Chapter Thirty-Four
Arkady
I’m fucking fuming.
The warehouse was just a diversion. That much is clear now as I drive through the elaborate wrought-iron gates of my father’s estate.
The old fucker knew I’d get wind of his little trafficking operation so he decided to deceive me by renting out one of my warehouses.
Except he never even considered using it.
Blyad!
The wheels of my Range Rover crunch over perfect gravel, disturbing the manicured perfection that Gavriil Laurov demands in all things—including his criminal enterprises.
Stefan wanted to come with me. The look in his eyes when I told him to stay behind was something between betrayal and murder.
“She’s my daughter,” he’d said, voice raw in a way I’d never heard from my stone-faced second. But bringing him would be a mistake. Stefan would tear my father apart with his bare hands before we got any useful information, and right now, information is what we need.
I park haphazardly, blocking the circular driveway. A small rebellion, but it’s the least of what I plan to do to the old man today.
The mansion rises before me—all Italian marble and neoclassical pretension.
My father always did have expensive tastes, especially after he sold our childhood home.
He couldn’t bear to live where Mishka and mother had died, though that didn’t stop him from building another monument to his own ego.
Twelve thousand square feet of opulence that never quite manages to mask the rot beneath.
Dimitri, my father’s butler, opens the door before I reach it. His face betrays nothing, but his eyes flick to my holster, partially visible beneath my jacket.
“Your father is in his study,” he says, stepping aside.
I don’t bother to respond. I don’t need, or want, an escort. I don’t know this house well; I’ve seldom been here since my father got rid of the family home but on the few occasions I’ve visited, it’s always been in my father’s study.
I stride over floors gleaming with fresh polish, reflecting the crystal chandeliers that hang at precise intervals. No dust, no imperfections. Just like Father’s operations: clean on the surface, filthy underneath.
I don’t knock. The heavy mahogany door swings open under my hand, revealing my father behind his desk. He looks up from a stack of papers, silver eyebrows lifting slightly—the only indication of surprise he allows himself to show.
“Arkady,” he says, setting down his fountain pen. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Cut the shit,” I say, closing the distance between us. “I know you’re behind Julia Kisinova and Niki Tamasky’s disappearance.”
Father’s study is a reflection of his self-image: leather-bound books he’s never read, hunting trophies from animals he didn’t kill, and a massive portrait of himself where most men would hang their family.
The air smells of sandalwood and cigars, undercurrents of whiskey and something metallic—like old blood.
“That’s quite an accusation, syn.” He leans back in his chair, resting his hands on the walnut desk that’s wide enough to host a billiards game.
“Don’t fucking ‘syn’ me,” I growl. “Where are they?”
I remain standing, though he gestures to the leather chair opposite his desk. Another small rebellion. Standing gives me the height advantage, forces him to look up. These power games were his first lessons to me, and I learned them well.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, examining his manicured nails. But I see the calculation in his eyes—the same cold assessment I’ve watched him give to business rivals before they disappeared.
“Stop lying.” I bite out the words. “Julia is Stefan’s daughter.”
That gets his attention. His eyes sharpen, recognition flashing before he can mask it.
“Ah, Stefan,” he says, voice deceptively light.
“Your bald watchdog with the head-tattoos? The one who fucked up my operation in the forest six years ago?” His lips curl into something too cruel to be a smile.
“Perhaps he should have kept a closer eye on his precious daughter. High time to pay back what he did to me.”
Something snaps inside me—a control wire I’ve kept taut for years. I lunge forward, seizing his collar. The fabric—Egyptian cotton, custom-tailored in London—bunches in my fist as I drag him half across the desk.
“Where. Are. They?” My voice drops dangerously low.
For a moment, I see myself through his eyes. My hands at his throat, violence barely contained. The son becoming the father. The realization makes me sick, but I don’t let go.
“Let go of me, you piece of shit!” he roars, but there’s a flicker of something I’ve rarely seen in his eyes. Fear. Good.
“WHERE?” I tighten my grip, my control slipping. In my peripheral vision, I see the silver letter opener on his desk—six inches of polished steel that could end this here, end him. The thought burns through me, both tempting and horrifying.
I am not him.
I am NOT him.
“Fine,” he manages, voice strained. “Calm the fuck down. I’ll make a call.”
I release him, carefully, watching as he straightens his shirt with a semblance of dignity. The collar will be creased—a small slur in his perfect world that gives me a flicker of satisfaction.
He reaches for his phone, dials a number I don’t recognize. “Status update on the Dubai shipment,” he says in Russian, eyes never leaving mine. A pause. A few more words I can’t quite catch. Then he hangs up.
“The girls are about to go to Dubai,” he tells me, smoothing his silver hair. “An oil billionaire paid handsomely for them. They’re being prepared for shipment.” His lips twist in what might be satisfaction. “Happy?”
Happy? Is he out of his fucking mind?
I say nothing, spinning on my heel as I turn to leave. My hand itches for my weapon, but I resist. Killing him now solves nothing and costs me everything—my freedom, my businesses, my future. He knows this. It’s why he pushes, always.
“What are you going to do, Arkady?” he calls after me. “Try to play hero again? You don’t even know where they are. All my facilities are heavily guarded. They might already be on the ship.”
“You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”
“And you’re nothing, Arkady! Get the fuck out of my house. I can’t stand the sight of you!”
The door slams behind me, cutting off his voice. I stand in the hallway, breathe in, then out. Calm the storm. Think.
I am not my father’s son in the ways that matter.
I am calculating where he is cruel. Precise where he is excessive. And I will dismantle his fucking trafficking empire piece by piece, starting today.
My mind switches to cold assessment. He said they’re being shipped to Dubai, but from where?
His basement or the warehouse? Or both? What he doesn’t know is that Stefan tracked Julia’s phone to this house, which means the old bastard was bluffing about the shipment.
They must still be here, somewhere beneath our feet.
This isn’t the house I grew up in. Aside from the route to his study, I don’t know my way around. This new mansion has a layout I’m still learning, but there must be access to a lower level somewhere.
I move quietly through the house, checking doors, studying the floor plan in my mind.
My eyes catch the tiny surveillance cameras tucked into crown molding, disguised as decorative elements.
The old cunt has eyes everywhere—which means I need to be careful.
If he suspects I’m searching, he could move the girls, or worse.
Down a back corridor lined with obscenely expensive art—Degas, Monet, all likely purchased with blood money—I find a heavy door that looks promising. When I open it, a set of concrete stairs descends into shadow. My pulse quickens as I follow them down, one hand resting on the gun at my back.
The air grows colder, damper. It carries a chemical scent—industrial cleaner masking something else.
The scent brings back unwanted memories: Operation Blackout, six years ago.
The same smell had hung in the air when we raided that convoy.
The girls we managed to save had been drugged, their eyes vacant. But the ones we didn’t reach…
At the bottom, a metal door blocks my path. Locked, of course. I pull out my picks—a skill father would be furious to know I maintained. “A Laurov doesn’t pick locks,” he’d said once. “We own the fucking keys.”
The lock clicks open, and I push through, gun ready.
Nothing but wine. Rows of expensive bottles organized in order of date of harvest. I curse under my breath, holstering my weapon. Another dead end.
But something isn’t right. The wine cellar is too perfect, too clean.
My eyes scan the walls, looking for inconsistencies, hidden panels, anything that might conceal another entrance.
Father has always loved his secrets, his hidden compartments.
When Yanis and I were boys, he taught us how to build false bottoms in drawers, hidden catches in bookshelves. Lessons for future criminals.
Finding nothing, I retrace my steps upstairs, standing in the empty corridor to collect myself. Every minute I waste searching is another minute those girls remain captive. And if my father decides to move them before I can locate them…
My phone vibrates in my pocket—a text from Stefan:
“Signal still active. Basement level. East wing.”
I reorient, heading east. This fucking palace has more secrets than I anticipated. As I move through the arched doorway that separates the wings, something catches my eye—a silhouette at the far end of the hallway. A woman.
She freezes when she notices me, then retreats quickly into a room. Something about her movement strikes me as familiar, though I can’t place why. She’s not Julia or Niki—I’ve seen both girls with Stefan, and this woman moved differently. Older, perhaps.
Could she be staff? But why run?
I follow, entering the room where she disappeared, but find it empty. A guest bedroom, pristine and untouched. The adjoining room too—a sitting area with views of the garden. Nothing. Where the hell did she vanish to?
Blyad.
The sensation of being watched prickles at my neck. I turn, following the feeling to another door. As I reach for the handle—
“Can I help you, sir?” A guard materializes from nowhere, hand resting on his holstered weapon.
His eyes are dead—the kind that belong to men who follow orders without question.
The tattoo on his wrist marks him as one of Father’s special security team, ex-military with loyalty bought at premium prices.
I could break his neck before his hand closed around the grip of his gun.
The thought surfaces, cold and certain. I can see it play out in my mind: the move, the counter, the snap.
Three seconds, maybe four. But this isn’t the time for direct confrontation.
If I take him out, others will come. And the girls might pay the price.
“No,” I say, turning away. “Just looking for the bathroom.”
He doesn’t believe me, but he can’t challenge me directly. I’m still the boss’s son.
“First door on the right, sir,” he says, not moving from his position.
I nod and walk away, mind racing. The guard’s presence confirms it—this wing hides something worth protecting. Stefan’s intel about the basement must be correct, but the entrance isn’t where I expected.
And that woman… why did she look so familiar?
Back in my car, I sit without starting the engine.
The scope of this operation is larger than I thought.
It’s not just Julia and Niki—there are other girls, other victims. And that guard won’t be the only one.
Father’s paranoia means multiple security layers, likely armed response teams on call.
The warehouse will be similarly fortified.
This is no longer a rescue mission I can handle with Stefan and a few men. This is war against my father’s entire operation. If I move against him this openly, there’s no going back. He’ll come after everything I care about: my businesses, my people. Everything I care about…
But if I don’t act, how many more girls disappear forever? How many more families will be destroyed?
The woman in the hallway nags at my thoughts. Something in her movements, the flash of her profile. She reminded me of—
I shake my head, frustration peeling out as the answer evades me.
But as I pull away from my father’s property, I catch a glimpse in the rearview mirror—a pale face at an upstairs window, watching me leave. When I look again, it’s gone.
But I know what I saw. And I’m coming back for her. For all of them.
Even if it means destroying the Laurov name in the process.
Some legacies aren’t worth preserving.