Chapter Twenty-Nine
Arkady
I crush a paper coffee cup in my fist, the cardboard yielding with a satisfying crackle as I watch security camera feeds from my casino.
The Empire Royale’s Friday night crowd pulses across the monitors, just as they always do. High rollers with hungry eyes at the VIP tables, tourists clutching glasses that catch the light, my security team positioned at strategic points throughout.
Everything runs as smooth as silk. Exactly how I need it.
The taste of stale coffee lingers on my tongue. I check the time—quarter past nine—then meticulously align my pen parallel to the edge of the desk. Order. Control. The foundations I’ve built my empire on.
My phone vibrates against the polished mahogany, the screen illuminating with a name I’ve been avoiding: Father.
The vibration rattles something loose inside my chest—a familiar cold dread mixed with the heat of rage. Every time I think I’ve built enough distance between us, something drags me back into the shithole that is his world.
“Blyad,” I mutter under my breath. I’m really not in the mood for this right now.
Or ever.
I consider letting it ring out. But ignoring him has never worked. My father isn’t a man who accepts being dismissed.
“Hello, Father.” I keep my voice neutral, leaning back in my chair, fingers instinctively reaching for the signet ring on my right hand and twisting it. Annoys the fuck out of me that the man still makes me want to fidget.
He skips any pretense of pleasantries. “I need one of your warehouses for about two weeks.” His Russian accent thickens when he’s cutting deals, the sound triggering memories of childhood negotiations that always ended in his favor. “I’ll pay upfront.”
My jaw locks, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. I force myself to unclench my teeth before answering. My father never calls about legitimate business.
“What for?” I ask, knowing I’m not going to like the answer. If there even is one.
“Business,” he answers, the edge to his voice telling me that he doesn’t intend to share details. No surprise there.
I stand, moving to the window overlooking the city. Rain streaks the glass, distorting the lights below. I stare past my distorted reflection, for a moment imagining seeing my father staring back.
Pizdets.
I’ve spent years building walls against becoming that cunt, yet here I am, still answering his calls.
“Am I going to be sorry I’m getting dragged into your bullshit?” I run a hand over my face.
“Syn,” he tuts. “When have I ever dragged you into my… bullshit?”
Pretty much every day since I was born. And I fought it every step of the way. I don’t waste my breath saying it out loud. It’s no secret that I am my father’s greatest disappointment.
“You promised you were done with human trafficking after Operation Blackout.” I don’t bother softening the accusation, the words coming out like ice.
He sucks in a breath and I immediately know I hit a nerve.
It’s clear he’s still pissed that we intercepted his precious little trafficking operation six years ago, saving a dozen of girls from being sold.
“This is different.” He says, not even attempting to deny it, which tells me he’s prepared an explanation.
Rehearsed it, probably. “These girls want better lives. They’re willingly coming for domestic work in wealthy homes. ”
Motherfucker.
Again with the girls.
The lie sits between us, heavy and toxic. I’ve heard this story before—desperate women promised jobs as nannies and housekeepers, only to have their passports seized once they arrive.
But my father has been doing this since before I was born. If I refuse, he’ll find another warehouse, one where I’ll have no ability to monitor what happens. No ability to save anyone.
I instinctively reach for the inside of my jacket, where my gun would normally sit in its holster, before remembering I removed it earlier. The phantom check of chambers persists even when I’m unarmed.
“Ok. Deal.” The words coat my mouth with betrayal, but at least this way I can track his operation. “Warehouse No. 5 is available. There are bathrooms with showers, a kitchenette, and mattresses where they can crash.” I pause, calculating. “Fifteen thousand for two weeks.”
“Done.” His immediate acceptance confirms my suspicions that this is bigger than he’s letting on. “And you will not poke your nose into my affairs this time, Arkady. It’s business, not a father-son cooperation. You understand?”
I move back to my desk, pressing a palm against the cold surface. “Why would you approach me if you don’t trust me, Father?”
“Because I haven’t been able to find a property for rent for two weeks. Everybody wants deposits and a minimum of three months.”
Of course. I’m not his first choice; I’m his convenience. The familiar sting of never being enough, of being useful rather than valued, still burns through my chest.
“Right. Warehouse No. 5, two weeks, 15K in cash. Once the money is here, I’ll give you the key.”
I end the call before he can respond, dropping the phone onto my desk like it’s contaminated. My hand trembles slightly—from rage or something deeper, I can’t tell. I press the intercom button, needing to act before I lose my shit completely.
“Leo.”
The door opens almost immediately. My security specialist fills the frame, shoulders almost as wide as the entire space. “Da, boss?”
“I need surveillance on Warehouse No. 5. Full setup, cameras, motion sensors, audio. Make it invisible.”
Leo’s expression shifts subtly, a tightening around the eyes that speaks volumes. “Your father?”
“Da. He’s bringing ‘domestic workers’ through.” My sarcasm is unmistakable. “I told him I wouldn’t interfere. I lied.”
“When?”
“He just called. He’ll deliver cash first, probably tomorrow. We need the surveillance operational tonight.” I tap a code into my desk safe, extracting a black USB drive. “Use the Ghost protocol. I want thermal imaging on the perimeter and audio sensitive enough to pick up even a whisper.”
Leo nods, already typing on his phone. “I’ll have Mikhail install the system. We’ll route the feeds through the secure server.”
“And get Sasha to put together a team. If those women aren’t there willingly, we move in. Quietly.” My fingers drum an erratic rhythm against the desk as the familiar weight of command settles across my shoulders. I’ll see my father rot in hell before I let him run another of his sick ventures.
“Understood.” Leo steps back toward the door, then stops. “Boss… If this is what you think it is—”
“We’ll get them out.” I cut him off before he can finish the thought. “All of them. I swear it.”
After he leaves, I unlock my desk drawer and remove a metal box. Inside is a collection of plain metal keys. I extract the one labeled Wh. No. 5. I trace its outline with my thumb, remembering the blood I’ve already spilled to keep women like these safe from men like my father.
My eyes drift to the small framed photo on my desk—the only personal item in the room. Mishka at ten years old, gap-toothed smile blazing at the camera as he balanced on a horse.
“Not this time, little brother,” I whisper to the empty room. As much as it gutted me to lose him, what happened with my brother left me with a moral code. A code that won’t allow me to see men like my father thrive on other people’s misery.
I place the key back in the box, lock the drawer, and push away from my desk.
“Ne v etot raz, otets. Not this time,” I mutter again as I move to leave the room. If my father’s up to what I think he is, he’ll end up in the ground, just like that snake, Tulikov.
And I won’t fucking miss him.