Chapter Forty-Three
Arkady
Eight pm.
The hospital sits across town—answers waiting, a child I didn’t know existed until hours ago. Rosanna’s child. Maybe mine. Blyad. Everything about this situation is wrong, twisted in ways I can’t untangle right now.
And that’s the problem.
Right now doesn’t belong to me.
The rescue operation can’t wait. Mirabel might be in my father’s cellar. Stefan’s daughter definitely is. Other girls, too—how many, we won’t know until we’re inside. My men are good, but they need me for this. They need someone who understands how my father thinks, where he hides his worst sins.
The baby will have to wait. The hospital, the paternity test, the questions piling up—all of it gets pushed back. Lives are crumbling right now, this minute. A dead woman’s child, whoever the father is, can survive a few more hours without me.
But Mirabel…
Something in my gut twists when I think of her. The knowledge that she might be at my father’s house burns like gunpowder in my blood. Not a conscious thought until now, but it’s been driving me from the moment we suspected he’d taken her. My father having his hands on what’s mine—unacceptable.
I down the rest of my vodka, the burn doing nothing to settle the war raging in my head. The glass hits my desk harder than intended.
Focus, dolboyob.
I need to compartmentalize. Lock away the hospital, the infant with Rosanna’s features, the possibility that I’m a father. Lock it all in a box and deal with the immediate crisis.
Mirabel first.
The girls.
Then I’ll face whatever the hell is waiting for me in that hospital room.
I head to my office, fighting to keep a sense of calm.
The walk feels longer than usual, each step weighted with too many futures branching off in directions I can’t predict.
The hallway smells faintly of leather and old wood—familiar, grounding.
I focus on that instead of the chaos threatening to split me open.
Yanis and Stefan are already there waiting, both men radiating tension in different ways—Yanis with his calculated stillness, Stefan with barely contained fury. The blueprints of my father’s estate wait on my desk, corners weighed down with small silver paperweights.
Stefan looks up when I enter, and I see it immediately—the desperation he’s trying to mask with professional detachment. His jaw is set so hard I can see the muscle ticking beneath the skin.
I spread the papers wider, flattening them against the polished surface. “Let’s go over it again.”
“Here, here, and here,” Stefan points to the cellar entry points. His finger jabs at the paper with enough force to nearly tear it. “Three access points. Guards typically positioned at two.”
I examine the layout, though I hardly need to. I’ve studied these maps until I know every inch of that house.
“The third entrance,” I say, tapping the eastern point. “It leads directly to the original wine cellar. It connects to the newer structure underground. That’s our primary entry.”
Yanis nods, his eyes tracking the route I’m indicating. “Less exposure. Faster access.”
“Three buses will transport the girls to my apartment complex in South New York,” I say, visualizing the route in my mind. “Medical teams are on standby. Trauma counselors ready.”
The complex sits empty—I bought it six months ago as an investment, never imagining it would serve this purpose.
Now its vacancy is perfect: discrete, secure, controllable.
I’ve already had Mikhail run background checks on every medical professional who’ll be there tonight.
No leaks. No one who might owe my father favors.
“What about the staff?” Yanis asks, his accent thickening as it always does before violence becomes a necessity.
I trace a line along the back of the building on the map.
“Once the alarms go off and the evacuation starts, we go through the back entrance of the building. There should be no staff at that section of the building anyway. Guards change at midnight. I know them personally.” I consider the men in question.
“Popov can be bought. Petrov is more difficult—he needs to be eliminated if necessary.”
My tone remains clinical when discussing Petrov’s potential death. In our world, sentiment is a luxury, and Petrov made his choice years ago when he first took my father’s money. Probably knew exactly what he was protecting in that cellar. Some sins don’t deserve forgiveness.
“How much for Popov?” Yanis asks.
“Fifty thousand. Cash. He’s got gambling debts.” I’ve done my research. Popov’s weakness isn’t loyalty—it’s greed and desperation. Easy enough to exploit. “I’ll have the money ready. He takes it, walks away, and forgets he ever worked there.”
“And if he doesn’t take it?”
“Then he dies with Petrov.” Simple as that. No room for loose ends tonight.
“Mikhail will switch off all cameras remotely,” I add, checking my watch. Time ticking down, each second bringing us closer to execution. “We’ll have a twenty-minute window. After that, the system reboots automatically. We need to be in and moving by then.”
“Twenty minutes,” Stefan repeats, his voice flat. “To find them, extract them, and get clear.”
“It’s enough.” It has to be. I meet his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the doubt I see there. “Mirabel is likely in that cellar by now.”
Father has her.
The thought keeps circling back, digging claws into my concentration. What he’s done to the others, he could be doing to her right now.
“And my girl? Julia?” Stefan’s voice cracks when he mentions his daughter. The sound is so unexpected from the hardened enforcer that both Yanis and I look up sharply.
“We’ll get her,” I tell him for the thousandth time. “I swear it, Stefan.”
“I taught her self-defence,” he says, pulling out a small photo from inside his jacket. His massive, tattooed hand trembles slightly as he stares at his daughter’s image. The photo is creased, worn from being handled too many times. “Krav Maga. Boxing. But against your father’s men…”
His voice trails off. We all know what he’s thinking. What good is training against a man like Gavriil Laurov? Against his network, his resources, his complete absence of conscience?
I’ve never seen this side of Stefan—the shredded, tattooed guy now fighting tears at his daughter’s photo.
The vulnerability transforms his face into something almost unrecognizable.
For a moment, he’s not the ruthless enforcer who’s broken men’s bones without hesitation.
He’s just a father facing his worst nightmare.
“Relax, bratan,” I say. He’s as much a brother to me as Yanis is. I grip his shoulder, feeling the coiled tension beneath his suit. “We will find all the girls safely.”
I’d like to think it’s true, but deep down I’m doubting myself. My father is one evil bastard. I know exactly what men like him do to women. I’ve seen the aftermath before—broken bodies, shattered minds. The kind of damage that never fully heals.
Don’t think like that, mudak.
Not with Mirabel.
I can’t let myself imagine her in one of those cells. Can’t picture what she might have endured already.
Stefan pockets the photo, dragging both hands over his face. When he lowers them, the professional mask is back in place, but I can see the cracks. “How many men do we have on the ground?”
“Fifteen. Plus us.” I point to the positions marked on the blueprint. “Mikhail’s already inside the security network. He’s been monitoring their patterns. We know their rotations, their blind spots, their response times.”
“Your father’s personal guards?” Yanis asks.
“Four, usually. But tonight…” I pause, calculating. “With you there, he’ll probably keep two with him. That leaves two unaccounted for. Likely patrolling the main house.”
“I can handle two,” Stefan says, murder in his eyes.
I don’t doubt it. Stefan’s killed men for less than what they’ve done to his daughter.
The final preparations move quickly. Team assignments laid out. Weapons distributed—nothing that can be traced back to my legitimate operations. Clean pieces, ammunition that can’t be tracked. Communication protocols established, earpieces checked and double-checked.
“Radio silence until we’re inside,” I remind them. “Hand signals only. Mikhail will monitor from the van, but once we’re underground, we’re on our own. The cellar walls are concrete and steel—no signal penetration.”
Stefan nods, though I can still see him plotting some kind of revenge.
“Yanis will keep Father occupied while we breach,” I remind them, though they all know the plan by heart. My brother has always been the better actor of the two of us—the one who can smile while planning your execution.
“Don’t worry,” Yanis says, smoothing his jacket. “I’ve got a real estate venture to discuss with him. Prime commercial property in the Diamond District. He’s been eyeing that area for months. He’ll be distracted.”
There’s an edge to his voice that others might miss, but I catch it. This is personal for him too—different reasons, same rage. Yanis has his own scores to settle with our father. His own reasons for wanting to see the old man burn.
“What happens after?” Stefan asks quietly. “After we extract the girls. What happens to him?”
The question hangs in the air. We all know what he’s really asking.
What happens to Gavriil Laurov?
“That depends,” I say carefully, “on what we find down there.”
If Mirabel’s hurt—if any of them are worse than we expect—I’ll put a bullet in my father’s head myself. Or break his fucking neck. Consequences be damned.
But I don’t say that out loud. Some intentions are better kept silent until the moment demands them.
“Everything’s ready,” I say finally, strapping my custom Makarov into its shoulder holster. The weight of it is reassuring against my ribs. “We move.”
We file out of the office in silence, each man alone with his thoughts. The building feels emptier than usual at this hour—most of my legitimate staff have gone home. Only the security team remains, and they know better than to ask questions.
The armory is two floors down, tucked behind a false wall. Mikhail’s already there, surrounded by monitors and equipment that would make most tech companies jealous. He looks up when we enter, his face pale in the monitor glow.
“Everything’s set,” he says, stroking his keyboard in that way tech geeks do. “I’ve mapped their security grid. The cameras will loop on my command—twenty minutes of recorded footage playing on repeat. They won’t know we’re there until we want them to.”
“Good.” I move to the weapons rack, selecting a suppressed SIG for backup. “You stay in the van. If anything goes wrong—”
“I pull you out,” Mikhail finishes. “I know the drill, Arkady.”
But this isn’t a drill. This is my father’s estate, his fortress. The place where he’s committed atrocities for years, all while maintaining his respectable facade.
Tonight, we tear that facade down.
The drive to my father’s estate takes forty minutes through back roads, our convoy keeping precise intervals to avoid attention. Three vehicles, each carrying pieces of what we need to pull this off.
I ride with Stefan and Yuri, watching the landscape shift from urban sprawl to the manicured wilderness my father prefers. Trees thicken. Street lights disappear. By the time we reach the perimeter, it’s full dark.
The silence in the vehicle is absolute. Stefan stares out the window, jaw working. Yuri checks and rechecks his medical kit—bandages, syringes, emergency supplies for whatever we might need. I watch the trees pass, counting down the minutes.
Mirabel.
Her name echoes in my head, pushing me forward.
When we finally park, a quarter mile from the main gate, the temperature has dropped. The air cuts through my jacket, sharp and clean. The scent of pine and earth is overwhelming out here, away from the city’s permanent haze of exhaust and industry.
We move on foot, spreading out according to plan. My father’s estate sprawls across twenty acres—walls, gates, security patrols. But I know this place. Committed those blueprints to memory.
“Teams in position,” Stefan says when we get into the strategic position at my father’s house. We crouch in the shadows of the perimeter wall, the stone cold against my back.
I can hear guards talking in the distance—low voices, casual. They don’t expect trouble. Why would they? This is Gavriil Laurov’s fortress. Untouchable.
Stefan checks his phone. “Yanis just messaged me. He’s with your father. Says he should be able to keep him away from the house for at least an hour.”
I nod, a flicker of satisfaction warming my chest. At least one thing is going according to plan. My brother has always excelled at deception—a skill cultivated by our father.
Tonight, that skill saves lives. But not my father’s. There’s sweet irony in that.
I signal to Mikhail to switch off the cameras. My phone vibrates almost immediately with his confirmation: “Done.”
For twenty minutes, we’ll be ghosts, invisible to the security systems my father trusts so completely. His arrogance has always been his weakness—believing himself untouchable, even from his own sons.
Especially from his own sons.
The old cunt underestimated us. All those years of brutal lessons, of teaching us to be ruthless, and he never considered we might turn that ruthlessness against him.
I look at Stefan and Yuri, taking in their tense postures, the determination etched into their features. These men have followed me into firefights and business negotiations equally bloody. But this… this one is different.
Tonight, they follow me into my father’s hell.
“Move,” I say softly, drawing my weapon.
The moment stretches. There’s no going back after this—not for any of us. My father’s retribution will be swift and merciless if we fail. But the thought of Mirabel possibly inside, of Stefan’s daughter and the others suffering in those cells—it makes any risk worthwhile.
We move toward the house—my father’s fortress, and now, my target.
The wall is twelve feet high, but there’s an old oak near the eastern corner that makes it climbable.
I go up first, muscles burning as I haul myself over. The grounds spread out below—manicured lawns, ornamental gardens, the main house lit up like a museum. Beautiful. Pristine.
Hiding rot underneath.
Stefan and Yuri follow, dropping silently to the grass beside me. We move in formation, keeping to the shadows, weapons ready. Every sound feels amplified—the crunch of leaves underfoot, my own controlled breathing.
Mirabel’s in there.
The thought drives me forward.
Hold on, zaychik.
I’m coming.