Filthy Lies (Akopov Bratva Book 2)

I’ve been bleeding out for weeks, slow and steady, watching my life force whisk away into the hands of the FBI.

But tonight, the hemorrhage might finally be stopping.

Carver stands across from me in my study, hands in his pockets like he owns the place. Like he owns me.

The smug fuck has no idea what I’m capable of, even now, even backed into a corner with the ever-present threat of RICO charges dangling over my head.

I could snap his neck before he took his next breath. I could have his body dumped where no one would ever find it. I could make his children orphans with a single phone call.

For now, though, I wait.

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Akopov,” Carver says, sliding a folder across my desk. “Your cooperation against the Solovyovs has been extremely productive.”

I don’t touch the folder. “I fulfilled my end of our arrangement. Now, it’s your turn.”

“That’s why I’m here.” He smiles, which is an expression I don’t fucking trust in the least on his face. “The Bureau is prepared to modify our agreement.”

My pulse spikes, but I keep my expression neutral. “I’m listening.”

“The prosecution will focus exclusively on Solovyov operations and what’s left of Barkov’s organization.” He taps the folder. “In exchange, Akopov and Petrov legitimate businesses will be subject to strict compliance requirements, but no active investigation.”

“Define ‘strict compliance.’”

“Quarterly audits. Transparency in international transactions. No cash deals over ten grand.” He shrugs. “Standard operating procedure for legitimate businesses, really. I don’t foresee any issues.”

I slouch back in my chair, studying him. “And the wire?”

“No longer required.” He spreads his hands. “Consider it a reward for your enthusiastic cooperation.”

The relief that floods through me is intense. Free. Free to live my fucking life.

What a concept.

“What changed?” I ask, because nothing in this life comes without strings attached.

Carver’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “My superiors are pleased. And when they’re pleased, I’m in a position to be generous.”

I open the folder, scanning the modified agreement. It’s still a leash, but a longer one.

“I’ll need to consult with my lawyers,” I warn.

“Of course.” Carver checks his watch. “But I’ll need an answer before I leave tonight. The offer expires when I walk out that door.”

I stand, towering over him. “You crash my event, demand an immediate decision, and expect me to just roll over? That’s not how this works.”

“Actually,” he says, “that’s exactly how this works. I’m still the one holding the cards here, Akopov. Don’t forget that.”

My fingers itch to close around his throat, to watch the light fade from his eyes as he realizes his mistake. Instead, I pick up the folder.

“I’ll give you my answer in one hour,” I tell him. “Now, get the fuck out of my study.”

When he leaves, I pour myself three fingers of whiskey and down it in one burning swallow. The alcohol doesn’t touch the fire in my veins, the rage that’s been my constant companion since Arkady took that bullet for me.

I text my lawyer the details, then step out to find Rowan.

She’s waiting for me by the bar, a waking dream in emerald silk that makes my cock stir despite the circumstances. Her eyes ask the question before her lips can form the words.

“Carver’s offering a modified agreement,” I tell her quietly. “No wire, no active intelligence gathering. Just compliance requirements for our legitimate businesses.”

Hope flickers across her face. “That’s good, right?”

“It’s not prison,” I concede. “But it’s still a leash.”

“A leash we can work with,” she says, her hand finding mine beneath the bar. “What do you need from me?”

God, I love this woman. No hesitation, no judgment—just immediate, unwavering support. What did I do to deserve her?

Nothing. That’s the answer. I’ve done nothing to deserve Rowan St. Clair. I’ve only taken and taken and taken, bleeding her dry of her innocence, her normalcy, her chance at a life unmarked by violence.

And yet she stays. She fights. She fucks me like she’s dying for it and challenges me like she’s unafraid of the consequences.

I didn’t think I could ever love something as much as I love her.

“I need you to keep Grigor distracted,” I tell her. “I don’t want him getting wind of this until I’ve had a chance to negotiate the final terms.”

She nods, already scanning the room for her father. “I’ll handle it. How long do you need?”

“An hour. Maybe less.”

“Consider it done.” She squeezes my hand once, then slips away, moving through the crowd with effortless grace.

I watch her go, marveling at how seamlessly she’s adapted to this life. The frightened marketing assistant who stumbled into my office five years ago has become a force of nature, capable of manipulating Bratva leaders and FBI agents with equal skill.

I’ve created a monster. A beautiful, brilliant monster who matches me step for step in this blood-soaked dance.

My phone pings with a text from my lawyer: Agreement looks solid. Negotiate for quarterly audits instead of monthly and push for higher cash transaction limits for international operations. Otherwise, take the deal.

I find Carver by the bar, nursing a scotch that I paid for. “I’ll sign,” I tell him without preamble. “With two conditions.”

His eyebrows rise. “Didn’t we just discuss how you’re not in a position to make demands?”

“Quarterly audits, not monthly. And the cash transaction limit needs to be twenty-five grand for international operations. The Costa Rica project requires flexibility.”

He considers this, swirling his drink. “Quarterly audits are acceptable. Fifteen K for cash transactions, and that’s my final offer.”

I extend my hand. “Deal.”

As we shake, I feel a weight lift from my shoulders. Not completely—never completely—but enough to breathe.

“I’ll have the revised agreement sent over tomorrow,” Carver says. “In the meantime, congratulations on your alliance with the Petrovs. Or whatever you’re calling it. Quite the political maneuver.” He downs the rest of his scotch and sets the glass on the bar. “I’ll see myself out.”

I watch him leave. What a strange victory this is. The Solovyovs are finished. Barkov’s organization is on its last legs. And the Akopov-Petrov alliance, however new and fragile, gives us strength against future threats.

For the first time in months, I allow myself to feel like perhaps the end is in sight.

Only one piece on the board has yet to fall.

I find Rowan again. Our daughter is drowsy in her arms, her head resting on her mother’s shoulder, dark curls spilling over emerald silk.

“It’s done,” I tell her quietly. “I took the deal.”

The relief in her eyes mirrors what I feel in my chest. “So we’re safe? Really safe?”

“As safe as people like us ever get.”

I take Sofiya from her arms, cradling my daughter against my chest. She smells of baby shampoo and innocence—a scent that grounds me, reminds me why I’ve fought so hard to change our family’s path.

“We should celebrate,” Rowan says, her hand resting on my arm. “Just the three of us. Just a normal family dinner.”

The thought is so appealing it makes my chest ache. “I’d like that.”

For a moment, we stand together in the middle of the ballroom, an island of quiet in the sea of noise. Sofiya’s breathing deepens as she falls asleep against my shoulder. Rowan’s hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining.

This is what I’ve been fighting for. This moment. This feeling. This family.noveldrama

The universe, of course, can’t let me have it for long.

The ballroom doors crash open with enough force to silence the entire room. Heads turn. Conversations halt mid-sentence. The string quartet stops playing.

And there, framed in the doorway like the harbinger of doom he is, stands the last remaining obstacle.

My father.