Filthy Lies (Akopov Bratva Book 2)

My father stands in the doorway like Death himself, though he’s dressed in a three-piece suit instead of a black hood and scythe.

The sudden, suffocating silence in the ballroom is broken only by the clink of champagne flutes and the soft murmur of confusion. Everyone’s collectively holding their breath, waiting to see which Akopov will draw first blood.

My money’s on me.

Andrei’s silver hair catches the light, a mirror image of the premature streaks in mine—a genetic curse binding us together even as we prepare to tear each other apart.

I instinctively shield Sofiya with my body. I don’t even want his eyes to reach my daughter, much less his scarred fucking fingers. Rowan moves closer to me, my little doe pressed to my side.

I just secured our family’s future.

And here he is, ready to rip it all to shreds.

Dimitri appears at my side, face grim. “Boss, we have a situation,” he murmurs.

“I’m pretty fucking aware of that, Dimitri,” I snarl back.

He shakes his head. “It’s not just that. Your father has been approaching council members. Telling them about your arrangement with the feds. I just found out.”

“How the fuck does he know about that?” I keep my voice controlled, but inside, I’m already calculating the damage. The bodies that will drop before this night is over.

“Someone must have talked. Maybe someone in Carver’s office, maybe one of ours—I can’t say right now.” Dimitri’s eyes flick to Andrei, who’s now making his way through the crowd, accepting handshakes and claps on the back like he still runs this fucking family. “He’s gaining traction. Old guard respects him, and betraying the Bratva to the feds… that’s unforgivable in their eyes.”

I hand Sofiya to Rowan. “Get our daughter out of here.”

Her eyes widen, recognizing the storm brewing. “Vince⁠—”

“Now, Rowan.”

She searches my face, then nods. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she whispers. “Please.”

But we both know it’s too late for that. The moment my father stepped into this room, stupid became inevitable.

As Rowan slips away with our daughter, I turn to Dimitri. “Secure the exits. No one leaves until I say so. And get Carver out of here if he’s still around. I don’t need a federal witness for what’s about to happen.”

My father’s eyes find mine across the room. There’s a cruel twist to his mouth that I’ve seen in the mirror too many times to count.

I cross the ballroom with measured steps. Every eye follows me. Every ear strains to hear. This is Bratva theater, and everyone knows their role—the silent audience to our bloody tragedy.

“Vincent,” he greets, voice carrying just enough to be heard by those nearby. “Quite the celebration. I’m surprised I wasn’t invited. Although perhaps that’s because you’re too busy feeding information to your FBI handlers to remember your own father.”

A ripple runs through the crowd. Faces turn toward me, expectant. Judging.

“Let’s talk in private,” I suggest, though it’s anything but a suggestion.

“Why? Are you afraid of what your associates might hear?” His smile is vicious. “That the heir to the Akopov Bratva is a rat? That he’s sold us all out to save his own skin?”

My hand shoots out, gripping his arm with enough force to make him wince. “My study. Now.”

I drag him through the crowd, past wide eyes and whispered speculation. The damage is already spreading like blood in water, attracting sharks. By tomorrow, regardless of what happens tonight, the rumors will have reached every Bratva family from Brooklyn to Brighton Beach.

When we reach my study, I shove him inside and slam the door behind us.

“You fucking idiot,” I spit, rounding on him. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

He straightens his jacket, unfazed. “I’ve done what was necessary. What you should have expected. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out about your deal with the feds?”

“How?” It’s the only question that matters right now.

“I still have friends in high places. Friends who value tradition, loyalty, the old ways.” He moves to my bar, helping himself to my liquor like he owns the place. “You’ve forgotten what it means to be Bratva, Vincent. You’ve let that whore and her brat soften you.”

I’m across the room before I can think, my hand around his throat, slamming him against the wall hard enough to rattle the paintings. The glass shatters at our feet. But whiskey isn’t the only liquid this rug will absorb tonight.

“That ‘brat’ is your granddaughter,” I growl, inches from his face. “And I am trying to secure her future.”

He chokes out a laugh despite my grip. “By becoming a federal informant? Or making deals with Grigor Petrov? You’re destroying everything I built!”

“I’m saving what’s left of it!” I release him, stepping away before I give in to the urge to crush his windpipe. “The feds were going to bury us. Thirty years in prison, asset forfeiture, RICO charges… I did what I had to do to protect our family.”

“Our family?” He fixes his collar, face flushed with anger or lack of oxygen or both. “You mean your pretty little wife and the child who’s half Petrov? That’s not our family, Vincent. That’s your weakness.”

The rage inside me is so pure it almost feels like calm. I’ve never understood the phrase ‘seeing red’ until now, because my vision actually blurs with it—a crimson haze coating everything in sight. It’s beautiful, in a strange way.

“Let’s talk about what you’ve done, hm, Father? You tried to have me killed,” I say. “You ordered Arkady to put a bullet in my head. And when he couldn’t do it, you hired someone to finish the job. A job that nearly killed the most loyal man I’ve ever known.”

“Survival of the fittest.” He shrugs, disgustingly unrepentant. “You were becoming a liability. I did what needed to be done.”

“And now?” I spread my hands. “What do you think happens now, Dad? You’ve come here, announcing to everyone that I’ve been working with the feds. You’ve painted a target on my back, on Rowan’s, on Sofiya’s. Was that your plan? To get us all killed?”

“I want what’s best for the Bratva,” he says.

“Bullshit. You want what’s best for you. You can’t stand that I’ve taken your place, that I’ve found a better way forward. You’d rather see everything burn than admit I might be right.”

He moves to the window, looking out at the city lights. For a moment, he seems smaller, older. The monster of my childhood reduced to a bitter old man clutching at the remnants of his power.

“I made mistakes,” he admits quietly. “With your mother. With you. But I did what I thought was necessary to prepare you for this life.”

“You beat me unconscious because I cried at Mama’s funeral,” I remind him. “You locked me in a closet for two days when I was twelve because I refused to watch you torture a man who stole from us. You handed me a gun at fourteen and ordered me to execute someone to prove I wasn’t weak.”

“And look at you now.” He turns back to me. “Strong. Feared. Respected.”noveldrama

“Broken,” I correct him. “That’s what you did to me. You broke me and called it strength.”

The tension between us shifts, decades of resentment and pain rippling beneath the surface.

“I want to see her,” he says suddenly.

“Who?”

“Sofiya. My granddaughter.” His voice softens. “I’ve never held her. Never really looked at her. She’s my blood, too, Vincent.”

The request blindsides me. In all our years of conflict, I’ve never heard vulnerability in his voice.

“Why now?” I ask, suspicious.

“Because…” He hesitates, something close to emotion shadowing his features. “Because she’s all that will be left of me when I’m gone.”

For a heartbeat, I almost believe him. I almost see the father I wanted instead of the one I got. The grandfather Sofiya deserves instead of the beast who tried to have me killed.

“Please, Vincent,” he says, and it’s the ‘please’ that catches me off-guard. Andrei Akopov doesn’t beg. “One moment with my granddaughter. I have rights as her grandfather.”

Something cold settles in my stomach. Rights. Not a request, not a plea. Rights. As if Sofiya is a piece of property to be claimed.

“And if I refuse?”

The mask slips. Just for a second, but long enough for me to see the monstrous gnashing beneath. “Then I might have to reconsider what I do next.”

There it is.

“You would use my daughter as leverage,” I state. “You’d threaten to take her from us if I don’t give you what you want.”

“I would do whatever necessary to ensure the Akopov legacy continues properly.”

In that moment, clarity passes through me. There is no redemption here. No reconciliation. No path forward where my father exists in the same world as my daughter.

He wrote his own eulogy. I just provided the stage.

“You know, Otets,” I say, moving to my desk, “I’ve spent my entire life trying to earn your approval. Trying to be the son you wanted. The heir you deserved.” I open the drawer, fingers closing around cold metal. “And I’ve finally realized something important.”

“What’s that?” he asks, oblivious to the sentence I’ve just passed on him.

I straighten, gun in hand, leveled at his chest. “You were never worth the effort.”

His eyes go huge. “You wouldn’t. I’m your father.”

“You’re a threat to my daughter.” My voice is steady, but my hand is even steadier. “You’re a threat to my wife. You’re a threat to everything I love. And I don’t leave threats alive.”

“Vincent, think about what you’re doing.” His hands rise slightly. “The council will never⁠—”

“The council will follow whoever holds the power. And after tonight, that will still be me.” I step closer, gun aimed at his heart. “You taught me that, remember? Power is the only currency that matters in our world.”

“If you do this,” he warns, “there’s no coming back. The feds will know. Carver will know. Your deal will be worthless.”

He’s right. Killing him could jeopardize everything I’ve built with the FBI. Carver will see it as a breach of our agreement, proof that I haven’t really changed. That I’m still the reckless criminal they believe me to be.

But Sofiya’s safety matters more than anything else.

“I would burn everything to the ground,” I tell him, “before I let you near my daughter again.”

His eyes narrow, condescending even now. “You won’t pull that trigger. You’re too afraid of the consequences.”

I think of Rowan, of the life we’re trying to build. My daughter is out there. Sofiya Akopov, innocent and perfect, untouched by the darkness that defines her father and grandfather. There is blood on my hands, pain in my past, graves that I dug myself—but does she have to be touched by those things?

No.

I do it for her.

So that she does not have to.

And after all, what’s one more sin in a lifetime of them?

“Goodbye, Father,” I say softly.

His expression shifts from contempt to fear. “Vincent, wait⁠—”

I shake my head.

Then I pull the trigger.