I’ve never been good at following rules.
That’s how I ended up walking in on Vince having sex with his secretary in the first place.
That’s how I wound up pregnant with the heir to a criminal empire.
And that’s definitely how I ended up violating strict bed rest orders to sneak downstairs, desperate for a change of scenery after six weeks of staring at the same four walls.
“Just five minutes,” I whisper to my unborn child as I carefully navigate the grand staircase. “Five minutes of freedom, and then we’ll go right back to prison, I promise.”
My doctor would have a coronary if she could see me right now, but c’mon, be serious—a slow, careful walk downstairs can’t possibly be worse for me than the crushing monotony of my bedroom, can it?
Besides, I’ve been feeling stronger lately. No bleeding, no cramping. It’s all peachy.
I want to surprise Vince. He’s been so attentive these past weeks—reading smutty bodice-rippers to me even though he despises them, keeping me company during bubble baths, sharing pieces of himself I suspect few others have ever seen.
Model ships and telescopes seem to appear as if by magic on the windowsills.
And he thinks I don’t know it, but I feel him slide into bed in the midnight hours to stroke my hair for a little while when he assumes I’m fast asleep.
It’s complicated, loving a man like Vincent Akopov.
Because I do love him. Despite everything, I love him.
I’m almost to the first floor when I hear voices from Vince’s study—harsh, guttural Russian punctuated by occasional bursts of English.
That can only mean one thing: a Bratva meeting.
I should turn around, respect his privacy. But like I said, I’ve never been good at following rules. And peeking through doors has only ever brought me good fortune, right?
… Right?
So instead, I move closer, drawn by curiosity. The door is cracked open, just enough for me to peer inside without being seen.
What I see freezes me in place.
Vince stands behind his massive desk, impeccable as always in a charcoal suit, his posture rigid with barely contained fury.
Across from him kneels a man—bloody, bruised, one eye swollen shut.
Two of Vince’s men flank the injured man, holding him upright by his arms.
“You think I do not know?” Vince’s voice is terrifyingly soft. It’s not the voice of the man who reads historical romance to me at night, who does funny accents for the palace staff characters. This is someone else entirely. “You think I wouldn’t discover your betrayal?”
The kneeling man sputters something incomprehensible in Russian, blood dribbling from his split lip.
“English,” Vince commands. “For the benefit of our other guests.”
Only then do I notice the others in the room. Arkady, of course, leaning against the bookshelf with his customary casual posture that doesn’t quite mask his watchfulness. Several men I recognize from the wedding. And standing near the window, looking uncomfortable but resolute: Anastasia Kuznetsov.
“I swear,” the kneeling man groans in heavily accented English, “I did not know the information would go to Solovyov. I thought—”
“You thought what?” Vince interrupts. “That selling shipping schedules was harmless? That putting my men—my family—at risk was acceptable?” He moves around the desk, each step deliberate, predatory.
“Please,” the man begs. “My children—”
“—should have been in your thoughts before you betrayed me.” Vince’s voice is black ice.
I should leave. Turn around. Pretend I never saw this.
But my legs won’t move.
Vince glances at Arkady. Some unspoken communication passes between them. Then he turns to Anastasia. “Your father requested you witness this. To understand the consequences of betrayal.”
She nods, her face expressionless. “I understand.”
Vince returns his attention to the kneeling man. “Igor Federov. You have served the Bratva for fifteen years. In that time, you’ve been paid well, protected well, treated like family.”
“It was only once,” Igor pleads. “Only the one shipment. I needed money for my son’s surgery—”
“You could have come to me,” Vince cuts him off. “Asked for help. Instead, you went to our enemies.”
I watch, horrified, as Vince pulls a gun from inside his jacket. It looks like the same gun I once found in his desk drawer, what feels like a lifetime ago. Black steel has never looked so unforgiving.
“No,” I gasp, barely audible even to my own ears. “No, no, no.”
“Your betrayal warrants death,” he says flatly. “That is our way.”
Igor’s shoulders slump. He knows what’s coming. We all do.
But…
“However,” Vince continues, “your years of service have earned you this one mercy. Your children will be provided for. Your son’s medical care will be covered in full. And you will be given the opportunity to… reestablish your loyalty.”
The relief on Igor’s face is palpable. “Anything. Anything!”
“Good.” Vince turns to one of the men holding Igor. “Take him to the warehouse. Dimitri knows what to do.”
As they haul the beaten man to his feet, Vince adds, “Remember, Igor—this is your only chance. There won’t be another.”
I back away from the door as they move toward it. I need to get upstairs before anyone sees me, before Vince realizes what I’ve witnessed.
But as I turn, my elbow gets me in trouble again. Same as it did all those months ago.
It knocks against a vase on the hallway table. The porcelain wobbles, tilts, and crashes to the floor with a sound like gunfire.
Almost at once, the study door flies open. Vince stands there, his eyes widening when he sees me.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then…
“Rowan.” He sighs. “You shouldn’t be down here.”
“I gathered that much,” I say with a gulp.
His eyes drop to my stomach, then back to my face. “Are you alright? The baby—”
“We’re fine.” I wrap my arms around my bump. “Physically, at least.”
His jaw tightens. “Arkady,” he calls over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off me, “conclude the meeting and take Anastasia home. We’ll reconvene tomorrow.”
No one utters a single syllable. They file out of the study, each nodding respectfully to Vince as they pass. Anastasia gives me a look I can’t quite interpret—sympathy mixed with something harder. A warning, perhaps. Then she is gone with the rest.
When we’re finally alone, Vince approaches me slowly. “Let me help you back upstairs,” he offers.
“No.” I step away from his outstretched hand. “Not until you explain what I just saw.”
He sighs, scrubbing at his beard with both hands. “This isn’t a conversation we should have standing in the hallway.”
“Then let’s have it in your study.” I gesture to the room behind him. “Since that seems to be where the real business happens anyway.”
His expression hardens for a moment before smoothing into resignation. “Very well.”
He steps aside, allowing me to enter the room first. It looks different now that I’m inside it—less intimidating, more familiar. It’s just a room. Just a normal, boring room with books and leather furniture and a desk too large for practical purposes.
You’d never know a man almost just died in here.
You’d never know my husband was the one who almost killed him.
I lower myself carefully onto the leather sofa. Vince remains standing, his hands clasped behind his back.
“What do you want to know?” he asks finally.
“Everything,” I answer. “What was that? Who was that man? What did he do? What’s going to happen to him?”
Vince takes a deep breath. “Igor Federov. Mid-level Bratva soldier. He’s been selling information to the Solovyovs—shipping schedules, security rotations, personnel details.”
“And for that, you were going to kill him.”
“For that, yes.” He doesn’t try to sugarcoat it. “Betrayal is punishable by death. It’s our way.”
“‘Your way.’” I can’t stand how those words taste when I say them. “Is that what you want our child to learn? That Daddy kills people who disappoint him?”
“That’s hardly fair—”
“None of this is fair!” My voice rises despite my efforts to control it. “I’ve been lying to myself, pretending we can have some kind of normal life. Reading books together, planning the nursery, acting like you’re just a regular husband who happens to have unusual business hours.”
“It was working,” he says quietly.
“No, it wasn’t. I was just choosing not to see the truth.” I gesture around us. “This is the reality, isn’t it? No, don’t answer that—I know it is. This is your world. Our world now, I guess.”
He moves to sit beside me, not touching, but close enough that I can smell his cologne, can see the tiny lines of tension around his eyes.
“It’s part of it,” he admits. “A part I’ve tried to shield you from.”
“Why? Because you think I’m too weak to handle it?”
“Because I love you, Rowan.” The raw honesty in his voice catches me off-guard. “I don’t want this darkness to touch you. Or our child.”
I look away, unable to meet his gaze. “Too late, Vince. Way too late.”
The baby chooses that moment to kick—a strong, insistent movement that makes me gasp. Vince’s hand hovers over my belly, waiting for permission.
After a moment’s hesitation, I nod.
His palm settles against the curve of my stomach. The baby stirs again, as if greeting its father.
“I don’t want this life for our child,” Vince murmurs softly. “I never have.”
“Then why continue it?” I challenge. “Why perpetuate something you claim to want to escape?”
His hand remains on my stomach, but his eyes grow distant. “It’s not that simple, Rowan. The Bratva isn’t just a business I can walk away from. It’s generations of blood and loyalty and obligation. Centuries of tradition.”
“Traditions change.”
“Not overnight,” he counters. “And certainly not without consequences.”
I place my hand over his. “So what, then? We just accept that this is our life?”
“No.” The certainty in his voice makes me look up. “That’s what I’ve been working toward, these past months. A transition. A way out.”
“What do you mean?”
He shifts, turning to face me more fully. “I’ve been moving assets from illegal operations to legitimate businesses. Transitioning power to lieutenants who share my vision for legitimacy. Building safeguards, legal firewalls.”
“You’re trying to go straight,” I say, realization dawning.
“Not overnight,” he repeats. “It can’t be that simple. But gradually, yes. By the time our child is old enough to understand, I want the Akopov name to mean something different. Something they can be proud of.”
I study his face, searching for deception and finding none. “Is… is that even possible?”
“It has to be.” His fingers intertwine with mine. “I won’t have our child grow up as I did—learning to handle a gun before learning to ride a bike. Watching men beg for their lives at my father’s feet. That’s no way to live.”
The conviction in his voice is unmistakable. This isn’t a hastily concocted excuse to placate his horrified wife. This is something he’s thought about, planned for, is actively working toward.
I actually believe him.
“The man just now, Igor,” I say carefully. “You didn’t kill him.”
“No.” His thumb rubs at the heel of my hand. “I showed mercy. For his children. For his years of service. He acted out of desperation, not malice.”
I lean back against the cushions. “I don’t know if I can live with this,” I admit quietly. “With knowing what happens behind closed doors. How am I supposed to smile across my dinner table at men who have fresh blood on their hands?”
“I understand.” The resignation in his voice breaks my heart a little. He thinks I’m giving up on him. “I won’t ask you to compromise your principles, Rowan. I never wanted you to see this side of our life.”
“But it is our life,” I say. “Whether I see it or not, it’s still happening. And pretending otherwise doesn’t make it go away.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
We sit in silence for a long moment, my hand in his, the baby occasionally shifting between us like a silent reminder of the stakes.
“I need time,” I finally say. “To think about all this. To decide what I can live with.”
“Of course.” He brings my hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to my knuckles. “Whatever you need.”
As I look at him—this complex, contradictory man who can order a beating in one breath and tenderly feel for his child’s movements in the next—I realize that loving him means accepting all of him. Not just the parts that are easy to love.
“I’m not leaving,” I tell him, needing him to know that much. “I’m scared, and I’m confused, and I’m definitely not okay with what I saw today. But I’m not leaving.”
Relief floods his features, softening the hard lines of his face. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” I squeeze his hand. “I have conditions.”
His eyebrow raises. “I’m listening.”
“No more secrets,” I say firmly. “If we’re going to make this work, if I’m going to be part of this world, then I need to understand it. All of it.”
“Rowan—”
“I don’t mean I want to be involved in whatever that was today,” I clarify, gesturing toward where Igor had been, where the carpet still bears the impression of his knees. “But I can’t be kept in the dark anymore. Not if we’re going to build a life together.”
He nods slowly. “Alright. No more secrets.”
“And I want regular updates on your legitimization plans,” I continue. “Timelines. Benchmarks. Concrete steps, not just vague assurances.”
“Done.”
“And most importantly,” I look him directly in the eye, “I want your word that our child will never be forced into this life. That they will always have a choice.”
This last condition seems to affect him the most. In his swirling eyes, I catch a glimpse of the boy he must have been—the one who built model ships until his destiny snatched those things away.
“You have my word,” he says solemnly. “Our child will always have choices I never had.”
I believe him. Despite everything, despite the horror of what I witnessed today, I believe that Vince wants better for our baby. Wants to break the cycle of violence and obligation that shaped him.
“Help me back upstairs,” I say, suddenly exhausted by the emotional whiplash of the past hour. “The doctor really will kill me if she finds out I’ve been wandering around.”
Vince stands and carefully helps me to my feet. His arm is a tight band of reassurance around my waist. “For what it’s worth,” he says quietly as we make our way toward the stairs, “I’m sorry you had to see that today.”
“I’m not,” I reply. “I needed to see it. To understand what we’re really up against. What we’re trying to change.”
He glances down at me, a question in his eyes.
“We’re in this together now,” I explain. “You and me. And this little one.” I pat my belly. “If we’re going to build something different, I need to understand what we’re rebuilding from.”
As we climb the stairs back to our bedroom—or rather, as Vince practically carries me, ignoring my protests that I can walk just fine—I can’t help thinking about the contrast.
There’s a boy in him who loved and wanted love in return.
There’s a man in him who thought that love was a fool’s errand.
I want to believe that there’s a path to showing one the wisdom of the other. There is; I know there is.
And even if that path is paved with broken vases and broken men and broken promises…
We can walk it together.
