Chapter 1: Filthy Lies: Chapter 1

I burst through the doors of our Brighton Beach headquarters, and the room falls silent.

Twenty-seven pairs of eyes lock on me. It’s the weekly captain’s meeting. Perfect timing.

Blood still cakes beneath my fingernails. Rowan’s blood. I couldn’t bring myself to wash it off.

“They took my wife.” My voice is a glacier—cold, massive, and intent on crushing anything in its path.

No one speaks. No one breathes. They know that look in my eyes.

It’s the look that made the Solovyovs burn their own warehouse to the ground rather than face me. The look that earned me my reputation before I was old enough to legally drink.

The look my father helped cultivate, then feared when I turned it on him.

“Every resource. Every contact. Every fucking favor owed to the Akopov name… call it in.” I scan the room, memorizing who flinches and who holds my gaze. The information will be useful later. “I want her found. Now.”

Mikhail stands first. “The men are already mobilizing. Arkady called ahead.”

“That’s not good enough.” I cross to the center table and slam my fist down. A crystal tumbler bounces and tips over. Liquid sloshes across maps and territory markers, drowning it all in dark whiskey. “I want the entire Eastern Seaboard on lockdown. Nothing moves without us knowing about it. Not so much as a single fucking Girl Scout cookie.”

Dimitri clears his throat. “What about the feds? They’ll notice if we⁠—”

“Do I look like I give a fuck about the feds, Dima?”

My throat is taut and pained from holding in anguished roars. It’s nothing compared to the turmoil in my head, though. I close my eyes, fighting the flashback that’s brimming on the horizon.

But it comes anyway.

Blood on white marble. Six digits punched into the keypad.

So close to safety…

And yet so fucking far.

“She’s in labor,” I continue, quieter now. “My child is coming, and if Rowan delivers in captivity—if anything happens to either of them—there won’t be enough bullets on the goddamn planet to protect whoever’s responsible.”

That’s all it takes. The room ripples with movement. Phones appear. Calls are made. Orders given. The machine I built rumbles to life.

I turn to Pavel, our tech expert. “Security footage?”

“Wiped clean. Professional job, by the looks of it.” He doesn’t meet my eyes. “But I’m reconstructing from network backups. Give me an hour.”

“You have twenty minutes.”

I stride toward my office, but Goran—old, loyal, ruthless Goran—blocks my path. “Vincent,” he rumbles. “This bears your father’s signature.”

What’s left unsaid is the obvious question: Are you prepared to kill your own blood?

Once upon a time, I wouldn’t have known how to answer it. Now, it’s as if the reply has been waiting on my lips since the moment I was born.

“My father died when he laid a hand on my wife.”

I brush past him and into the dark sanctuary of my office. The door barely closes before my composure fractures.

My knees hit the floor like shattering glass. My lungs burn. The room spins.

Rowan. Rowan. Rowan.

Her name beats inside my skull with each pulse of blood. Her face—those green eyes that saw through every defense I’ve ever mustered, that smile that somehow found beauty in a monster like me—hovers just beyond my reach.

And those images…

Blood smeared across white marble. The keypad flashing. One digit away from safety.

They won’t leave me the fuck alone.

I scrub my hands over my face. My fingers come away wet. I haven’t cried since my mother died. Eighteen years without a single tear.

Dreams become nightmares so quickly, don’t they?

I draw my phone from my pocket. The screen still shows my last text to Rowan: Meeting running long. Be home soon.

She never replied.

I dial a number I never expected to need.

“Vincent Akopov.” The man on the other end sounds surprised to be hearing from me. “The FBI doesn’t typically receive personal calls from men of your stature.”

“Special Agent Carver.” I keep my voice steady. “I believe we have mutual interests to discuss.”

“I’m listening.”

“My pregnant wife has been kidnapped. She’s in labor.”

Silence. Then: “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m prepared to offer certain accommodations regarding your ongoing investigation into Akopov Industries. In exchange, I need satellite coverage of the Greater New York area for the last six hours. Traffic cams. License plate readers. Everything.”

“That’s not how this works, Akopov. You know that.”

“Then listen to how it will work.” I grip the phone so hard the case creaks. “If my wife dies because the FBI refused to help, I will personally ensure that your career, your pension, and possibly your actual physical body end up at the bottom of the East River. In pieces.”

More silence. He sighs.

“You’re asking me to break about fifteen federal laws here, man.”

“No,” I retort, “I’m asking you to save a pregnant woman’s life. Everything else is bureaucratic bullshit.”

I hear him exhale. “Give me an hour. And Akopov? This conversation never happened.”

“Understood.”

I end the call as Arkady enters without knocking.

“We’ve got something,” he reports. “One of our guys spotted three black SUVs leaving your estate. Heading north on the Hudson Parkway, then east.”

I’m on my feet instantly. “Direction?”

“Best guess? The warehouses near Hunts Point. It’s remote, quiet, and accessible by water if they need to move her.” Arkady hesitates. “Vin, you should know… the informant reported significant blood on the back seat of one vehicle.”

My lungs constrict. The room darkens at the edges. The images again, beating into me, fucking relentless:

Red blood. White marble. Green digits on a black keypad.

“I’ll kill every last one of them,” I whisper, though fuck knows who I’m actually talking to. “Slowly. Personally.”

“I know.” Arkady’s hand lands heavy on my shoulder. “That’ll come. But first, we find her. Keep your head, brother. Without it, we’re lost.”

He’s right.

I know he’s right.

But God help me, I want blood.