballroom with measured steps. Every eye follows me. Every ear strains to hear. This is Bratva theater, and everyone knows their role—the silent audience to our bloody tragedy.

“Vincent,” he greets, voice carrying just enough to be heard by those nearby. “Quite the celebration. I’m surprised I wasn’t invited. Although perhaps that’s because you’re too busy feeding information to your FBI handlers to remember your own father.”