Chapter Seventeen
Arkady
I was an asshole with Mirabel last night.
The coffee in my hand has gone cold. I don’t remember making it.
Don’t remember when I came into my office or how long I’ve been standing here watching the security feeds cycle through their endless loops.
Six monitors arranged in a grid—kitchen, hallways, gates, perimeter.
Mirabel appears on screen three, scrubbing at the same pot for the fifth time.
The motion is aggressive. Therapeutic. Like she’s trying to scour away the memory of whatever I said to her in the dark.
She knows I’m hiding something. Mirabel’s smart—too smart to buy the bullshit I’ve been selling.
But I can’t tell her the truth. I almost did the other day, but in hindsight, I am glad Stefan interrupted.
How the fuck am I supposed to explain to her that her twin sister is sleeping above us, or that a dead woman’s infant sleeps in a nursery I never wanted, or that my father just declared war and now threatens everything I’ve built here.
Blyad!
Too many secrets. They pile up like corpses in a freezer, and eventually someone’s going to open the door.
My phone vibrates against the desk. I pick it up. Study the digits. Every instinct screams not to answer, but Gavriil Laurov doesn’t call unless he’s already holding a knife to your throat.
I swipe to accept and press the phone to my ear. “Da.”
“I know you took my girls, Arkady.”
His voice pours through the speaker like poisoned honey—smooth, cultured, absolutely devoid of mercy. My father doesn’t raise his voice when he’s angry. He gets quieter. More precise. The kind of quiet that precedes executions.
“And Debra,” he continues. “I’m going to give you one last chance to undo this. You have one week, Arkady, to return Debra and the rest of them.”
My free hand goes to the edge of the desk, and I lock my fingers down, channeling the rage somewhere it can’t escape through my voice. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s information, Arkady.” A pause. I can picture him in his study, rolling cognac in a crystal tumbler, completely at ease while he destroys lives. “If Debra and the rest of my stock are not in my house within one week, I will rain hell on you. Your call. I warned you.”
The line goes dead.
Stock. That’s what they are to him.
Pizda!
I stand there with the phone still pressed to my ear, listening to nothing.
Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours until Gavriil mobilizes his entire network and turns it against Ashwater Heights. Against Mirabel. Against everything.
I dial Stefan. The call connects before the first ring finishes.
“Double security,” I say without preamble. “No one enters or leaves without my direct approval. And I want Mirabel and Debra under constant surveillance. Especially Mirabel—she still has access to the outside world. Every movement, every phone call, every text message. All of it.”
Static crackles on the line. When Stefan speaks, his voice is careful. Measured. “I get it, but she’s not going to like it.”
“I don’t care.”
“Mirabel won’t—”
“She doesn’t need to know.” I spin away from the monitors and move to the window.
Outside, winter sunlight cuts across the grounds in hard geometric slices.
No warmth in it. “Install additional cameras in the areas she frequents. The garden, her bedroom. And monitor her internet activity, everything that goes in or out of this house digitally.”
A long beat of silence. Stefan’s breathing fills my ear, and I know what he’s thinking: this is how it starts. The slow descent into the same paranoid control that defines Gavriil’s empire.
“You’re sure about this?” he asks finally.
“Do it, Stefan.”
I end the call and let the phone drop onto the windowsill.
My hands are shaking. Not from fear—from the adrenaline that comes with crossing a line I swore I’d never touch.
Mirabel will hate me when she finds out.
She’ll look at me the way she looked at those security feeds the day she realized I keep files on everyone who works in this house.
But she’ll be alive.
That’s what matters. She’ll be alive to hate me, and Debra won’t go back to that cellar, and when my father comes, I’ll put him in the ground next to Sergei and finally be done with this fucking bloodline.
My phone buzzes against the window. Text from Yanis: I’m here. Where are you?
Chert. I forgot we were meeting.
I find him in the main hallway, pacing the length of the marble runner.
He’s traded his usual suit for dark jeans and a gray sweater that makes him look younger—less like Gavriil’s eldest son and more like the brother who used to sneak me extra dessert when Father put me to bed without dinner.
But there’s nothing soft about his posture now.
His shoulders are rigid, spine locked, hands curled into loose fists at his sides.
“We need to talk,” I say.
He stops mid-stride and turns. “About Father?”
“Da. He called.”
Something shifts behind Yanis’s eyes—not surprise, but resignation. He’s been waiting for this hammer to drop since the night we raided the cellar. “And?”
“He gave me one week to return Debra and the girls.” I close the distance between us. “He’s mobilizing, Yanis. This isn’t posturing.”
“Fuck.” Yanis drags both hands through his hair. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. He didn’t wait for a response.”
“Of course he didn’t.” Yanis’s laugh is bitter. Hollow. “What’s the plan?”
“Fortress protocol. Double security. Lockdown until we figure out our next move.” I watch his face, reading the micro-expressions that most people miss. “That includes Debra.”
The temperature in the hallway drops ten degrees.
“What about Debra?” Each word comes out clipped. Precise.
“She stays in the east wing and doesn’t go out. No access to anyone except the doctor.”
Yanis takes a step toward me. Then another. “She needs fresh air, Arkady. Sunlight. She’s been locked in this house for—”
“She’s recovering from the trauma.” I keep my voice level. Controlled. “Dr. Harrison was very clear about maintaining a controlled environment during the stabilization phase.”
“Dr. Harrison said controlled, not imprisoned.” His jaw works. “You’re keeping her from the world. From her own sister.”
“For her protection.”
“Jesus, Arkady. Are you even hearing yourself? Why the fuck are you doing this?”
“This isn’t about me,” I snap.
“Isn’t it?” Yanis doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t even blink. “You’re becoming just like him, Arkady.”
My blood boils. “What did you just say?”
“You heard me.” He’s standing his ground. “Since Mishka died, all you two do is fight. But you’re more alike than you want to admit. The same pigheadedness. The same need for control.”
“Are you fucking kidding me, Yanis?” My voice rises, echoing off marble and glass. “Father’s a human trafficker, for fuck’s sake! He kept Debra as a sex slave.”
“I’m not talking about trafficking.” Yanis cuts me off, his voice climbing to match mine.
“I’m talking about his controlling personality.
The way he decides what’s best for everyone without asking their opinion.
The way he keeps people isolated and dependent.
Tell me, Arkady… how is locking Debra away from her own twin sister any different? ”
Ublyudok!
I want to hit him. Want to slam him against the wall and make him take it back, make him see that I’m nothing like Gavriil, that everything I do is to protect the people I—
But I can’t. Because he’s right.
I step back instead. Put space between us before I do something I’ll regret.
“That’s not fair,” I say, but the words lack conviction.
“Isn’t it?” Yanis moves to block my retreat.
“You rescued Debra—good. But now you’re keeping her hidden from her sister.
Why? Who decides if two sisters can meet?
You? You’re making choices for everyone around you, just like Father does.
You’re just better at justifying it. I don’t know what the fuck you have to prove. ”
“What I have to prove? Father blames me for Mishka’s death.” The confession rips out of me before I can stop it. “And Mother’s death, too. That’s not fair. You were there, Yanis. You know it was an accident. I carry that guilt every fucking day.”
My brother’s expression twists. Pain bleeds through the anger, old grief resurfacing like a body that won’t stay buried.
“I never blamed you for Mishka,” he says, quieter now.
“But Father did. He still does.” I force myself to hold his gaze, to not look away from the truth that’s lived between us for thirteen years.
“Father told Sergei Tulikov about me killing Mishka. Handed him the ammunition like a loaded gun. And of course Sergei used it against me the first second he could.”
Yanis goes completely still. When he speaks again, his voice is low. “You didn’t kill Sergei, did you?”
I say nothing.
Outside, a bird calls. The heating system clicks on somewhere deep in the house’s guts. Normal sounds in an abnormal moment.
“Blyad.” Yanis stares at me like I’m a stranger. “Arkady—”
“Use this against me if that’s what you wish.” I shrug, aiming for indifference and landing somewhere closer to exhaustion. “Won’t change what happened. Won’t change what I had to do.”
“That’s not what I wish.” The fight drains out of him. I watch it happen in real time—shoulders dropping, hands uncurling, that terrible certainty dissolving into weariness. “What I wish for is peace in the family. What we have left of the family, I mean.”
“Then why the fuck did you help me rescue the girls from the cellar, Yanis?” The question comes out harsher than I intend. “Whose side are you on?”
“I’m on the side of peace, Arkady.” He meets my eyes again, and this time there’s something pleading in his expression.
“I helped with the girls because it was the right thing to do. Because I disagree with what Father is doing. Human trafficking is evil—I won’t defend that.
But then again, aren’t you keeping people hidden from the world?
You’re hiding Debra from her sister. You decide who she sees, when she eats, whether she gets to step outside.
It’s her life, bratan! She should be able to make those decisions. ”
Chert voz’mi!
I’m not in the mood to explain Dr. Harrison’s protocols about shielding severe trauma patients from overwhelming stimuli. About how Debra needs structure and safety before she can handle the chaos of reunion.
But there’s something else beneath Yanis’s anger. Something that has nothing to do with moral philosophy.
“Are you falling for her?” The question comes out cold. Calculated. A weapon designed to deflect from my own failures.
His entire body goes rigid. For one second, I think he’s going to lie—to laugh it off or redirect the conversation back to my sins. But Yanis has never been good at lying. Not to me.
“Kakogo khrena!” I snap. “What the fuck, Yanis?”
“And? What if I am?” He sounds defensive. Vulnerable. “Is it any of your business?”
“She’s been through hell. She doesn’t need—”
“What? Love?” His voice turns sharp again. Dangerous. “Care? Someone who sees her as more than another person to control? You don’t get to decide what Debra needs or doesn’t need, Arkady. She’s not yours to manage.”
“She’s under my protection—”
“She’s a person. Not a possession.” Yanis shakes his head, disgust written across every line of his face. “You can’t see it, can you? You’re so busy trying to manage everything that you’re losing the people who matter most.”
Before I can respond, my phone interrupts.
I glance at the screen. Fanny.
Fuck. What now?
“I need to take this,” I say.
“Of course you do.” Yanis gives me a look—disgust and disappointment and something that might be pity all mixed together—and turns away. His footsteps recede down the hallway, each one sounding louder than it should. When he rounds the corner and disappears, it feels final.
I answer the call. “What is it?”
“Mr. Laurov.” Fanny’s voice is hoarse and congested. “I’m so sorry, but I’m sick. I’ve been up all night with a fever and—”
“How sick?” I interrupt. I don’t have time for lengthy explanations.
“I can barely stand. I think it’s the flu.” She coughs, the sound wet and painful even through the phone. “I can try to work if you absolutely need me, but I don’t want to risk getting Aleks sick. Infants are so vulnerable to respiratory infections, and if he caught this—”
“No.” I cut her off. “Get a few days off. Get better.”
Perfect. Because this day wasn’t catastrophic enough—now the nanny calls in sick. The one person who’s supposed to keep Aleks safe while I deal with my father’s deadline and Mirabel’s questions and Yanis’s accusations that I’m becoming the monster I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to destroy.
“Thank you, Mr. Laurov. I should be okay in a few days. Maybe three or four if—”
“Just get better.” I end the call before she can finish.
The hallway settles into quiet. Not peaceful—just empty. I stand there with the phone in my hand, staring at the space where Yanis stood moments ago.
No nanny. Aleks needs constant care—feeding every three hours, diaper changes, supervision to make sure he doesn’t stop breathing in his sleep. He’s helpless. Completely dependent on adults who actually know what they’re doing.
Which means I need to find someone. Fast. Someone I trust not to kill an infant through incompetence. Someone who can keep him alive and quiet for the next couple of days while Fanny recovers and my father mobilizes his army.
The list of people who meet those criteria is very, very short.
And none of them are going to like what I’m about to ask.