I’ve felt rage before. It comes in many different flavors.
Ice-cold rage makes you methodical.
White-hot rage makes you reckless.
Then there’s the dark, churning rage that sits in your gut for years, waiting, watching, wondering.
But this? This is something else entirely.
Seeing my father’s hand wrapped around Rowan’s throat ignites something brutal in me. It makes every other emotion I’ve ever felt seem shallow by comparison.
“Get your fucking hands off her,” I snarl again, already crossing the room in three long strides.
Andrei releases Rowan immediately, turning to face me with infuriating composure. Like he was just shaking her hand instead of choking the life out of her.
Rowan gasps for air and stumbles backward until she hits the wall. One hand protectively cradles her throat. The other goes to her stomach—to our child.
That small gesture nearly breaks me.
“Vincent,” my father says calmly. “This is a surprise.”
“Is it?” I step between him and Rowan, creating a physical barrier with my body. “Because I’m finding your presence here very fucking predictable.”
His eyes narrow at my tone. “Watch yourself, boy.”
“I told you she was off-limits. I made myself abundantly fucking clear.”
“And I made myself clear about what needs to happen.” He doesn’t back down—he never does. “The girl needs to understand her position.”
“Her position,” I repeat, my voice dangerously quiet, “is carrying my child. The mother of my heir. And you just put your hands on her throat.”
I glance back at Rowan, who’s watching this exchange with wide eyes, still breathing too fast, her face pale with shock. The red marks on her neck from my father’s fingers are already darkening into bruises.
My rage goes from black to incandescent.
“Arkady,” I call out, not taking my eyes off my father.
My lieutenant appears in the doorway, hand resting casually on the gun at his hip. “Boss?”
“Take Ms. St. Clair into the bedroom. Make sure she’s alright.”
Rowan shakes her head. “I don’t need—”
“Now.”
Something in my voice must convince her, because she allows Arkady to guide her from the room, though she glances back at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
When they’re gone, I turn back to my father.
“You threatened her,” I say without preamble. “After I explicitly told you she was under my protection.”
“Protection.” He scoffs. “Is that what we’re calling it now? What happened to the son I raised?”
“That son is standing right in front of you.” I step closer. “But he’s finally seeing you clearly.”
My father studies me. “And what exactly do you see, Vincent?”
“A man so obsessed with legacy that he’d threaten a pregnant woman. My pregnant woman.” My voice doesn’t waver. “A father who taught me that family is everything, then put his hands on the mother of my child.”
“Family is everything,” he insists. “Akopov blood—”
“She’s carrying Akopov blood, you obstinate motherfucker!” I roar in his face. “She is my family now.”
He stares at me like I’ve grown a third arm. “You can’t be serious. This girl has twisted you completely. Made you soft.”
“No.” I shake my head. “She’s made me see what you’ve been doing all along. Controlling. Manipulating. Using ‘family’ as an excuse for your own agenda.”
My father’s face goes gray. “Everything I’ve done has been for the Bratva.”
“Bullshit. It’s been for your ego. Your insatiable need to control everything and everyone around you.” I laugh bitterly. “Including me.”
“I made you what you are,” he growls. “Everything you have—”
“Yes, yes, for fuck’s sake. You’ve made sure I know exactly who owns it,” I finish for him. “The apartment. The company. The respect. None of it’s really mine, is it? It’s all just on loan, contingent on my obedience.”
He doesn’t deny that that’s how he feels. At least he grants me that much honesty.
“What did you offer her?” I ask, already knowing the answer. “Money? Security? The same things you’ve used to control me my entire life?”
“I offered her what any sensible woman in her position would want,” he says coldly. “She refused. Tore up my check like the foolish girl she is.”
A fierce, unexpected pride surges through me. “That’s because she’s not for sale. Neither am I. Not anymore.”
My father rises up tall. He thinks he scares me the same way he always has. He doesn’t realize that, now that I’m this close, I can see all the cracks in him. The wrinkles, the gray hairs, the liver spots. All the signs that prove he is far closer to the grave than he’d like to believe.
If he touches Rowan again, he’ll be even closer than that.
“Think very carefully about what you’re doing, Vincent. About what you’re throwing away.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing.” I meet his gaze steadily. “I’m choosing her. I’m choosing our child.”
No one speaks.
Then my father laughs—a cold, harsh crackle.
“You think you can walk away from it all?” He shakes his head. “You’re more naïve than I thought.”
“I never said anything about walking away.” I straighten to my full height, looking down at the man who’s loomed over me my entire life. “I still want all of the things I am entitled to. But I will get them on my terms, not yours.”
“You don’t get to dictate terms,” he snaps.
“I do now.” I hedge closer, dropping my voice, and Andrei has no choice but to shuffle backwards. “Because I know things, Father. I’ve been paying attention all these years. Learning. Watching. Building my own connections, my own loyalties.” I smile, and it’s not a nice expression, not by any stretch of the imagination. “The Bratva council might be interested to hear some of what I know.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” But there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes now.
“Try me.” I hold his gaze. “Test me on this, and you’ll find out exactly how much of your son I really am.”
We stand there, two immovable forces locked in silent combat.
For the first time in my life, I see something like doubt cross my father’s face.
“What do you want?” he finally asks.
“First, you will apologize to Ms. St. Clair for putting your hands on her. Then you will leave and never contact her directly again.” My voice is ice. “Second, the inheritance clause stands—but the timeline is mine to determine, not yours.”
“And third?”
“Third, you will support whatever decision I make regarding my child and its mother. Publicly and privately.” I cross my arms. “Those are my terms.”
My father studies me for a long moment, weighing his options. “And if I refuse?”
“Then it’s war,” I say simply. “Between us. Between the old Bratva and the new. And I promise you, Father—you won’t win that fight.”
Another long silence stretches between us.
Then, to my surprise, he nods once. A soldier’s acknowledgment.
“You’ve made your point.” He straightens his jacket. “I’ll speak to the girl.”
“Her name is Rowan,” I correct sharply. “And you’ll keep your distance while you apologize.”
He nods again, his expression unreadable.
I move to the bedroom door, knocking once before opening it. Rowan sits on the edge of the bed, Arkady hovering protectively nearby. Her eyes meet mine, wary but steady.
“My father has something to say to you,” I tell her. “If you’re willing to hear it.”
She hesitates, then nods slowly.
I hold out my hand to her without thinking. After a pause that feels like eternity, she takes it, allowing me to help her up. Her fingers are cold in mine, but they don’t tremble.
Together, we return to the living room where my father waits.
“Ms. St. Clair,” he begins, stiff as a fucking gravestone. “I behaved… rashly. You have my apology.”
It’s probably the most genuine apology Andrei Akopov has ever given, which isn’t saying much.
But it’s something.
Rowan says nothing, just watches him with those perceptive green eyes that seem to see through all our Akopov bullshit.
“I think it’s time for you to leave,” I tell my father.
“This isn’t over,” he says quietly.
“It is for tonight.”
He nods once more, then turns and walks out the door. I don’t watch him go. My attention is already back on Rowan, on the marks my father’s fingers left on her throat.
“Are you alright?” I ask.
She twists away from me. “I’ve been better.”
“I didn’t know he was coming here. Arkady called me—”
“It doesn’t matter.” She wraps her arms around herself. “I want both of you to leave, too.”
“Rowan—”
“I mean it, Vince.” Her voice is tired but determined. “I need space to— I just need quiet for once in my fucking life, okay? It’s just been so loud and so crowded and so unbelievably, insanely relentless since I fell into your world, and I just— I just— I just need it to be quiet for a little while.”
I could give her what she wants. Fuck, maybe I ought to.
But I’ve spent a lifetime doing the things I ought to.
I’m pretty fucking sick of it.
So no—no matter what she says, I won’t go. I refuse to leave. Not this time. Not ever again.
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” she asks, her voice vibrating with indignation. “This is my apartment.”
Something cracks open inside me—all the things I’ve been too fucking afraid to say. Too programmed by my father to confess.
“I’m not leaving, Rowan. I’m not giving you an ultimatum, either. I’m giving you the truth.”
Before I can second-guess myself, I drop to one knee in front of her.
Her eyes widen into huge emeralds. “What are you doing?” she whispers.
“What I should have done from the beginning.” I take her hand in mine.
My fingers shake. Vincent fucking Akopov—heir to the Bratva throne—trembling like a goddamn schoolboy.
“Marry me. Not for the baby and not for my inheritance. But for this—whatever this violent, all-consuming thing is between us.”
Her lips part. Her pulse hammers beneath my fingertips.
“I think it might be love,” I whisper hoarsely. “And if you’ll let me—if you’ll accept me—I’ll spend a lifetime proving it to you.”
Her lips part. I’ve never begged for anything in my life.
But I’d beg for her.
“I don’t have a ring. I don’t have pretty words. But I have this.” I press her hand to my chest where my heart hammers wildly, proof that I mean what I say. “It’s yours if you want it.”
