Filthy Lies (Akopov Bratva Book 2)

I stand at the floor-to-ceiling window of the Akopov Industries skyscraper, sixty-seven floors above Manhattan, watching an empire crumble in real time.

“Holy fuck,” Boris mutters beside me, his breath fogging the glass. “They’re going in hard.”

Below us, the scene unfolds. FBI tactical teams in black body armor pour into the Solovyov headquarters like a colony of ants devouring a carcass. Vehicles with flashing lights block every intersection. Agents with assault rifles create a perimeter tight enough to suffocate.

The Akopov Bratva council watches on in silence. They stand speechless as federal agents drag Anton Solovyov himself out in handcuffs.

“This is unprecedented,” Mikhail says, turning to me. “How did the feds get so much intel?”

I shrug, careful to keep my expression neutral. “Perhaps Solovyov security was not as air-tight as they believed.”

What I don’t say: I handed Carver enough evidence to bury the Solovyovs under the fucking prison, tied with a neat bow and delivered on a silver platter.

The council members press their faces against the glass like children at an aquarium, watching the Solovyovs’ demise with a mixture of fascination and dread. They don’t realize they’re witnessing my handiwork. My vengeance served cold on a silver platter while I maintain clean hands.

This is what separates boys from men. Animals from gods.

“Someone got to them,” Konstantin mutters, stroking his salt-and-pepper beard. “Someone inside.”

I turn from the window, facing the twelve men who represent the senior leadership of what’s left of our organization. Twelve men who would slit my throat without hesitation if they knew I’d cooperated with the FBI. Twelve men who still believe I’m just like them.

I’m not. Not anymore.

Some lines cannot be uncrossed.

“Gentlemen,” I say, moving to the head of the conference table, “let’s discuss the implications of what we’re witnessing.”

They peel themselves away from the window, reluctantly abandoning the spectacle of the Solovyovs’ humiliation.

“This changes everything,” Boris asserts, his eyes darting nervously around the room. “The feds have gone too far. They’ve never moved against a family this aggressively.”

Mikhail nods, his heavy jowls quivering. “They’ll come for us next. We should temporarily suspend all operations. Go dark.”

“Freeze our assets,” another suggests.

“Move offshore,” says a third.

Their fear is a tangible thing, thickening the air, clouding their judgment. These are men who have butchered their enemies without remorse, yet the sight of federal agents has them shitting their thousand-dollar suits.

“Overreaction is weakness,” I caution. “So is panic.”

“With all due respect, Vincent,” Boris counters, “this isn’t panic. It’s self-preservation. The Solovyovs were untouchable until today. What makes you think we’re any different?”

“Because unlike the Solovyovs, we’re evolving,” I say. “While they clung to old methods—human trafficking, drug importation, extortion rackets—we’ve been quietly legitimizing our core business.”

“Legitimate business doesn’t pay like the other kind,” Dima scoffs. “And the feds don’t care if our money comes from shipping contracts or heroin. They just want us all in boxes.”

I slam my palm on the table, making them flinch collectively. “So is that your solution?” I hiss. “Cower? Hide? Wait for them to come knocking at our door?” I straighten up and shoot my cuffs. “Forgive me if I expected more from the leadership of the Akopov Bratva.”

A heavy silence falls over the room.

“The world is changing,” I continue, softer now. “We’re entering a new era. One where brute force alone won’t protect us. What we’re witnessing isn’t the end of our way of life—it’s an opportunity to cement our position while our competitors are removed from the board.”

I move around the table slowly, placing a hand on the shoulder of each man as I pass.

“The Costa Rica project provides perfect cover for our legitimate expansion. International real estate development that generates clean income while allowing us to move funds discreetly is the key to our future.” I pause, letting that sink in. “Meanwhile, we transition the more… traditional aspects of our business into the background.”

“You’re talking about going soft,” Boris accuses.

“It comes down to two choices,” I counter. “Adaptation or extinction. Those are our options. The dinosaurs were the most fearsome creatures to walk the earth until the climate changed. Then they died, and the cockroaches inherited the world.”

I complete my circuit of the table and take my seat at its head, the position my father held for decades. The symmetry isn’t lost on me. I’m dismantling his legacy piece by piece while sitting in his chair.

And there’s more symmetry to come.

He tried putting a bullet in my head. I’m about to return the favor.

The only difference is, I won’t miss when I go to put one in his.

“Your father would never—” Mikhail begins.

“My father isn’t here,” I cut him off. “I am. And I’m telling you that we have two paths: adapt to a new reality or follow the Solovyovs into federal custody.”

The silence stretches, punctuated only by the distant wail of police sirens from the street below.

“How exactly do you propose we adapt?” Konstantin asks finally.

I allow myself a small smile. “I’ve prepared a transition plan. Key operations will continue under enhanced security protocols. Meanwhile, we accelerate legitimate business growth, particularly international ventures where federal jurisdiction is murky at best.”

“And you truly believe this will work?” Boris presses.

“It’s already working. The feds are focused on the Solovyovs. Our Costa Rica project is proceeding without scrutiny. Our shipping operations continue uninterrupted.” I lean forward, meeting each man’s gaze in turn. “I’m not asking you to abandon the old ways overnight. I’m asking you to recognize that the landscape has changed, and we must change with it.”

The mood in the room shifts subtly. Fear gives way to thoughtfulness as these men—predators to their core—consider the advantages of operating while their competitors are caged.

“When did you become so…” Mikhail searches for the word, “ … patient, Vincent? This doesn’t sound like the man who once had Yuri Kozlov gutted for looking at your woman.”

I smile, thinking of Rowan. She’s changed me; there’s no denying that anymore. But from what? Into what?

That remains to be seen.

“Let’s just say I’ve had an excellent teacher in seeing beyond immediate gratification to the longer game.”

My phone vibrates against my thigh. I pull it out discreetly, expecting another update from Arkady’s doctors.

Instead, I find a message from Rowan: Need to meet. Urgent. Come to the lake house tonight at 8.

Something in my chest tightens. Rowan doesn’t use the word “urgent” lightly. Not anymore. And the lake house—our most secluded property—suggests whatever she wants to discuss is too sensitive even for the compound’s secure walls.noveldrama

“I’ll send the transition details to each of you by tonight,” I tell the council, rising abruptly. “Review them. Prepare your questions. We’ll reconvene in forty-eight hours.”

“And if we reject this evolution?” Boris asks, playing his final card.

I button my jacket slowly, deliberately, letting the tension stretch to its breaking point before I answer.

“Then you’re free to join the Solovyovs,” I say, voice like black ice. “I’m sure Anton is looking for a friendly face in his top bunk.”

As I stride toward the elevator, I type out my response to Rowan. I’ll be there. Everything okay?

Three dots appear immediately, then disappear. Then reappear. Seconds stretch into a minute before her reply finally comes through.

Just come. Trust me.

Another message appears before I can respond.

There’s something you need to see. It changes everything.