Chapter Forty-Four
Arkady
The cellar is a fucking maze.
Much bigger than it has to be. I stand at the entrance, scanning the expanse of concrete corridors that branch off in three directions.
The beam from my flashlight cuts through the darkness, revealing smooth walls that extend far beyond the house’s foundation.
This isn’t improvised. This is deliberate. Intentional. Calculated.
How long?
The question carves through my thoughts.
How many years has he been building this?
The concrete walls absorb the light from our flashlights, making the air itself feel hostile.
Everything down here is designed to swallow evidence—sound, light, hope.
The stench of fear hangs in the air, coating the back of my throat with each breath.
It’s not just the smell of unwashed bodies or stale air.
It’s something deeper. Something that seeps into the walls when people realize no one is coming to save them.
I’ve smelled it before. In warehouses on the docks. In abandoned factories where my father conducted his “business meetings.” But never like this. Never this concentrated, this permanent.
I move forward, each step measured and precise, silent. Stefan and Yuri follow me, weapons ready. I can hear Stefan’s breathing, slightly heavier than usual. He’s thinking about Julia. About what we might find.
Or what we might not find.
The weight of my Makarov is comforting against my palm—a tool I know intimately. My thumb rests against the safety, muscle memory from a thousand drills. Unlike my father, who treats weapons like toys and people like commodities.
Before we descended, I checked the chamber methodically—once, twice, three times. An old ritual born from blood and guilt.
The ghost of another weapon, another time, hovers at the edges of my consciousness.
Mishka’s face—twelve years old, laughing at something stupid I’d said.
Then the sound. That terrible, final sound.
The way his expression shifted from confusion to nothing in the space between one breath and the next.
I push it away.
Not now, dolboyob.
The first room we check is empty except for a single foldable bed, the metal frame rusted at the joints.
A bucket in the corner. One metal plate on a shelf.
I shine my light across every surface, taking in details.
Scratches on the wall—five vertical lines grouped together, then a diagonal slash.
Counting days. Someone was here long enough to lose track of time.
Who were you?
I wonder.
Where are you now?
We move to the next room. Then the next.
Some are empty, others like prison cells with foldable beds.
Some rooms have twenty beds crammed together, the spaces between them barely wide enough for a person to turn around.
Others have fewer: ten, twelve. Buckets sit in corners to serve as toilets.
Metal plates are stacked on shelves, the kind you’d find in a military mess hall.
Efficient. Impersonal. Designed to strip away humanity one meal at a time.
“Looks like your old man isn’t playing small,” Stefan says, his voice tight with rage. “This isn’t for a small-scale gig. You could house a fucking village in here.”
I don’t respond. The muscles in my jaw are locked. There’s nothing to say. Every inch of this underground hell confirms what I already knew—Gavriil Laurov is a monster wearing human skin.
And his blood runs through my veins.
Does that make me one, too?
The question surfaces before I can stop it.
How much of him is in me?
How many degrees separate his choices from mine?
I count the beds in the next room. Eighteen.
Jesus Christ.
How many has he had in here?
Another corridor stretches ahead. More doors. More cells. I check each one methodically, my pulse pounding with every empty room.
Where is she?
Mirabel isn’t here. The thought circles in the back of my mind, threatening to shred my focus. My fingers tighten around the grip of my weapon. Each empty room feels like a countdown. Like we’re running out of chances.
What if he moved her?
What if we’re searching the wrong location entirely?
What if the old cunt outsmarted us?
What if this is just another diversion?
The fear tastes foreign. I’m not used to being afraid. Fear makes you sloppy. Makes you miss details. But the idea of Mirabel in one of these rooms, curled on one of these beds, counting days on these walls—
Pizdets!
And then we hear it. Voices from behind a door at the end of the hallway—soft, frightened whispers. The sound of fabric rustling. Someone crying, trying to muffle the sound.
I freeze. Stefan and Yuri do the same.
For a moment, I let myself hope.
Let her be in there.
Let one of those voices be hers.
I nod to Stefan and Yuri. They position themselves on either side of the door, weapons raised.
Stefan’s jaw is set, his smooth head gleaming with sweat despite the cool temperature down here.
Yuri’s medical training makes him methodical even now—he checks his sight lines, ensures he won’t hit anyone behind the door.
I kick the door open.
The metal crashes against the concrete wall with a sound that’s overwhelming in the silence. The voices cut off immediately, replaced by terrified gasps and shrieks.
Ten girls huddle in corners. Young. Terrified. Some cry silently, tears streaming down faces that look too old for their years. Others stare with vacant eyes that have seen too much, their expressions carefully blank. Survival mechanism. Don’t react. Don’t draw attention.
The sharp stench of fear and unwashed bodies hits me, and I have to force myself not to recoil. It’s worse in here, concentrated by closed doors and stagnant air. I sweep my flashlight across the room, taking in details even as I search each face.
Not her.
Not her.
Not her.
“Papa!” A voice breaks through the silence. “Oh my God, Papa!”
A girl with dark hair and tear-stained cheeks rushes forward, stumbling over her own feet, clothes torn and filthy.
Julia Kisinova—Stefan’s daughter. Her face is thinner than I remember, cheekbones too sharp, but her eyes are the same.
Just like her father’s. Behind her, I recognize Niki Tamasky, her best friend.
Blonde hair matted, blue eyes wide with something between hope and disbelief.
Stefan drops to his knees, his massive tattooed arms engulfing his daughter. The serpent on his neck flexes as his shoulders begin to shake. Julia clings to him, sobbing uncontrollably, her fingers digging into his jacket like she’s afraid he’ll disappear.
“You came,” she gasps between sobs. “You came, you came, you came—”
“Always,” Stefan chokes out. “Always, moya doch.”
Niki stands nearby, trembling so hard I can see it from here. One of the other girls—brunette, maybe sixteen—reaches out and takes her hand. Small comfort. The kind you learn to give when comfort is all you have left to trade.
Stefan looks up at me, tears cutting paths down his face. “Spasibo, bratan. Thank you,” he mouths silently.
I nod once, sharply.
This is why we’re here. This is why I turned against my father. This is not about glory or power or money.
But while I watch their reunion, rage boils inside me. Helpless, destructive rage that burns like acid.
Mirabel is not here.
I scan the faces again, desperate now. Fuck. Maybe I missed her. Maybe she’s hiding, too scared to recognize rescue. But no. I’d know her anywhere. The way she holds herself. The curve of her jaw. The proud set of her shoulders.
She’s not here, mudak.
She’s still somewhere in this stinking hell. Still in my father’s hands. The thought of what he might do to her—what he might already be doing—sends a murderous rage through me.
Is she in another room?
Another property?
Did he already—?
Pizdets!
I can’t think like that. Can’t let my mind go there.
“Get them out,” I order. Command voice. The one that makes men twice my age follow without hesitation. “All of them. The buses are waiting.”
Yuri hesitates, glancing at the door we came through. “What about the north wing? We haven’t—”
“I said move them,” I cut him off. My gaze locks with his, and he immediately lowers his eyes. Submission. Acknowledgment. “Now, Yuri.”
“Da, pakhan.” He nods quickly, turning to the girls with a softer expression. “Come on. You’re safe now. We’re getting you out.”
Some of the girls don’t move. Can’t move. They’ve been conditioned too long to trust promises of safety.
Stefan stands, Julia still pressed against his side. He addresses the room, his voice gentle despite his tears. “I’m Stefan. This is Arkady and Yuri. We’re taking you somewhere safe. Somewhere with food, beds, doctors. No one will hurt you. I swear on my daughter’s life.”
That gets through. Slowly, hesitantly, the girls begin to move.
We search the rest of the cellar. Room after room. Corridor after corridor. The maze extends further than I’d imagined. My father’s stinking underground empire. How many girls has he already moved through here? How many lives has he sold while I was too focused on my own businesses to notice?
You knew, a voice whispers in my head.
You knew what he was.
You just didn’t want to see how bad it had gotten.
We find twenty-eight girls total in the cellar. Twenty-eight lives my father planned to sell like cattle.
I make mental notes of every detail as we move through the space—the layout, the supplies, the evidence of systematic abuse. Everything can be used against him. Documentation for the FBI contacts Mikhail has been cultivating. Proof of what Gavriil Laurov really is.
The old piece of shit won’t walk away from this. Not this time.
The girls move like ghosts as we guide them through the maze and up into the night air. Some blink at the moonlight as if they’ve forgotten the sky exists. Others stare straight ahead, numb with shock. Survival mode. Just survive the next moment.
As we load the last girl onto a bus, Stefan approaches me. His composure has returned, but his eyes remain red-rimmed. Julia is on the first bus, wrapped in a blanket Yuri provided, Niki beside her. They’re holding hands like they’re afraid to let go.
“Everything is set,” he reports, falling back into professional mode. It’s easier, I think. Easier to focus on logistics than to process what we’ve just seen. “Security, medical staff, counsellors—all in place. The doctor is standing by.”
I nod. “Good. Make sure they understand they’re safe.”
“What about your father?”
I watch the buses pull away, their headlights cutting through the darkness. Twenty-eight saved, but not the one who matters most to me.
“Let him wonder what happened to his merchandise,” I say. The word tastes foul. Merchandise. That’s what he called them in the texts Mikhail intercepted. Not girls. Not people. Merchandise. “For now, let the staff go back to the house, and you focus on the girls.”
Stefan hesitates. His eyes search my face, reading what I’m trying to hide. “Arkady… we’ll find her.”
He knows me too well—knows the chaos churning beneath my controlled exterior.
“Da. We have to,” I say, checking my phone for the hundredth time.
There’s a message from Yanis.
“Hope you got your job done, brat. The old man just headed home. Should be back in his office shortly.”
“Yobany urod,” I mutter under my breath. My father will pay for what he’s done. I’ll dismantle his empire with my bare hands if I have to. Every property. Every connection. Every dirty secret he’s buried. I’ll drag it all into the light and watch it implode.
And if he’s hurt her—
Not even God can help him if he’s hurt her.
I glance at Stefan, who’s watching me. “Go ahead and take the girls back,” I tell him. “I’ll be right behind you.”
“You sure, boss?” He frowns.
I nod grimly. “Dead sure. There’s something I have to do.”