Chapter Nineteen
Arkady
The security feeds flicker across six monitors in my office.
East gate. West approach. Perimeter cameras one through twelve. I’ve been watching them for three hours now, waiting for movement that never comes.
Waiting for Gavriil to make his move.
My fingers tighten around the vodka glass. I force my grip to loosen, flex my fingers. Try to forget my last conversation with my brother.
You’re becoming just like him, Arkady.
I drain the glass. Pour another.
The alcohol doesn’t numb anything. Just makes the edges sharper.
My phone vibrates against the desk. Stefan.
Perimeter secure. Motion sensors active. No movement.
I don’t respond. He knows I’m watching the same feeds he is.
Another vibration. Different phone—the encrypted one.
Unknown number.
My stomach drops before I even open it.
Debra is still not in my house. The clock is ticking, boy.
My fucking father.
I read it twice. Three times. Let the implications sink in like a blade between ribs.
I dial Stefan.
“Problem,” I say when he picks up.
“I’m listening.”
“The old cunt is getting impatient. He’s escalating.” I pull up the property schematics on my laptop. “What’s the update on security measures?”
“Fortress protocol holding. Double rotations on all shifts. I’ve upgraded the camera systems—thermal imaging on the tree line, motion-activated floods on the south lawn.” He pauses. “But there’s something else.”
“Tell me.”
“Your father’s been meeting with the Chechen bratva. Three times this week. Oleg Kadyrov was spotted leaving your father’s estate yesterday morning.”
Pizdets.
Oleg Kadyrov doesn’t do social calls. If he’s involved, Gavriil’s bringing in serious muscle—experienced soldiers who’ve fought in actual wars, not just street enforcers playing dress-up with guns.
“How many?”
“At least forty confirmed. Could be more.”
I do the math. My team is good—Stefan, Mikhail, Leo, the twins, plus another fifteen men I trust with my life. Well-trained. Loyal. But we’re still outnumbered two-to-one if the Chechens commit fully.
“We need to upgrade the arsenal,” I say. “Kalashnikovs, body armor, ammunition. I want us ready for a siege.”
“Shipment arrives tomorrow morning. Six crates—enough to arm everyone twice over.”
“Good.” I close the laptop. “Stay sharp. He’s going to move soon.”
“I know.”
I disconnect and stare at my father’s message.
The clock is ticking, boy.
Not for the first time, I imagine putting a bullet in his skull. Watching the light leave his eyes. Ending this once and for all.
But that’s not how this works. Not yet.
I need to check on Debra.
The hallway to the east wing is empty—by design. No staff permitted past the main corridor. No witnesses to the woman I’m hiding three floors above ground.
The Secret Room key is already in my hand. Muscle memory. I unlock the door and step inside.
The space is small, but feels even smaller now that she’s occupying it. A second door on the right wall leads to the nursery—I had it installed after Aleks arrived. Easier to move between rooms without exposing Debra to the hallways.
She’s on the couch.
Not huddled in the corner like yesterday. Not curled into herself like every other time I’ve checked on her this week.
She’s sitting upright. Posture still wrong—shoulders curved inward, ready to collapse at the first threat—but she’s sitting.
Aleks is cradled in her lap, sleeping. She’s looking down at him with something almost like focus.
I know she’s been introduced to Aleks while Fanny’s been here. Harrison said she’s responded well to the baby. But it’s the first time since I pulled her out of Gavriil’s house that she looks almost… comprehensible. Almost like a person instead of a trauma response wearing skin.
Progress.
I close the door behind me. Lock it.
She glances up. Sees me. Her expression doesn’t change, but her arms tighten fractionally around the baby.
“Fanny called in sick,” I say.
A pause. “I wondered where she was.” Then: “I heard him.”
Her voice is still flat. Still empty. But she’s stringing words together, which is more than Dr. Harrison expected this soon.
“Through the wall?” I ask.
She nods toward the nursery door. “I went through. He was alone.”
Right. Fanny would have put him down before she left, probably called me while I was watching security footage, and ignoring my phone.
I cross the room slowly. Not too close. Give her space to track my movements. “How long ago?”
“Don’t know.” She looks back down at Aleks. “He stopped crying when I picked him up.”
I study them both. Aleks’s face is peaceful, no sign of the fussiness Fanny has complained about in the past. Whatever Debra did—just holding him, maybe—it worked.
“You’re good with him,” I say.
No response.
I wait. See if she’ll say more.
She doesn’t.
But she’s sitting on the couch. Looking at the baby like he exists. Speaking in complete sentences.
When I found her, she was catatonic in Gavriil’s living room, and now she’s here. Functioning. Barely, but functioning.
“I’ll find someone to cover for Fanny,” I tell her. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
The words are stronger this time. Not loud, but definite. Like she’s claiming something.
Choice. Agency. Something that’s hers.
Dr. Harrison would probably call this progress, too.
“He needs feeding. Nappy changes,” I say.
“I can do that.” Her voice is firmer than I’ve ever heard it. “I know where everything is.”
“Alright.” I take one step back. “I’ll check in later.”
She doesn’t acknowledge me. Just keeps looking at Aleks, that strange almost-focus holding steady.
I leave through the main door and lock it behind me.
My phone buzzes as I reach the corridor. Yanis.
We need to talk.
I delete the message.
Lately, all he wants to talk about is Debra and what a dick I am.
Not now. Not when I’m barely holding this together.
I need to move. Check the perimeter myself, verify Stefan’s work, make sure we’re actually prepared for whatever Gavriil throws at us.
But my feet carry me toward the main staircase instead. Toward the west wing. Toward her.
The hallway is dark. Most of the lights dimmed for evening.
I’m not paying attention. So when I round the corner, I don’t see her until we collide. Body against body. The impact knocks her backward, and I react—hands closing around her waist, pulling her against me before she can fall.
Mirabel.
Her palms flatten against my chest. She’s warm. Solid. Real in a way nothing else has felt for days.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’ve been distracted.”
The word sounds foreign in my mouth. I don’t apologize. Not to anyone.
She looks up at me. Those deep brown eyes searching my face for answers I can’t give.
“Distracted,” she repeats. Not a question. An accusation.
I need to let go. Need to step back, put distance between us, maintain the walls I’ve been building since this whole mess started.
But the feel of her—soft where I’m hard, warm where I’m cold—wakes something in me that I’ve been trying to bury.
On impulse, I pull her closer and kiss her.
For one second—maybe two—she melts into it. Her mouth opens under mine, her body softens, and I taste her and need and everything I’ve been denying myself for weeks.
Then she tenses.
Her hands push against my chest. Not hard, but firm.
“No, Arkady.”
I release her immediately. Step back.
She’s breathing hard. Cheeks flushed in the dim light.
But her eyes are steel.
“I’m done with this bullshit.”
The words hit me in the chest.
“Mirabel—”
“No.” She cuts me off. “I’m done. You pull me close, then push me away. You fuck me like I matter, then disappear for days. You won’t tell me what’s wrong, won’t let me in, won’t give me anything except scraps of yourself when you feel like it.”
Her voice cracks. Just slightly.
Just enough.
“I deserve better than this,” she says. “And if you can’t give it to me, then stop. Just… stop.”
That thing in my chest twists. Spreads. Something that makes me want to tell her everything—about Debra, about Gavriil, about the war I’m preparing to fight and why I’ve been keeping her at arm’s length even though every instinct screams to pull her closer.
That terrifies me.
Because the last time I felt anything close to this, Mishka ended up dead.
I can’t do this. Can’t let whatever this is take root. Can’t risk destroying her the way I destroy everything I—
No.
I slam the thought down. Bury it.
This is practical. Strategic. I’m keeping distance because it’s safer for her.
Because Gavriil is closing in and she’s exactly the kind of leverage he’d use against me.
Because telling her about Debra will break her, and I won’t do that until her sister can handle the kind of joyful reunion they both deserve.
That’s all this is.
Nothing more.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—that will fix this without exposing the truth.
But the words don’t come.
Because she’s right. I’m giving her nothing. Taking everything. Making choices for her without asking what she wants, what she needs, whether she’s willing to risk the danger I bring into her life.
Just like Gavriil does.
Just like Yanis said.
So I stand there.
Silent.
Proving every accusation she just made.
And then, from out of nowhere, words come to me.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her.