Page 19 of Filthy Lies

ROWAN

Vince carries us away. Where are we? I don’t know. Where are we going? I don’t know that, either.

All I know is that the world blurs at the edges. Gunshots echo somewhere far away. Men shout in Russian and die in wordless agony.

None of it matters.

My entire universe has collapsed to just three points: me, Vince, and the tiny bundle clutched against my chest.

“Stay with me, Rowan,” Vince murmurs. “We’re almost out.”

I try to nod, but my head feels too heavy. The adrenaline that kept me going during labor and the terrifying hours after has drained away, leaving nothing but bone-deep exhaustion in its wake.

“Sofiya…” I whisper. I need to make sure she’s still there, still safe.

“She’s right here,” Vince assures me. “You’re both safe now.”

His arms tighten around us as he navigates through corridors that reek of rust and blood. I focus on the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my ear, the solid warmth of his chest. The safest place in the world.

“Clear!” someone shouts ahead of us.

Cold night air hits my face. We’re outside. The stars above us swim in my vision, impossibly bright. I didn’t think I’d ever see them again.

“Car’s ready,” a voice says. Arkady, I think.

Vince lowers me into the backseat of an SUV, sliding in beside me. He never lets go, not even for a second. The door slams shut, and the vehicle lurches forward.

“Hospital,” Vince commands. “The private facility in Manhattan.”

“I already called ahead,” Arkady responds from the front seat. “They’re expecting us.”

I blink, trying to clear my vision. Sofiya whimpers against me and I instinctively adjust her position.

“Let me see her,” Vince requests softly.

With trembling hands, I pull back the makeshift blanket covering our daughter’s face. The streetlights passing outside cast intermittent flashes of illumination across her tiny features.

Vince’s breath catches. He reaches out with a trembling hand to stroke her velvet cheek.

His fingers quiver as they brush against her skin, so lightly it’s barely a touch at all. As if he’s afraid she might break. As if he can’t quite believe she’s real.

“Sofiya,” he whispers, testing the name on his tongue. “My daughter.”

The undiluted wonder in his voice brings fresh tears to my eyes. But it’s his expression that undoes me completely. The mask of control he’s worn for as long as I’ve known him has fallen away, revealing the man beneath—vulnerable, awestruck, and utterly terrified.

Terrified of losingus.

I’ve never seen him like this. So completely exposed.

“She has your chin,” I note. “And your eyes, I think.”

He nods, unable to speak. His finger traces the curve of Sofiya’s tiny ear, her button nose, the perfect bow of her lips. The tremble in his hand never subsides.

“I thought—” He stops, swallows hard. “When I saw the blood in the hallway…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

“We’re okay,” I assure him. “She’s perfect. Ten fingers. Ten toes. Lungs like a damn fire alarm.”

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