Filthy Lies (Akopov Bratva Book 2)

Agent Carver looks exactly as I remember—tall, lean, with penetrating eyes and a perpetually skeptical expression. He sits across from me at a private dining room in an upscale Manhattan restaurant—Vince’s choice of venue. Let no one say he lacks taste.

“Mrs. Akopov,” he greets me, his gaze flickering briefly to my modest black dress. “You’re looking well, considering the circumstances.”

“Thank you for meeting me here,” I reply coolly. “I’m still recovering, and being close to home is helpful.”

He nods, opening a folder on the table. “I understand you were abducted from your home two weeks ago, while in labor?”

“Yes.”

“And you gave birth while in captivity?”

The memory pings—pain, fear, blood on concrete. I force it down.

“Yes. My daughter was born in a… facility of some kind. Industrial, I think. I wasn’t exactly in a state to take detailed notes.”

The tension in his face eases. “Of course. Can you tell me what you remember about the people who took you?”

I take a careful sip of water. Everything about this conversation is choreographed—what I’ll say, what I won’t say, how much emotion to show or to hide. Vince and I practiced for hours.

“They spoke Russian,” I begin. “The woman who watched me said the word ‘Solovyov’ at one point. I gathered they were some kind of criminal organization.”

Carver’s pen pauses above his notepad. “Solovyov? You’re certain?”

I nod. “I’ve picked up a little Russian since marrying Vincent. Enough to understand that much.”

“And what did they want from you?”

“They said I was ‘leverage.’ That my husband would pay anything to get us back.”

Carver studies me. The tiniest crinkle of his eyes at the corners belies the gears whirring in his head. “Mrs. Akopov, are you aware that the Solovyov organization is a major criminal enterprise with ties to human trafficking, drugs, and weapons smuggling?”

“I know they’re dangerous people,” I say carefully. “That much was obvious. Y’know, from the kidnapping part of things.”

“And are you aware that they have a long-standing rivalry with your husband’s family?”

The trap is obvious. I maintain eye contact, refusing to flinch. “My husband runs a shipping company and real estate development firm, Agent Carver. If criminals targeted me because they think he has money, that doesn’t make him a criminal.”

Carver’s mouth twitches. “Mrs. Akopov. Rowan. May I be frank?”

“Please.”

“I find it hard to believe you’ve been married to Vincent Akopov for over six months and remain completely unaware of his family’s connections.”

“What connections would those be?”

“Your husband comes from a long line of Russian immigrants with ties to organized crime dating back generations. The Akopov family isn’t just wealthy—they’re powerful in the kind of ways that don’t appear on tax returns. And they’re dangerous in the kind of way that usually leads to unmarked graves, if you catch my drift.”

My heart pounds, but I maintain my composure. “Agent Carver, I’ve just survived a traumatic kidnapping and given birth in captivity. If you have questions about my husband’s business dealings, perhaps you should direct them to him or his lawyers.”

“I’m more interested in your role,” he demurs, leaning forward. “Did you know that withholding information in a federal investigation is a crime?”

“I’m not withholding anything. I’m telling you what happened to me.”

“Are you?” His eyes bore into mine. “Or are you telling me what your husband instructed you to say?”

A flare of anger scythes through the carefully rehearsed script in my head. I take a breath to temper it.

Then I veer off-course.

“Do you have children, Agent Carver?”

He blinks, momentarily thrown. “No.”

“Then you can’t possibly understand what it’s like to give birth on a filthy mattress while strangers with guns decide whether you live or die.” My voice remains level, but it carries a glistening edge that wasn’t there before. “You can’t imagine holding your newborn daughter and wondering if she’ll ever see her father, or if you’ll both be killed once you’ve outlived your usefulness.”

I lean forward, matching his intensity. “I’m not a victim because of who I married, Agent Carver. I’m a victim because criminals decided to use me as a pawn in whatever game they’re playing. And if you want to solve actual crimes instead of pursuing personal vendettas, you might consider investigating the people who took me, not the man who saved me.”

Carver sits back in his chair. Those eyes remain crinkled. “You’ve changed since we last spoke, Mrs. Akopov. You seem… different.”

“Trauma does that to a person.”

“So does indoctrination.”

The accusation sizzles between us. He waits to see if I’ll take the bait.

But I only take another sip of water as I let the silence stretch to its breaking point.

“Are we done?” I ask finally.

“For now.” He closes his folder. “I’ll be in touch if I have more questions.”

“I’m sure you will.”

As I stand to leave, he makes one final comment. “Just remember, Mrs. Akopov—the company you keep defines you. In the eyes of the law, there’s very little difference between a criminal and someone who knowingly benefits from criminal activity. Lie down with the dogs and get fleas, as they say.” He tucks his folder under his arm. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Vince is waiting in the car. “How did it go?”

“About as well as we expected.” I sink into the leather seat, suddenly exhausted. “He doesn’t believe I’m just an innocent bystander.”

“You’re not,” Vince says bluntly. “Not anymore.”

His words echo Carver’s too closely for comfort. I turn to look out the window as the city slides by, glass and steel melting into streaks of dark and light.

“Is that what I am now?” I ask quietly. “A criminal by association?”

Vince’s hand finds mine, his grip firm. “You’re the mother of my child. My wife. My partner. Whatever label the world wants to put on that is their problem, not ours.”

“But it is our problem.” I face him again. “Carver all but said I could be charged as an accomplice if he builds a case against you.”

“He’s trying to scare you.”

“It’s working.”

Vince doesn’t look at me, but I see how his knuckles flex on the steering wheel. “Tell me what you’re really worried about, Rowan.”

Question of the fucking year. What am I worried about? Not prison—that seems almost abstract compared to what we’ve already faced. Certainly not social stigma or public opinion.

“I’m worried about who I’m becoming,” I admit finally. “The woman who sat across from Carver today and lied by omission… She isn’t who I thought I’d be.”

“She’s stronger than you thought you could be,” Vince counters.

“But is she still a good person?”noveldrama

Vince doesn’t answer immediately, which I appreciate. A pat reassurance would ring false right now. I’ve had enough gilded lies for a lifetime, thank you very much.

“I think,” he says slowly, “that ‘good’ and ‘bad’ are luxuries for people who’ve never had to fight for survival. They’re fairy tales we tell people whose morality has never been tested by having a gun to their head—or worse, a gun to their child’s head.”

He turns to look at me, his eyes bright blue and searingly honest.

“You protected our daughter when I couldn’t. You survived when many wouldn’t have. And now, you’re doing what needs to be done to keep our family safe. If that’s not ‘good,’ then fuck being good. I don’t want it.”

A laugh escapes me—quiet and tired, but genuine. “Ever the philosopher.”

His thumb strokes my palm. “I’m serious, Rowan. I’ve spent my life doing things most people would consider unforgivable. I’ve never claimed to be good. But you…” His voice softens. “You make me want to be better. And watching you navigate this impossible situation with such grace… it humbles me.”

Tears prick my eyes. “I don’t feel graceful. I feel like I’m stumbling in the dark.”

“We both are.” He squeezes my fingers. “The difference is, I’m used to the dark. You’re still learning how to see in it.”

The car pulls up to our secure compound. Through the window, I can see the gardens, the high walls, the armed guards.

Our beautiful prison. Our necessary sanctuary.

“Agent Carver will be back,” I warn. “And he won’t be alone next time.”

“Let him come.” Vince’s snarl is steel and smoke, lethal, dark. “We’ll be ready.”