Chapter 7: Filthy Lies: Chapter 7

The meat processing plant looms ahead of us like a fortress from hell. Solovyov’s men patrol the perimeter—I count six visible guards, which means at least a dozen more inside. Floodlights sweep across the empty parking lot, illuminating rusted chain-link fences topped with razor wire.

Somewhere in there is my wife.

Somewhere in there is my child.

“The security system is wired through that junction box.” Daniel points to a small metal container mounted on the east wall. “Take that out, and their cameras go dark.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Working with Grigor Petrov’s son burns like venom in my veins, but he’s proven useful. Too useful.

If he’s lying, I’ll peel the skin from his body inch by agonizing inch.

But I don’t think he is.

Arkady materializes beside me, a shadow among shadows. “Men are in position. Say the word.”

“Where are we on the security feed?”

“Hacked. We can see the interior layout.”

“And Rowan?” My voice catches on her name like a rusty hook.

“Third floor, northwest corner. Only one heat signature showing with her, but the walls are thick, so nothing is guaranteed.”

I grip my gun tighter, knuckles white beneath my leather gloves. “Move in. Secure all exits. No one escapes.”

There’s no grand speech. No dramatic rallying of troops. These men know what’s at stake. They know what happens to anyone between me and my wife tonight.

I turn to Daniel. “Stay with Dimitri. If you try to warn your friends⁠—”

“They’re not my friends,” he interrupts. “And I’m coming with you.”

“The fuck you are.”

“I know the building layout. Which stairs won’t creak, which doors are reinforced.” His eyes lock with mine. “You need me.”

I hate that he’s right.

“Fine.” I check my weapon one last time. “But if you so much as breathe wrong⁠—”

“You’ll kill me. Yeah, I know. I got it the first ten times.”

Our teams move in like a single organism. Black-clad figures melt into the darkness, positioning themselves around the compound. One of my men approaches the junction box Daniel identified and kills power to the security systems with three precise snips of his wire cutters.

“Arkady, we need a distraction,” I say into my comm. “West side.”

Seconds later, an explosion rocks the far end of the compound. Solovyov men scramble toward it like ants from a disturbed hill.

And we descend.

The first guard never sees me coming. I put him down with a silenced shot to the back of the skull. The second tries to reach for his radio before my knife finds his throat. The third, to his credit, manages to get fingers to his gun. But that’s as far as he gets.

Once, these kills would have been executed emotionlessly. But not tonight.

Tonight, each body that drops is just an obstacle between me and Rowan. Between me and my child. And I tear through them with a rage that burns white-hot in my chest.

Daniel keeps pace at my side, moving with unexpected competence. He disables an alarm system I would have missed, guides us through a maze of corridors I would have gotten lost in.

Gunfire erupts behind us. Arkady’s voice crackles over the comm. “Main entrance secured. Ten hostiles down. East wing clear.”

We reach a stairwell. Daniel holds up a hand, stopping me from charging ahead. “Pressure plate,” he whispers, pointing to a nearly invisible sensor. “Step there, and you trigger silent alarms.”

We navigate around it and continue our ascent. Second floor. More guards. More bodies hitting the floor, the wet thud of death following us like a faithful dog.

The third floor, however, is quiet. Eerily quiet. Too quiet.

“Something’s wrong,” Daniel mutters.

And that’s when I hear it.

A baby’s cry.

High-pitched, distressed, unmistakable.

My baby.

My. Fucking. Child.

Something shifts inside me—a tectonic plate sliding beneath the bedrock of who I am. The world narrows to a tunnel, and at the end of that tunnel is that sound.

Nothing else matters. Not the mission. Not the danger. Not even my own survival.

I move without thinking, without strategy, without anything but pure instinct driving me forward.

“Akopov, wait—” Daniel hisses, but I’m already gone.

The hallway stretches before me, doors on either side. I follow the sound. Northwest corner. Last room on the left.

Another cry, louder now. And something else—a woman’s voice. Angry, threatening, proud.

Rowan.

I don’t check for traps. Don’t signal Arkady. Don’t do anything that Vincent Akopov, calculated tactician and ruthless pakhan, would normally do.

I just kick the fucking door off its hinges and storm in, gun raised.

And freeze.

Rowan is alive.

Rowan is alive… and she’s holding our child.

She’s pale—too pale—with dark circles beneath her eyes and dried blood on her thighs. Her hair is a tangled mess, sweat-soaked and matted against her skull. Her dress is torn and filthy.

She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

In her arms is a tiny bundle, wrapped in rags. Our child. Our baby. Alive and crying and here.

But it’s not just that she’s alive. It’s what she’s doing.

Rowan, who once fainted at the sight of blood, who cringed when I raised my voice, who embodied everything soft and gentle in this world—she has a syringe pressed against a frail blonde woman’s throat.

And she looks very fucking willing to use it.

“Vincent.” My name comes out on her exhale.

The guard takes advantage of her distraction, lunging forward. Without hesitation, I put a bullet between the woman’s eyes. Her body crumples at my feet.

Instantly dead. Instantly forgotten.

I’m across the room in three strides, pulling Rowan and our child against my chest with my free arm while keeping my gun trained on the door.

“You found us,” she whispers into my neck. “You found us.”

“Always,” I manage, my voice raw. “I will always find you.”

The baby squirms between us, still crying. Rowan shifts and adjusts the bundle so I can see.

“Meet your daughter.” She peels back the makeshift blanket to reveal a perfect, tiny face. “Sofiya Akopov.”

My daughter.

Fuck—my daughter.

Her face is red and scrunched, still streaked with the remnants of birth. Dark wisps of hair cling to her scalp. She has my chin, Rowan’s nose, and when she blinks up at me with unfocused eyes, I see a blue that mirrors my own.

She’s impossibly small. Unbelievably perfect. And I would wreak horrible vengeance on the world to keep her safe.

“You did this,” I say to Rowan. Awe steals the strength from my voice. “You brought her into the world. Here. In this hell.”

Rowan’s eyes shine with exhausted tears. “I tried to wait for you, but she’s stubborn. Wonder where she gets that from?”

“She’s brave,” I counter, touching Sofiya’s cheek with one trembling finger. “Like her mother.”

I look at the dead guard, at the syringe lying on the floor beside Rowan.

This woman, my wife, has realigned something fundamental in the universe. The mathematics of power and vulnerability have been rewritten by her courage.

She gave birth in captivity.

She protected our child with nothing but a dirty syringe and sheer will.

And she’s looking at me now like I’m the one who did something remarkable.

One day, she’ll realize just who she is.

I holster my weapon and take them both fully into my arms, careful not to crush the tiny life between us. Rowan sags against me, her strength finally giving way now that I’m here.

“I’ve got you,” I promise. I press my lips to her forehead. “Both of you. I’ve got you now.”

“I knew you’d come,” she murmurs. “I told Sofiya her daddy would find us. I kept telling her that over and over again. It’s the only thing that kept her from crying.”

My eyes burn. It’s not weakness that wets my lashes—it’s something else entirely. Something I never believed I was capable of feeling.

Humility.

Because this woman—this blood-covered, glass-wielding, child-protecting warrior—chose me. Fuck knows I don’t deserve her love.

“We need to move,” Daniel warns from the doorway, his gun drawn. “Reinforcements are coming.”

I gather Rowan into my arms. She’s alarmingly light, but her grip on our daughter remains firm even as she drifts in and out of consciousness.

“Clear a path,” I order. “No one touches them. No one even looks at them.”

Daniel nods and steps into the hallway to relay the command.

I look down at my wife—at her pale face smeared with blood and tears, at the fierce set of her jaw even in near-unconsciousness, at the protective curl of her body around our newborn daughter.

In that moment, I understand something I’ve spent a lifetime denying: There is strength in vulnerability. Power in devotion. A kind of victory that has nothing to do with conquest and everything to do with what you’re willing to sacrifice.

Rowan found that strength. In the darkest chapter of her life, she didn’t break. She became something new. Something magnificent.

And as I carry her and our daughter through a gauntlet of death toward freedom, I silently vow to be worthy of that transformation.

To be worthy of them both.