I got blood on the paper.
I didn’t mean to. Honestly, I didn’t even realize the stuff was still crusted under my nails. But there it is, as red and stark as it was on the hospital tiles.
A few hours passing by hasn’t done a fucking thing to dull my edge. I’m focused now. I know the way forward.
But the blood is still there.
I see it every time I look down at the evidence I’m assembling for Carver. Crimson ghosts dancing between black and white pages. The perfect metaphor for my life—everything I touch becomes stained.
The files slide under my fingertips. Each document lays out the full extent of my intelligence on Solovyov operations. Photographs place their men at scenes they shouldn’t have been anywhere near and transcripts capture conversations they believed were protected.
It’s the work of a butcher preparing to slaughter a rival family while saving his own.
My hands tremble as I organize the final pieces. Not from fear—fear is a luxury I surrendered a long time ago. No, my hands shake from the barely contained violence surging beneath my skin, desperate for release.
I want my father’s throat beneath my fingers. Not these sterile papers.
“That’s all of it,” I tell Dimitri, who stands silently by the door. He’s taken Arkady’s place. He’s not my best friend, but at least he has the decency to acknowledge the enormity of the shoes he’s been forced to fill. “Make sure the remaining digital files are on this drive. Nothing traceable back to our current operations.”
My phone vibrates for the third time this hour. Arkady’s doctor updating me: Patient stable but critical. Still unconscious. Next 12 hours crucial.
I wonder if my father realizes what he’s created—that, in trying to kill me, he’s forged something far more dangerous. I am no longer his son, no longer bound by whatever twisted loyalty kept me from ending him before. I am a man with nothing left to lose except the two people sleeping under my protection.
And for them, I’ll become the monster he always wanted me to be.
Just not yet. Not today. Today, I dance for the FBI.
Right on cue, the doorbell rings. I feel my jaw tighten to breaking point.
“Mr. Akopov,” Agent Carver greets as he’s shown into my study. “Pleasure to see you’ve made the right choice.”
He grins, and I imagine, just for a moment, how satisfying it would be to feed those bared veneers to him one by one like fucking Tic-Tacs.
“Don’t mistake necessity for choice,” I growl, gesturing to the chair across from my desk. “And don’t mistake cooperation for surrender.”
Carver sprawls in a chair, crossing one leg over the other like we’re old friends catching up over brandy. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” His eyes flick to the stack of files on my desk. “Is that everything?”
I nod. “Everything you need to crucify the Solovyov family while keeping your promise to leave mine alone.”
He chuckles, the sound like nails dragging down my spine. “That depends entirely on the quality of what you’re providing. I’d hate for your lovely wife and daughter to suffer because you held back critical information.”
My vision tinges red at the edges. “Threaten my family again, and you won’t live long enough to regret it.”
“That sounds suspiciously like a threat to a federal agent,” Carver tuts, but his smirk falters when my expression doesn’t change.
“Just remember who you’re dealing with.”
He clears his throat and reaches for the files. “Let’s see what you’ve brought me.”
I watch as he meticulously examines each document, deliberately taking his time. Each page turn is another test of my restraint. He’s enjoying this—the humiliation of having Vincent Akopov, feared Bratva leader, reduced to an informant.
“This shipment manifest,” he says, tapping a paper with his manicured finger. “It’s dated last year. I was hoping for something fresher.”
“It’s what you’re getting, Carver. Figure it out.”
“And these bank accounts,” he continues, “they lead to shell companies, not directly to Solovyov principals.”
“Follow the money.” I shrug. “That’s your job, isn’t it? I’ve given you the breadcrumbs. Don’t blame me if you’re too fucking incompetent to follow the trail.”
My phone vibrates again. I check it under the desk. Patient experiencing arrhythmia. Preparing for possible cardiac intervention.
I grit my molars. Arkady is fighting for his life while I sit here playing games with this bureaucratic weasel.
“Something urgent?” Carver inquires when he notices my distraction.
“Nothing that concerns you.” I slide the flash drive across the polished wood. “The rest is there. Bank records, wiretaps, surveillance photos. Enough to put Anton Solovyov and his kin away until his grandchildren have grandchildren.”
Carver picks up the drive and rolls it between his fingers like a cigar. “Hm. It all seems so painless for you.”
“Not for them.” I smile, cold and sharp. “Now, are we done? Or would you like to continue wasting my time with questions you already know the answers to?”
Carver gathers the files and tucks them into his briefcase. “For now, we’re done. But this arrangement isn’t a one-time deal, Mr. Akopov. The Bureau will be in touch when we need additional assistance.”
“No.” I stand, towering over him. “This is it. One delivery, as agreed. You got what you wanted. Now, I get what I want: my family left alone.”
“That’s not how this works.” He stands. “You work for me now, Vincent. I’m the thin blue line between you and a concrete fucking cell. You don’t like it? Tough fucking shit.”
Then the smug son of a bitch has the audacity to wink.
“Pleasure doing business with you, my friend.”
He whistles as he leaves.
I wait until he’s gone before I allow my fist to unclench and my grimace to fade into a half-smile. It’s not a victory—that won’t come for a while yet. But Carver thinks he’s gotten everything he’s wanted. He’ll learn—not for a long time, of course, but he will eventually learn—that no one gets the best of Vincent Akopov.
He’s dancing to my tune.
Not the other way around.
When I emerge from my office, the rest of the house is quiet, most of the lights off. It’s late. I should go straight to bed, try to grab what little sleep I can before whatever storms tomorrow brings.
Instead, I find myself drawn to the soft glow spilling from Sofiya’s room.
I pause in the doorway, tucked just out of sight. Rowan sits in the rocking chair by the window with our daughter curled against her chest as she reads from a book of fairy tales. Her voice is soft, melodic, conjuring worlds of princes and dragons and happy endings that have never existed in our reality.
Sofiya spots me first. “Papa!” she squeals, wiggling to get down from Rowan’s lap.
The sound of her voice—so innocent, so full of unquestioning love—pierces straight through the armor I’ve worn all day. I drop to one knee as she crawls across the room, catching her small body against mine as she crashes into my arms.
“Hello, little warrior,” I murmur against her dark curls. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”
She points back at her mother by way of explanation.
“I see that.” I glance up at Rowan, who watches us with an expression I can’t quite read—part tenderness, part wariness. “One more story, then bed, okay?”
Sofiya reaches for the book in her mom’s hands. Rowan surrenders it, then Sofi passes it over to me.
I look to Rowan for permission. After a moment’s hesitation, she nods.
Ten minutes later, Sofiya’s eyes are drooping as I finish the tale of a princess who spurns an arrogant knight’s help and saves herself from a tower. Not the traditional ending, but this is Rowan’s choice of bedtime stories, and I must admit: I’m starting to see the appeal.
When we step into the hallway, closing Sofi’s door behind us, awkward silence descends.
“I’m still angry with you,” she says.
“I know.” My thumb traces the delicate bones of her wrist, feeling her pulse quicken beneath my touch.
“This doesn’t fix anything,” she whispers as she steps closer, erasing the space between us until I can feel the heat emanating from her body.
Our lips meet in a hesitant kiss. It’s light and teasing and over far too soon. I have to restrain myself from throwing her over my shoulder like a caveman as she separates.
Instead, I stand still as a statue and watch her saunter away down the hall. I’m preparing myself for another long, lonely night—until, at the last second, she turns and looks back.
“Coming?”
Yes, moya zhena. Yes, I am.
What follows isn’t what our fucking has always been. It’s far too tentative for that. Each touch is a question—Are you still mine? Each response is an incomplete answer—I don’t know, but I want to be.
Her body opens for me with familiar ease, but her eyes remain guarded. When I push inside her, she gasps my name, then clamps down on her bottom lip like she doesn’t want to say it. I move slowly, savoring each sensation, memorizing the way she feels beneath me in case this is the last time.
When it’s done and we’re both spent, we lie staring upwards with inches of carefully maintained space between us.
“Arkady might not make it,” I whisper into the shadows.
Her hand finds mine in the tangled sheets. “And if he doesn’t?”
“Then I break my promise to you.” I turn to face her, though I can barely make out her features in the dimness. “I hunt my father down and I kill him, FBI deal be damned.”
She sighs and breathes for a while. “If it comes to that,” she says finally, “I won’t try to stop you.”
Her fingers tighten around mine, and for the first time since Arkady took that bullet, I feel something other than rage.
“But you won’t help me, either,” I say, testing the boundaries of this fragile truce.
“Won’t I?” Her voice holds a darkness that matches my own. “You don’t know what I’m capable of anymore, Vince. I’m not the woman you married.”
