Chapter Ten
Arkady
The hospital discharge papers crinkle in my jacket pocket as I push through the automatic doors.
Cold air stings my face—sharp enough to make my eyes water. I blink it away and adjust my grip on the baby carrier.
Aleks. Three kilograms of someone else’s problem that’s now mine.
The plastic handle bites into my palm. Good.
I need the reminder that this is real, that I just signed papers claiming a dead woman’s infant, that there’s a nanny trailing three steps behind me with luggage and a diaper bag like we’re leaving on vacation instead of smuggling a baby into my house like contraband.
Stefan’s SUV sits at the curb, engine running. He’s out of the driver’s seat before I reach it, opening the rear door without a word. His tattooed skull catches weak sunlight, and I watch him clock the carrier, the nanny, the situation, then file it away without comment.
I clip the carrier into the base—check it once, twice, three times. The clicks sound solid, but I tug anyway, making sure it’s locked. Can’t be too careful. One wrong move and—
Blyad.
I kill that thought. Shove it down where it can’t touch me.
Fanny slides in beside the carrier. She’s young, maybe twenty-six, with that professional polish that comes from working for rich families who treat their children like accessories.
Her hands move over the blanket, tucking it tighter around Aleks’s legs, and she does it without hesitation, without needing to be told.
I hired her through an agency that specializes in discretion.
Background check came back so clean it was almost suspicious—no debt, no criminal record, no messy ex-boyfriends or addiction history.
Just a girl who takes care of other people’s kids for money and doesn’t ask questions when the offer is generous enough.
The sum I’m paying her is astronomical. One year. Full-time. Live-in.
She took it without blinking.
I take the front passenger seat. Stefan merges into traffic, smooth enough that Aleks doesn’t stir.
The city slides past my window—gray buildings, grayer sky, people hunched against the cold. I watch them without really seeing them, my mind already at Ashwater Heights, already calculating what needs to happen next.
“The nursery’s finished?” I ask.
“Yanis handled it this morning.” Stefan’s eyes stay on the road. “East wing. Next to the guest suite.”
Next to the Secret Room. He doesn’t say it, but we both know.
“Good.”
Silence fills the car. Just the engine’s hum and occasional traffic noise filtering through the windows. I let it sit. Don’t need to fill every quiet space with talking.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out—text from Yanis.
Debra’s awake. Ate breakfast. Dr. Harrison just left.
I type back: Home in 20. Don’t speak to Mirabel.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Then: Your funeral.
I pocket the phone.
“Fanny.” I don’t turn around. “You read the contract?”
“Yes, Mr. Laurov.” Her voice is soft, northern accent smoothing the edges. “Twelve-month term. Live-in care for Aleks. Confidentiality regarding his presence in the household.”
“Say it back to me. The confidentiality clause.”
A pause. Then: “I agree not to disclose any information about the child, his parentage, his presence in your home, or any details of my employment to any third parties. Violation results in immediate termination and legal action.”
“And the movement restriction?”
“I’m confined to the east wing unless explicitly instructed otherwise. I won’t engage with other household staff or guests. If I encounter anyone, I’m to excuse myself immediately.”
“Good.” I watch the city thin out through the window.
Trees start appearing between buildings.
“No one knows Aleks exists. Not the cleaning staff. Not the cook. Not the woman who lives in the main house.” I let that land.
“You keep him content and quiet. You keep him out of sight. If someone hears crying, you handle it before it becomes a problem.”
“Understood.”
“You’ll have everything you need. Make a list—formula, diapers, whatever. Stefan handles procurement. You don’t leave the property.”
“Yes, Mr. Laurov.”
I catch her reflection in the side mirror. She’s looking down at Aleks, one hand resting on the carrier’s edge. Her expression is neutral, professional. No maternal warmth. No sentimental attachment.
Perfect.
The gates to Ashwater Heights appear ahead. They swing open as we approach.
Stefan takes the drive at exactly twenty kilometers per hour. No faster. The gravel crunches under the tires in a rhythm I’ve heard a thousand times. The house rises ahead.
Mirabel’s inside somewhere. Probably stress-cleaning because I won’t let her leave the property.
Stefan parks at the east entrance—the service door that bypasses the main house.
“Bring everything up,” I tell him. “I’ll take the baby.”
I unhook the carrier and head inside before Fanny can object. The house wraps around me—warm air, lemon polish, the smell of whatever Mirabel baked this morning to burn off anxiety. The hallway stretches ahead, and I take the back stairs, boots silent on carpet.
The nursery door is closed. I nudge it open with my boot.
Yanis did good work. Crib in the corner, changing table stocked, a rocking chair by the window. Neutral colors. Nothing cute. Just functional space for keeping an infant alive.
A baby monitor blinks red on the dresser.
I set the carrier on the floor. Aleks shifts, face scrunching, but doesn’t wake.
Footsteps behind me—Fanny with the luggage. She enters and scans the room efficiently.
“This works,” she says.
“Unpack. Get him settled.” I pull out my phone, open a new note, and hand it to her. “Make a list of everything you need. Stefan will get it.”
She takes the phone. Her thumbs move over the screen—formula, bottles, wipes, diaper cream. The list grows. I watch her type, watch the way she’s already taking inventory, planning, organizing.
Good. I need organized. I need someone who can handle this without me holding their hand.
“When you’re done, text Stefan directly. His number’s already in there.” I head for the door. “And Fanny?”
She looks up.
“No one comes in this room. No one sees him. Not anyone I haven’t authorized.”
“Understood, Mr. Laurov.”
I leave her to it and walk three doors down to the Secret Room. The key is already in my hand—habit, muscle memory. I unlock it, step inside, close the door behind me.
Debra is sitting up on the bed. That’s new. Two days ago, she couldn’t hold her own weight, couldn’t speak without her eyes going somewhere else, somewhere I couldn’t follow.
Now she’s dressed in clean clothes—gray sweatpants, cream sweater that’s too big for her. Her hair is clean, pulled back. There’s color in her cheeks.
“Arkady.” She says my name carefully, like she’s testing its weight. That’s new too.
“Debra.” I stay near the door. Don’t crowd her. Dr. Harrison was explicit about that—always let her see the exit, never block escape routes, treat every interaction like she might break. “How are you feeling?”
She takes her time answering. Her hands twist in her lap, then stop. Deliberate.
“Better,” she says finally. “Dr. Harrison gave me more medication. For when I can’t breathe.”
Panic attacks. He said they’d be violent enough that they’d look like cardiac arrest. Having witnessed a couple already, I don’t doubt him.
“Good.” I move to the chair by the window—slow, visible, hands loose. “I need to ask you about something. About what happened before. Can you do that?”
Her hands twist again. She presses them flat against her thighs.
“Okay.”
I lean forward. Elbows on knees. “Tell me about what happened. When you were taken.”
She closes her eyes. When they open, they’re looking past me at something I can’t see.
“Mirabel and I had a fight.” Her voice goes flat, detached. “Something stupid. A sisters’ fight. I don’t even remember what it was about. I just needed to be away from her, so I went into the forest to cool off.”
The forest. Where Operation Blackout happened. Where we intercepted Gavriil’s convoy.
“I got lost.” She’s talking faster now. “I kept walking, trying to find my way back, but I went deeper instead. Then I saw them.”
“Who?”
“Men. A bald man with tattoos on his head.” Stefan.
“And someone else I couldn’t see clearly.
And girls—young girls, crying.” She swallows.
“I hid. I was frightened. I didn’t want them to see me.
Then Gavriil’s men caught me. I remember them saying…
” She stops. Forces herself to continue.
“They said, ‘She’s exactly the type Gavriil loves.’”
The way she says my father’s name—like she’s spitting poison.
“What happened then?”
“He liked me. Kept me in his house against my will. I was his…” She can’t finish the sentence.
“For six years. I lived in luxury, but I was isolated from the world. He watched every step. Used me whenever he wanted. However he wanted. Sometimes he took me on holidays and showed me off, but what nobody saw was how twisted he is behind closed doors.”
Her voice cracks. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.
“I never mentioned Mirabel. I made up a completely different background—told him my parents died when I was young, and I had no siblings. He kept me completely isolated. No phone. No internet. Nothing that connected to the outside world. Even when we traveled, I was never left alone. His men were always watching.”
She’s crying now. Silent tears tracking down her cheeks.
I should say something. Offer comfort. But the rage building in my chest is too loud, too consuming. It drowns out everything else.
My father. My blood. The man who taught me to shoot, to strategize, to lead.
He did this.
Kept a woman prisoner for years. Destroyed her. Used her. Treated her like property.
And all these years, he’s treated me like filth because of what happened with Mishka. When he was guilty of things that no normal man should ever do to another human.
Vyrodok!
Fucking degenerate.
I’m on my feet. Debra’s hands fly up—automatic defense—and I stop. Lock down every muscle.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” I keep my voice level even though there’s violence screaming under my skin. “You’re safe here. I promise.”
I leave before she can respond. Before I can’t hold it together anymore.
The hallway is empty. I walk toward my office, measuring each step, counting each breath.
I pass Mishka’s portrait in the main hall. Don’t look at it.
My office door is closed. I open it. Step inside. Close it behind me.
Lock it.
The crystal tumbler is sitting on my desk where I left it last night. I pick it up. Feel the weight of it. The solid heft.
Then I throw it at the wall as hard as I can.
It shatters. Glass rains down onto the carpet.
My sick cunt of a father has a lot to fucking answer for.