Page 41 of Filthy Promises
The old Vince—the one who answered only to himself—would have a very simple solution. A problem that walks, talks, and snoops doesn’t remain a problem for long in my world.
One call to Arkady, and Rowan St. Clair would disappear without a trace.
My fingers hover over my phone. It would be so easy.
But something stops me.
Is it the way she looked in that green dress? The flush that crept up her neck when I stared at her too long? The fact that, despite what she’s seen and heard, she still came back to work today?
Or is it something else entirely—the realization that she might still be useful to me?
“Ms. St. Clair,” I call out, my voice betraying none of the rage simmering beneath the surface. “Could you come in here, please?”
I watch her through the doorway. She flinches at the sound of my voice. Her hand trembles as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
She’s terrified.
Good.She should be.
“Coming, Mr. Akopov,” she calls back, her voice impressively steady for someone who looks like she might throw up.
I sit behind my desk, folding my hands in front of me as she enters. I gesture for her to close the door.
“Lock it,” I add.
Her eyes widen, but she does as she’s told, turning the deadbolt with a soft click that seems to echo in the sudden silence.
“Sit.”
She perches on the edge of the chair across from me, knees pressed tightly together, hands folded in her lap. A perfect picture of innocence—if you don’t count the fear radiating off her in waves.
I say nothing, just stare at her. Making her wait. Making her squirm.
It’s a technique I learned from my father. The guilty confess into silence faster than they do to questions.
“Sir, I—” she begins.
I hold up my hand, stopping her. “Did you sleep well last night, Ms. St. Clair?”
She blinks, caught off guard by the question. “I… Not really.”
“Troubles on your mind?”
She swallows hard. “Just work stress. Getting used to the new position.”
A lie. But an expected one.
“I see.” I lean back in my chair, studying her face. Those green eyes that can’t quite meet mine. The nervous twitch of her lips. “Tell me, Ms. St. Clair, do you value your job here?”
“Of course.”
No hesitation there. That’s the truth, at least.
“And do you understand what ‘discretion’ means in the context of your employment with me?”
Her cheeks flush. “Yes.”
“I’m not sure you do.” I open the drawer, pull out the gun, and place it on the desk between us. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t have gone through my things.”
