Page 140 of Filthy Promises
“Does she know?” I ask.
Arkady shrugs. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Is your bride-to-be sleeping with the enemy knowingly? Or is she as much a fool as he is?”
I study the last photo. Daniel and Anastasia sitting on a park bench, her head resting on his shoulder and a shy, happy smile on her face. There’s something in their posture, something sincere that doesn’t read like espionage or manipulation.
“Where is he now?”
“Working. Mount Sinai. Trauma center.” Arkady checks his watch. “His shift ends in… thirty-four minutes.”
I nod. “Take me there.”
“Are we going to have a mess to clean up?” he asks carefully.
The old me would say yes without hesitation. Daniil Petrov represents everything dangerous—a rival family member secretly involved with my future bride. In my world, that’s a death sentence.
But something holds me back. Something that feels uncomfortably like understanding.
“We’ll see,” is all I say.
As we drive, I gaze out the window at passing buildings, but all I can see is Rowan’s face. The hurt in her eyes. The resignation in her voice.
She’s given up on us.
The thought burns more than it should.
We park across from the hospital’s staff entrance. Arkady hands me a gun. “Just in case,” he says. “But I left the safety on. Which is also just in case.”
I tuck it into my waistband, hidden beneath my suit jacket, trying to ignore the uncomfortable parallel of my previous visit to this same hospital not long ago.
“There,” Arkady nods toward a man exiting the building. “That’s him. Flawless timing.”
Daniil Petrov looks exhausted as he walks to his car, shoulders slumped from what was likely a grueling shift. He has no idea he’s being watched. No idea that his life hangs in the balance.
“Wait here,” I tell Arkady.
“Vince—”
“I said wait.”
I approach silently, years of training making my footsteps virtually soundless on the pavement. Daniel doesn’t notice me until I’m directly behind him at his car door.
“Dr. Spencer,” I say quietly. “Or should I say, Dr. Petrov?”
He freezes, keys halfway to the lock.
Then, slowly, he turns to face me.
Recognition dawns in his eyes. He knows exactly who I am.
“Mr. Akopov.” His voice is steady despite the fear I can see creeping into his eyes. “I wondered when this day would come.”
“Get in the car,” I order. “Driver’s side. You’re taking us somewhere to talk.”
He hesitates, glancing around the parking lot.
“Don’t,” I warn. “Your father’s men aren’t here. Mine are. This ends one of two ways: We talk, or we don’t talk.”
The implication of the latter choice is clear. He gets in the car.
