Chapter Three
Arkady
Debra.
The name sends a shock through my system. Mirabel’s twin sister. The girl who vanished and tore Mirabel’s world in two.
She’s been here. In this house. All this fucking time.
My finger rests against the trigger guard, muscle memory from a thousand hours at the range keeping me from doing something stupid. One shot would end Gavriil. But she’s too close to him, and I won’t put a round anywhere near Mirabel’s sister. Not after I already failed her once.
Through the gap in the door, I watch my father grab her face. His fingers dig into her cheeks hard enough to leave marks. “Fuck you, stupid woman. All you do is whine.”
She doesn’t meet his eyes. Probably learned that looking at him only makes it worse.
“You are here to serve all my needs, understand?”
“Please, Gavriil,” she sobs. Her knees buckle. She catches herself on the sofa’s edge, barely, and I can see the tremor in her hands, the way her spine curves inward like she’s trying to disappear into herself.
“Pizda!” Gavriil shoves her backward. “Fine, take the day off. But you better get your shit together by tomorrow.”
He storms out the door across the room without a glance. His footsteps echo down the marble hallway, growing fainter.
I step through the doorway, not sure how to approach her.
She’s curled on the sofa, her robe hanging open over bruised skin I wish to God I couldn’t see. Purple-black fingerprints circle her wrists. Older marks yellow across her thighs. Her hair—chopped rough and uneven, like someone took scissors to it without caring—falls forward as her shoulders shake.
“Are you Debra?”
She jerks like I’ve hit her, head snapping up. For one gut-wrenching second, I’m looking at Mirabel. Same bone structure. Same mouth. Same deep brown eyes. But where Mirabel burns bright, this woman has been hollowed out and left to rot.
“Who are you?” The words crack halfway through. “Did Gavriil send you?”
“No.” I keep my hands visible, non-threatening. “My name is Arkady. I’m his son.”
Her eyes go wide. “He has a son?”
“Two of us. Yanis and I.”
And Mishka, but he’s been dead thirteen years, and that’s on me.
I take another step into the room. She scrambles backward on the sofa, clutching the robe closed.
“Please don’t hurt me.”
Christ. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m getting you out.”
She stares at me like I’m speaking a language she doesn’t understand. “Out?”
“Out of this house. Away from him.”
“No.” She shakes her head, frantic. “No, he’ll kill us both. You don’t understand, he—”
“Did he hurt you?” I’m not even sure why I ask the question when I already know the answer. I can see it written across every inch of bruised, exposed skin.
The question breaks something in her. “I think he’s going to kill me soon,” she whispers. “When he can’t… When I’m used up.”
The rage that rises in me is old and familiar, the same fury that’s been building since I was fifteen years old and realized exactly what kind of man my father is. I push it down, lock it away. She doesn’t need to see me lose control.
Keep it together, Arkady.
You’re nothing like your old man.
“That’s not going to happen. You’re coming with me. Now.”
“I can’t—”
“You can.” I pull out my phone, dial Stefan. He picks up on the first ring. “Didn’t find Mirabel, but I found her twin. We need extraction.”
“On my way, boss.”
I hang up and look back at Debra. She hasn’t moved. “Do you have anything you need to take with you?”
She blinks at me. Then something shifts in her face. Not hope, not yet, but maybe the faintest shadow of it. She pushes herself off the sofa and disappears through a side door.
I wait, counting the seconds, my hand resting on the gun at my hip. She reappears less than a minute later, clutching a small backpack. The kind a teenager carries to school. Christ. Six years, and this is all she has.
“He has security,” she says, voice shaking. “They’re armed. They won’t just let us—”
“I know. Stay behind me.”
We move into the corridor. I keep my body angled to shield her, scanning for threats.
The first guard appears at the T-junction ahead, hand already moving for his radio.
I don’t give him time to use it. Close the distance in three strides, drive my fist into his solar plexus before he can draw breath to shout.
He doubles over, and my knee comes up, connecting with his face.
Cartilage crunches. Blood sprays hot across my knuckles. He goes down hard.
Behind me, Debra makes a small, choked sound.
“Keep moving,” I tell her.
Two more guards come around the corner. They see me, see their colleague bleeding on the marble, and go for their weapons anyway. Blyad’. I taught half these idiots myself. They should know better.
I go low, sweep the first one’s leg. His knee pops—ligaments tearing—and he screams. I silence him with an elbow to the temple.
The second one clears his holster, but I’m already inside his reach, trapping his wrist, hyperextending until bone grinds.
The gun hits the floor. My free hand finds his throat, thumb crushing his windpipe until his eyes roll back.
I let him drop and keep walking. Debra follows, silent except for her ragged breathing.
The grand foyer. Four guards this time, weapons already drawn, formation tight. Professional. My father pays well for competence.
The lead guard—Dmitri, I trained him myself two years ago—meets my eyes. “Stand down, Arkady.”
“Or what? You’ll shoot me?” I keep walking. “You know how that ends, Dmitri.”
“Orders are orders.”
“Then you’ll bleed for them.”
I move before the words finish leaving my mouth. Close the gap, deflect his barrel upward as he fires. The shot punches into the ceiling, raining plaster down on us. I strip the weapon from his grip and use it to hammer the base of his skull. He drops.
The others charge. I fight the way I learned on the streets—dirty, efficient, brutal.
Target the joints. Break what bends. A jaw shatters under my fist. An elbow hyperextends with a wet sound that makes my stomach turn, even as I’m already pivoting to the next target.
Someone’s leg bends wrong, and he goes down screaming.
The last guard staggers back, clutching his ribs, wheezing. “Gavriil’s going to kill you.”
“Tell him to get in line.”
I grab Debra’s hand—she flinches but doesn’t pull away—and haul her toward the exit. Stefan’s van sits idling at the end of the drive, side door already open. He leans out, takes in the damage with one glance, says nothing.
“Get in,” I tell Debra.
She hesitates, frozen in the doorway.
“Now.”
She climbs in. I follow, and Stefan hits the gas before I’ve even closed the door. The gates are already closing ahead of us. Stefan doesn’t slow. The van hits them at forty, metal shrieking as we tear through. The impact throws me against the door frame. Debra cries out.
Then we’re clear, tires screaming as Stefan takes the corner onto the main road at speed.
I look back once. My father’s house disappears behind the trees, smoke from the ruined gate rising into the night.
Debra sits rigid in the back seat, arms wrapped around herself, staring at nothing. Tears track silently down her face—Mirabel’s face, but wrong, all wrong.
“Where to, boss?” Stefan’s eyes find mine in the rearview mirror.
“Home.” I run a hand through my hair, feeling the tackiness of someone else’s blood on my knuckles. “And call Yanis. Tell him to meet us there.”
Stefan nods and pulls out his phone.
I look at Debra. She hasn’t moved, hasn’t blinked. Just sits there crying silent tears, and I have no idea what the hell to say to her. You’re safe now feels like a lie. Everything will be okay is even worse.
So I say nothing. Just sit there in the dark, listening to the hum of tires on asphalt, and wonder how the hell I’m going to explain this to Mirabel.