Page 223 of Filthy Promises

“Nikolai Barkov.” I set my untouched glass down. “The FBI. USB drives full of company data. Does any of that sound familiar?”

He looks like he might vomit on his knockoff Persian rug. Good.

“Mr. Akopov, please, I can explain?—”

“Your mother’s facility in Westchester costs eighty-five hundred bucks a month,” I interrupt. “Your mortgage is nine months behind. You owe forty-two grand to some particularly unpleasant individuals who operate out of the Borgata.”

His mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for water.

“The way I see it, you have two choices, Kevin,” I continue. “Only two.”

I lay a folder on his coffee table and slide it toward him.

“Inside is an employment contract. Akopov Industries is developing a luxury resort in Costa Rica. We need a marketing director. The position offers triple your current salary, company housing, and comprehensive medical benefits that would cover your mother’s care at a superior facility.”

He stares at the folder like it might contain a venomous snake.

“What’s the catch?” he finally asks.

Smart question. Perhaps the first intelligent thing he’s done in months.

“You leave tonight. A car is waiting downstairs to take you to a private airfield. You sever all contact with Barkov, the FBI, and anyone else involved in this pathetic little scheme. You never return to New York. Most importantly, you never contact Rowan again.”

He swallows hard. “And the second choice?”

I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I nod to Dimitri, who opens the apartment door.

Three men step in, carrying between them a thoroughly battered Nikolai Barkov. His face is purple with bruises, one eye swollenshut, blood caked around his nostrils and the stumps where several of his fingers once were. They force him to his knees in the center of Kevin’s living room.

Kevin makes a choked sound of terror.

“Your friend Nikolai made the second choice,” I say quietly. “He chose to persist in his efforts against my family. To put my pregnant wife at risk. To threaten my child’s future. You can see what that cost him.”

Barkov moans pitifully through split lips.

“So the second choice is not one I recommend,” I continue. “Particularly not for a man with an elderly mother depending on him.”

Kevin lurches to his feet and stumbles drunkenly toward the bathroom. We all listen to the sounds of him vomiting violently. When he emerges, his face is ashen, but his eyes are clearer.

Decision made.

“I’ll take the job,” he whispers.

I stand, buttoning my jacket. “Wise choice. Dimitri will accompany you to pack essentials. The rest of your belongings will be shipped. Your mother will be transferred tomorrow to Green Meadows in Boca Raton. A significant improvement over her current accommodation, I’d say.”

He nods mechanically, eyes still fixed on Barkov’s kneeling form.

“Consider this your second chance, Kevin,” I say as I move toward the door. “I suggest you make the most of it. There won’t be a third.” Before leaving, I turn back. “Oh, and Kevin? My wife believes I’m a better man than I used to be. That I’m capable ofmercy, of change. Today, you’ve helped me prove her right. For that, you have my gratitude.”

Then I whisk away. Hopefully, I’ll never have to see that bastard again.

In the car, Arkady glances at me. “That was mighty restrained, Vin.”

“It was pragmatic,” I correct him. “Peterson was a symptom, not the disease. Barkov was the real problem.”

“The FBI will still be investigating,” Arkady points out.

“Without their informant or their Bratva connection, they’ll be chasing ghosts,” I reply. “By the time they rebuild their case, our legitimate operations will be too firmly established to question.”

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