Chapter Twenty-Four
Arkady
The highway stretches ahead, an empty ribbon against the morning sky.
My knuckles tighten on the leather steering wheel as a Spotify true-crime podcast fills the space around me.
He goes on to give details, each one leaving me sick to my stomach.
I slam the audio off, a curse tearing from my throat. “Blyad!”
I can’t stand the thought of innocents being abused. Heat rushes through my veins, the familiar rage a living thing.
My father’s face materializes in my mind—that cold smile when discussing “merchandise.” The same fucking smile he wore when handing me my first gun at fifteen. The one that killed Mishka.
I force a breath into my lungs. Two. Three. Control is survival.
He says he’s out of that world now. I’d like to believe him. But it still sickens me to know that he used to be involved in it. If he weren’t my father, I would have ended him the day I found out.
I turn my attention back to the road, the powerful engine chewing up miles.
The Empire Royale towers in the skyline ahead, its glass facade catching the morning light, mirrored windows glittering. My casino. My fortress. The gleaming front that gives my life an air of respectability.
The security team drops their eyes as I pass, that perfect balance of respect and fear. The morning staff scatters like startled birds. My office door closes behind me with a whisper of expensive hinges, and I’m alone with the weight of what I know. What I’m fighting. What I’ve done.
I move through the morning like a machine. Make calls. Review footage. Dissect intelligence on the other families’ latest movements. The cogs that keep a crime syndicate moving.
All in a day’s work.
The intercom disrupts my focus as I pore over a ledger detailing the casino’s weekly takings.
“Mr. Laurov.” My secretary’s voice carries a note of apology. “Rosanna Tulikova is here. She says it’s urgent.”
Chert voz’mi.
Fucking perfect.
My jaw locks. “Tell her it’s a bad time.”
There’s a pause as she pulls in an anxious breath. “I think it’s important, sir. She seems… upset.”
Of course she is. She’s just been orphaned.
Thanks to me.
Blyad.
“Send her in.” There’s no point in avoiding this.
The door swings open, and she walks in. A designer dress—something blue and expensive—clings to her frame, the slight curve of her pregnancy now visible. Her face is drawn, eyes raw from crying. Mascara smudged beneath her lashes.
Without invitation, she crosses the room and sinks into the chair across from me, the mahogany desk between us like a demilitarized zone.
“What can I do for you, Rosanna?” I ask, feeling like a dick as I say it.
Rosanna stares at me, something fragile and feral in her gaze. “My father was murdered.” Her voice cracks on the last word.
“I heard. I’m sorry for your loss.” The words stick in my throat. My condolences—such a clean phrase for such dirty hands. Mine.
Rosanna’s fingers twist together in her lap. “I’m alone now. Completely alone.” Her voice rises, breaks. I fight back another surge of guilt. Rosanna’s mother died when she was an infant. She was raised as an only child by her father. And I took him from her.
He asked for it, dammit.
Sergei was anything but innocent.
Still, it doesn’t diminish the facts. He may have been a monster, but to her, he was her only family.
“I’m sure you have other relatives, friends…” I trail off, feeling even more like a dick.
“I have you,” she says.
“What?” I snap.
“You, Arkady. You owe me,” she says. “I’m pregnant with your baby, remember?”
“I never asked for that. And, I still don’t know if it’s mine.”
“How could you say that?” Her eyes swim with tears again. “Why don’t you trust me?”
I study her face, searching for the manipulation beneath the tears. I know it’s there, hidden deep down. Even in mourning, I know she’s capable of it. My chest stays cold, unmoved.
“Trust you?” A harsh sound escapes me. “You swore you were on the pill, Rosanna. And I wore a condom every time we fucked. Every. Time.”
The truth is, we stopped having sex weeks into our engagement.
She’d flinch, tell me I hurt her, that I was too much, too rough.
Or she’d have a headache, a stomachache, a thousand excuses.
Fine by me. I found release elsewhere—women who understood the transaction.
No strings. No complaints. No complications.
“And I’m still pregnant.” Her hand slides to her stomach, protective. Something flickers across her face—determination, desperation. “This baby wants to be with us, Arkady. It chose us as parents. Can’t you see that?”
Christ. More of her mystical bullshit. As if Fate gives a damn about any of us. As if the universe has a plan beyond chaos and blood.
I know that better than anyone. By now, she should, too.
Her eyes narrow, something harder emerging through the tears. “I didn’t come to ask why you left me standing at the altar. That ship sailed when you walked away. But I’m not as stupid as you think. I saw how you looked at that woman that day.”
Mirabel. Standing there in that treacherous dress, chocolate eyes locked with mine. That moment when everything shifted. When I chose a different path.
That moment when I didn’t choose Rosanna.
I offer nothing. My silence a wall she can’t scale.
“I’m on antidepressants,” she continues, her voice dropping.
“Clinically depressed. Have been for years.” Fresh tears spill over.
“I have no idea how I’m going to manage alone.
As a single mother. Without even my father—” Her voice cracks.
She looks up, naked desperation in her eyes.
“Please, Arkady. We need you. The baby needs you. Everything is falling apart.”
Mishka’s face flashes behind my eyes. His smile. The light in his eyes vanishing in an instant. The deafening crack of the gun. The terrible silence after. The weight of his body in my arms growing heavier with each second.
What if this child is mine? Another life I’m responsible for. Another person I could destroy with these bloodstained hands.
“Okay.” I drag air into my lungs. “After the baby is born, we’ll do a DNA test.” The words come out clipped, clinical. “If the child is mine, I’ll take responsibility. But understand this: I’m not raising someone else’s kid.”
Her fingers curl into fists on her lap. “What exactly does ‘take responsibility’ mean to you?”
“Financial support. Whatever it needs.”
“It?” Her voice rises. “You’re talking about your own baby, Arkady. How could you be so cold?”
“Fine. He. She. Whatever. I’ll pay what you need. There’s nothing to worry about.” I lean back in my seat, putting distance between us.
“You don’t understand.” She leans forward, desperation making her bold. “I don’t need your money. My father left me his estate. His entire fortune. What I need is you. This baby needs his father. We need you present. In our lives.”
Something cold slides down my spine. In their lives. Playing house. Playing father. When I couldn’t even keep my brother alive.
“That’s not happening, Rosanna.” I stand, buttoning my jacket. A dismissal. “I have calls waiting.”
She rises too, shaky on her feet. Something hardens in her eyes, a glint of steel beneath the fragility. “You are the biggest bastard in the world, Arkady Laurov.” The words come out in a harsh whisper. “God help any child with your blood.”
She turns and stalks out, the scent of her perfume—something floral and too sweet—lingering in the air like an accusation.
I stand motionless, staring at the closed door. The biggest bastard in the world. Maybe she’s right. I killed her father and she has no idea. Left her at the altar. Refuse to play family with a child that may be mine.
But there’s work to be done. A business to run. Matters that need my attention if I plan to stay out of the muck of my father’s world.
This is what matters. Not Rosanna. Not her tears. Not the child that may or may not carry my cursed blood.
But as I work through the morning, her words echo.
The biggest bastard in the world.
And somewhere deep in the locked chambers of my heart, behind walls built on a dead brother’s memory, I wonder if she’s right.