Chapter Thirty-Five
Arkady
My father’s keeping dozens of innocent girls captive.
Again.
The realization has been burning through my skull all night, keeping sleep at bay. I’ve been pacing the study since three in the morning, the crystal tumbler in my hand refilled twice already. The vodka doesn’t burn anymore—nothing does when rage runs this cold.
Dawn breaks through the windows, highlighting my bruised knuckles. The fist-shaped dent in the mahogany paneling is fresh—evidence of the moment I first processed what my father has done.
Again.
I thought Gavriil Laurov had learned his lesson when I put three of his men in the ground the day we ran Operation Blackout. The fucking old man promised he was done with trafficking.
Some promises are written in blood. His will be, after today.
By morning, as I watch the grounds of my estate come alive through the window, my thoughts harden into razor-sharp clarity.
I know exactly what needs to be done. This calls for precision.
For calculated violence. For another operation like Blackout—but refined.
Improved. We lost two men last time. This time, everyone on my team walks out alive.
Every girl in that warehouse will be free by dawn tomorrow.
I reach for my phone, scrolling past a dozen missed calls from business associates who suddenly don’t matter. I find the contact I need first.
“Stefan.” My voice is as rough as coarse salt.
“Boss?” He answers immediately despite the early hour. Probably been up all night too. I can only imagine what he and his wife must be going through.
“I need you here by 4 p.m.”
A heartbeat of silence. “Is it about Julia?” There’s a painful hope in his question. “Have you found something?”
“Da.” I don’t elaborate—can’t risk saying more over an unsecured line.
“Thank God.” He releases a shuddering breath. “I’ll be there, boss.”
The call ends, and I dial Yanis immediately. My brother answers on the second ring.
“Something’s wrong.” Not a question. Yanis knows me too well.
“Father.” I spit the word like poison. “Be at my house at 4 p.m. It’s important.”
The line goes silent. I can almost see Yanis sitting straighter, the playboy mask falling away. “What did the old man do now?” His voice has gone dangerously quiet.
“The same shit as six years ago. He’s back in the trafficking business. I need your help.”
“Blyad,” he mutters. Then, with renewed steel: “You can count on me, bratok.”
I make five more calls to my most trusted men. Each conversation follows the same pattern—brief explanation, immediate agreement. These are the men who followed me into Operation Blackout before. They’ve seen what trafficking does to its victims. They know what we’re up against.
Images from six years ago flash through my mind—the girls huddled in corners, eyes vacant, bodies bruised. The smell of fear and despair that clung to the walls. The memory still shakes me; I force myself to breathe, to focus.
For specialized surveillance, I dial another number—one reserved for operations that require absolute discretion.
“Alexei,” I say when the former CIA operative answers. “I need high-level surveillance on a warehouse. Today.”
“What’s the package?” His voice betrays nothing—no curiosity, no judgment. Just professional detachment.
“Two-hundred grand. Cash.” I pause. “Each.”
A slight intake of breath is his only reaction to the sum. “Location?”
I give him the address and specifics. “I need confirmation if girls are being held there. Numbers, security patterns, entry points. Everything.”
“You suspect trafficking?”
“I don’t suspect. I know.” My tone makes it clear there’s history here. “Can you and Andrei handle this personally?”
“Of course.” No hesitation. “We’ll be in position within the hour.”
“I need the intel by three.”
“You’ll have it.”
The call ends, and I toss the phone onto my desk. Satisfaction courses through me, cold and clarifying. The pieces are falling into place. My father’s operation will be dismantled, the girls freed.
But I won’t just dismantle it. I’ll blow his entire fucking network sky high.
The study suddenly feels too confining—the walls pressing in with memories of another time I stood here, planning to rescue women my father had treated as commodities. I need movement, action to burn off this restless energy. I head toward the library, where I’m likely to find Mirabel at this hour.
She’s there, feather duster in hand, working her way slowly along the bookshelves. There’s something off about her movements—she’s sluggish, distracted. When I enter, she startles, nearly dropping the duster, eyes widening when they meet mine.
“Sorry, I just—” She catches herself, voice trailing off.
I study her for a moment, noting the pallor beneath her skin, the slight heaviness to her movements that wasn’t there weeks ago.
We’ve barely spoken since our last night together, a night that drew emotions to the surface that I don’t know if I’m ready for.
The thought derails me for a dangerous second before I force it away.
I don’t have time for distractions—not now, not with what’s at stake.
“Mirabel,” I say too sharply. “I need you to stop what you’re doing. Now.”
She puts down the duster, turning to face me fully. “What’s happened?”
“I’m having important guests this afternoon.” I step closer, into her space. “Seven men. They arrive at 4 p.m. and might stay overnight.”
Her scent hits me—that clean, slightly sweet smell that lingers with me even when she’s not near. It momentarily scrambles my thoughts, reminding me of other moments in other rooms, her body under mine.
Focus, mudak.
“I need food for them,” I continue. “Home-cooked meals. Refreshments. Make sure all the guest bedrooms are ready. Clean sheets, fresh towels, everything pristine.”
Her expression shifts, a frown forming between her brows. “The cook is on leave.”
“Then you’ll have to do it.”
“All of it?” She doesn’t back down. “By myself?”
“Da.” I don’t leave room for argument. “I also need you to stock the bar. Full inventory. And prepare the conference room.”
“The conference room?” Her eyes search mine. “It hasn’t been used in months. It needs a deep clean.”
“Then you’d better start now.”
I turn to leave, but her voice stops me.
“Arkady.” The use of my first name rather than ‘sir’ pulls me back around. “This isn’t realistic.” She crosses her arms over her chest, stance widening slightly. “Even if I work the whole day, I can’t do all this alone. Food for seven men, seven rooms cleaned—”
“What the fuck has happened to you?” I cut her off, frustration bleeding through. “When you started this job, you moved like lightning. Now you drag around like you’re carrying weights.” I step closer, studying the changes in her face. “Are you sick?”
Color floods her cheeks. “I’m not sick.”
“Then what is it?” I press, suddenly needing to know, even though I have a thousand other priorities right now.
“I’m just—” She stops herself, then adds limply, “I’m tired, that’s all.”
Bullshit. There’s more she isn’t telling me. But my patience is running dangerously thin. The timing of this resistance couldn’t be worse—not with Operation Blackout 2.0 hanging in the balance, not with those girls waiting for rescue.
“I don’t have time for this.” My voice drops lower, each word precisely controlled. “I need the house ready by four. Make it happen.”
“I’m not just your housekeeper,” she says quietly, eyes not leaving mine. “Or did you forget that?”
The words stop me short. Every muscle in my body tenses. “What did you say?”
“I’m sorry.” Her face drains of color, but her chin remains up. “That was out of line.”
Something about her defiance, even as she apologizes, stirs both admiration and frustration. Any other employee who defied me this way would be fired on the spot. But Mirabel isn’t just any employee—hasn’t been for a while. Probably never has, if I’m honest with myself.
“Today,” I tell her, moving close enough that I can see the pulse fluttering at her throat, “that’s exactly what you are. And I need you to do your job without questions or complaints.”
Her throat works as she swallows. “Why today? What’s happening, Arkady?”
The fact that she can read me so easily is both infuriating and intoxicating. For a second, I consider telling her everything—about my father, about the warehouse, about the rescue operation. But knowledge is danger in my world. The less she knows, the safer she is.
“Nothing that concerns you.”
Hurt flashes across her features before she masks it. “Fine. I’ll take care of everything.”
The anger drains from me as quickly as it appeared, leaving behind a hollow ache. I’m not angry at her—I’m angry at my father, at the situation, at the danger these girls are in. Mirabel is just the closest target, and I’ve lashed out at her unfairly.
“Good.” I pull out my wallet and hand her a thick stack of bills. “For supplies. Don’t skimp on anything.”
She accepts the money, her fingers brushing against mine. For a moment, something electric passes between us. Heat rushes through my veins, inappropriate and inconvenient. I want to pull her against me, lose myself in her for a few precious moments before returning to the violence that awaits.
Instead, I step back, forcing myself to focus. There will be time for that later. Right now, I have a rescue operation to plan and innocent lives to save from my old man’s cruelty.
“I’ll make it work,” she says quietly, her eyes holding mine a beat too long.
She knows something is wrong. She always knows.
I give her a curt nod and stride out of the library. My phone vibrates in my pocket—Alexei, confirming surveillance is in place. Good. The operation is underway.
My father thinks he can restart his trafficking business right under my nose. He’s forgotten who taught me to hunt, to kill, to survive. He’s about to learn exactly how well I absorbed those lessons.
By this time tomorrow, those girls will be free, and Gavriil Laurov will understand once and for all—I am not my father’s son.
I am far, far worse.