Chapter Thirty-Two
Arkady
My phone burns in my hand as I try Stefan’s number for what must be the twentieth time this morning.
The screen shows the call connecting, ringing once, twice—then nothing.
Not even voicemail kicks in anymore. I pull the device away, stare at the blank display like it’s betrayed me.
Sweat trickles down my spine, the cotton of my shirt sticking to my skin.
My pulse drums against my throat, each beat harder than the last.
This isn’t like him. My second-in-command is never unavailable—not to me. First, it was irritation; now it’s morphed into something worse. Something that makes my stomach go tight and cold, like I’ve swallowed ice.
I pace my office as I dial his home number instead, fingers stabbing at the screen. The phone rings longer this time. Three times. Four. On the fifth ring, someone picks up.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice, thick with tears, barely holding together.
“Natalia, it’s Arkady.”
“Oh, Mr. Laurov…” Her voice cracks completely, breaking into something raw and desperate.
I can picture her—Stefan’s sturdy wife with her no-nonsense demeanor and iron spine, now reduced to this trembling voice on the other end of the line.
She’s the kind of woman who could stare down armed men without flinching, but whatever’s happened has shattered that armor completely.
“What’s happened?” I ask, already moving toward the door, my legs carrying me without conscious thought. I grab my car keys off the desk, the metal cold against my palm.
“It’s Julia. She’s gone. She and Niki Tamasky disappeared last night.
” The words tumble out in a rush, tripping over each other.
“Stefan went looking for them when they didn’t come home from the cinema.
He’s been out all night. I haven’t heard from him since, and I’m not just worried about Julia now but Stefan too.
” A stifled sob cuts through the line. “Sorry if he didn’t call you. We didn’t sleep a wink.”
“Blyad,” I mutter, yanking open my office door hard enough that it slams against the wall. The sound reverberates through the hallway. “I’m on my way, Natalia.”
I hang up before she can fall apart completely, my thumb jabbing the end call button.
I sprint through the house, my boots echoing off the floors as I pass familiar rooms in a blur.
My mind spins through possibilities—calculating exit routes, safe houses, resources we’ll need.
Julia. Eighteen years old. Stefan’s only daughter.
Not one of ours.
Not on my watch.
The garage door slides open with a mechanical hum as I hit the button.
I’m behind the wheel of the Range Rover before I’ve fully processed what I’m doing, muscle memory taking over.
The leather seat is cool against my back, familiar.
The engine roars to life when I turn the key, a deep rumble that vibrates through the chassis.
I’m reversing onto the drive, gravel crunching under the tires, when my phone rings.
I glance at the screen. Stefan. Finally.
I stab the answer button, putting him on speaker as I shift into drive. “Jesus, Stefan, where the fuck are you?” I demand. My knuckles tighten against the leather steering wheel, white across the bones, the veins in my forearms standing out like cords beneath tattooed skin.
“Sorry I didn’t call you earlier, boss.” His voice sounds hollow, drained, like he’s been scraped clean from the inside out. Not the Stefan I know—not the man who faces down threats with a laugh and a gun.
“Leave it, bratan. I spoke to your wife. Tell me what you have.”
I pull onto the main road, the tires squealing as I accelerate hard enough to throw me back in my seat. The speedometer climbs—forty, fifty, sixty. Trees blur past the windows, the world outside becoming streaks of green and brown. A car horn blares as I cut someone off, but I don’t slow down.
I’m already mentally cataloging weapons—what we have at the manor, what Stefan will bring, what I keep hidden in the car’s compartments. Three guns, extra magazines, two knives tucked beneath the passenger seat. Never enough when facing a battle. Never enough when it’s family.
Stefan’s heavy sigh fills the car speakers, crackling slightly through the connection.
“I’m sure she told you the basics. I’ve done everything in my power to find Julia and Niki. They are nowhere to be found. But I know they’re not dead.”
My hands tighten on the steering wheel, the leather creaking under my grip. “How can you be sure?” The words come out clipped, controlled, but inside, something’s clawing to get out.
There’s a pause—just long enough for me to notice, just long enough for my gut to twist. In our line of work, hesitation means trouble. It means the truth is worse than whatever lie you’re considering.
“I have my sources,” Stefan says carefully, each word measured like he’s weighing how much to reveal. “And I’m sorry to say this, but… there’s a reason I was hesitant to call you, boss.”
“What is it?” The question comes out sharper than I intended, fear making me reckless. My foot presses harder on the accelerator.
“All the information I have…” He pauses, then huffs out a breath. “It looks like your father has something to do with this.”
My blood boils. Heat floods my face, my neck, spreading down through my chest. For a moment, I’m fifteen again, standing in my father’s study while he sits behind that massive oak desk.
His voice is calm, clinical, as he explains which parts of a girl are worth the most money—young ones, virgins, the ones who haven’t been broken yet.
The lesson that made me vomit in the bathroom afterward, while he laughed through the door, telling me I’d better toughen up.
Images flash through my mind—that true crime podcast I’d been listening to recently, the pattern of disappearances, the same profile of girls.
Young. Beautiful. Local. The pieces were right there, and I didn’t put them together.
Yobany urod! I should have killed the old pizda years ago.
Should have put a bullet in his skull the moment I had the chance.
“Jesus Christ, Stefan.” I slam my palm against the steering wheel, the impact jarring up my arm.
“Just a few days ago, he rented one of my warehouses. He said he had a big operation going on—girls—but they’re from Asia, mainly from India.
He swore he had nothing to do with the local girls and that they’re only looking for better lives. ”
“And you believed him, boss?” Stefan’s tone isn’t accusatory, just tired. Exhausted. Like he’s been carrying this weight for too long already.
“Nyet. But I thought it best if I agreed to rent out the warehouse to him. That way, I can at least monitor his operations.” I grind my teeth. I should have done more. Should have torched the whole operation the moment he mentioned it.
“Good thinking,” Stefan says, but there’s no relief in his voice. No comfort in the agreement.
“You have intel,” I say, because I know Stefan would leave no stone unturned. “Tell me what you have so far.”
My mind shifts to planning mode, shoving emotions away into a locked compartment I’ll deal with later. I need information, contingencies, exit strategies. I need numbers. Facts. Things I can work with.
The line goes quiet except for the sound of Stefan’s breathing—ragged, uneven, like he’s been running. When he speaks again, his voice is controlled, measured—the voice he uses when delivering the worst news. The voice that means people are already dead or dying.
“Your old man lied through his teeth about leaving the trade after Blackout. He’s got crews working the streets—New York, Jersey, Boston.
Hunting for girls. Specific types. Whatever the Arabs are paying top dollar for this season.
” He spits the words out like poison. “They corner them outside clubs, wave cash and promises. Or just grab them off the street if they’re desperate enough.
Either way—” A pause, heavy with meaning.
“Once they’re gone, they stay gone. The cops?
They take Gavriil’s money and file the paperwork.
Parents get a case number and fuck-all else. ”
Operation Blackout. The name alone makes something dark unfurl inside me, spreading through my chest like ink in water.
Six years ago. The convoy we intercepted on that forest road.
The girls we saved—twelve of them, terrified and drugged.
And the ones we didn’t. The ones already shipped out, already lost.
“Pizdets,” I mutter, teeth grinding together so hard my jaw aches. “This is worse than I thought.”
“Da.” Stefan’s agreement hangs between us like a noose. “I’ve kept an eye on him and his men. Gavriil was in the Emirates not long ago. I think he got a big offer from an oil billionaire for concubines.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” I say. The bastard has connections everywhere—sheikhs, oligarchs, men with more money than morals. Men who see girls as commodities. “Did you find out anything else?”
“Well… I managed to find someone to track my daughter’s phone, even though her battery died. It seems they found where she is… which is why I’m calling you now.”
Fuck. I wish he’d called me sooner. But we’ll get to that later.
Right now, a familiar coldness settles behind my sternum—the same sensation I felt before every mission, before every kill. The assassin awakening, pushing aside the man who feels and thinks and hesitates. “Where? Where is she, Stefan?”
He pulls in a breath. Let’s it out, before answering.
“In the cellar of your father’s house.”