Chapter 11 Arkady
Arkady
Ibrace a hand on the glass and breathe her in through the steam. Control snaps back into place like a bolt slamming home. I take her wrist, lift her slick hands, and rinse them under the spray.
“Khoroshaya devochka,” I murmur.
She flushes at the praise. My shirt clings to her in ways that make me want to drag it off and fuck her against the wall until she sobs my name.
Not now.
I switch off the water and step out, grabbing a towel.
I wrap one round my waist and pick up the blade I left on the counter.
Turning to her, she eyes the knife as I approach her carefully.
Pulling the hem of the sodden tee, I gently nick the fabric and then drag the blade up, slicing it away from her skin.
The cotton parts cleanly. Wet fabric drops in strips to the floor.
She stands there naked, her breath fast, her eyes on mine like she’s braced for impact and craving it anyway.
I drag the flat of the blade across her sternum, a whisper of cold metal, not a cut. A promise. Then I set it on the counter and take a fresh towel, running it slowly over her, from her hair, down the perfect line of her waist where my hands fit like they were made for it.
“Why cut it?” she asks, voice husky.
“Because I can.”
I take my time. She expects rough. I give her careful, because careful confuses her more. I drag the towel down her arms, over the curve of her waist, behind her knees. Gooseflesh rises as the last of the water lifts.
I turn her around and press her body against the glass panel. Her breath hitches as I move in close. I cage her, putting my hands on either side of her head and leaning down to whisper, “Don’t think you have power over me now.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” she whispers back.
I chuckle darkly. “Anyone could’ve done what you did. Any number of Bratva bitches lining up to screw me. I would’ve got the same satisfaction doing it myself.”
She turns her head until her lips are millimetres from mine. “Liar,” she murmurs.
I bite my bottom lip and slam my fist against the glass, making her jump. “The police are coming in ten minutes. Do not give me a reason to come up here and spank you again. You stay back from the door. You don’t annoy Dima. You keep your mouth shut. Are we clear?”
“Yes,” she says, chin high. “Good luck.”
Narrowing my eyes, I can’t determine if she is being sarcastic or sincere. I assume the first, but ignore it.
“Good.” I step back and move into the bedroom. She follows, wrapped in the towel. I pull on a black shirt, a black suit, and black shoes. The ritual calms the static. I pocket my phone, leaving the knife and the Glock in the drawer. “Don’t do anything stupid,” I say with a slow smile.
“You’re leaving me armed? You should be scared.”
“If anyone comes through that door that isn’t me, Dima or the police, if they insist on searching the damn place, you point and shoot. Do you know how?”
Eyes wide, she shakes her head. “What? No!”
I pull the drawer open again, grabbing the Glock.
“Safety’s here. It’s an integrated trigger safety, meaning the safety is on when the small lever on the trigger is forward.
” I flip it, show her. “When you place your finger on the trigger, you depress this lever simultaneously with the trigger itself, allowing the trigger to move backwards and fire the gun. Squeeze. Don’t jerk. The recoil will handle itself.”
She takes it from me like it might explode, which is fair. Her hands shake slightly, and I wrap mine around hers, steadying them. “You won’t need it. But if you do, don’t hesitate. Anyone coming through that door who isn’t supposed to be here won’t hesitate either.”
“You’re scaring me,” she whispers.
“Good. Fear keeps you sharp.” I release her hands and step back. “Lock yourself in the bathroom if you hear anything wrong. Take the knife too.”
She nods, swallowing hard, and I hate that I’m putting this on her. But the alternative is worse. The alternative is me downstairs playing nice with Morrison while someone slips past my guards because I underestimated how fast they’d move.
“Arkady.”
I pause at the door.
“Don’t let them arrest you.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “They can try, krasotka.”
I lock the door behind me and take the stairs. My phone buzzes. Vik.
“Two minutes out.”
“No stalling, straight into my office. I’m coming down.”
I hit the ground floor as Dima materialises from the kitchen corridor, suited and stone-faced.
He falls into step beside me without a word, and we move through the entrance hall towards the front door.
Through the sidelight, I see the unmarked car pulling up at the gate.
Morrison’s in the passenger seat, another detective driving. They’re early.
I adjust my cufflinks and nod to Vik, who’s stationed by the security panel. He taps the screen, and the gate rolls open with the kind of reluctance that says we’re doing this under protest.
Morrison gets out first. Mid-forties, grey suit that’s seen better days, the kind of face that’s forgotten how to smile without an ulterior motive.
His partner is younger, sharper around the edges, eyes that take note of everything they see.
They approach the door, and I open it before they can knock.
“Detective Inspector Morrison,” I say.
“Mr Saranov.” He doesn’t offer his hand, which suits me fine. I don’t shake hands with men who want to put me in a cage. “Thank you for seeing us.”
“I said I would.” I step back, gesturing them in. “My office.”
They follow me through the hall, past the marble, the chandelier, the artwork. Let them see what power looks like when it’s built on blood and concrete.
I lead them into the office and close the door. Dima stays outside, a silent promise that if things go sideways, Morrison won’t make it back to his car in one piece.
“Please, sit,” I say, moving behind my desk.
Morrison takes the chair opposite, his partner standing slightly behind him, notebook already out. I lean back and fold my hands, waiting.
“First, our condolences for your loss,” Morrison starts, the platitude rolling off his tongue like he’s said it a thousand times before.
“Thank you.”
“When did you last see your father?”
“Last week. Thursday evening. He invited me for dinner.”
“And the nature of that dinner?”
“Family business. Private matters.” I let the silence sit. Morrison shifts in his chair. His partner scribbles something down that’s probably meaningless.
“Can you be more specific?”
“No.”
Morrison’s jaw tightens. “Mr Saranov, your father was murdered. We’re trying to find who did this.”
“As am I.” I lean forward slightly, enough to make my point without giving ground. “But my family’s internal matters aren’t relevant to your investigation unless I decide they are.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“That’s exactly how this works, Detective. I’ve agreed to speak with you out of courtesy. Don’t mistake that for submission.”
His partner’s pen stops moving. Morrison’s eyes narrow, recalculating. “You received a phone call from your father yesterday morning around the time of his death. It lasted three seconds. Can you tell us about that conversation?”
Three seconds. How apt.
“Must’ve been a butt dial. We didn’t speak. I answered, he hung up.”
“And you didn’t call him back to find out what it was?”
“I was in the middle of something.” I smirk, letting him go with that, where he will.
“Something that was more important than finding out what your father wanted?”
“Yes.” I hold his gaze without blinking. “I assumed if it was urgent, he’d call back. He didn’t.”
Morrison leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re telling me you heard nothing?”
My pulse doesn’t change. My expression doesn’t shift. “I heard the line open, then it disconnected. I assumed it was an accident.”
“An accident.”
“Yes.”
“And when did you find out he was dead?”
“When you called me.” The lie slides out smooth as silk. Carter already knows the truth, but Morrison doesn’t need to.
Morrison’s partner writes something down. Morrison himself sits back, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve with a hammer. “Where were you between six and eight yesterday morning?”
“Here. In bed.”
“Can anyone confirm that?”
“All of my staff.”
The partner makes notes. “We will need to speak to them.”
“Of course.”
Morrison nods slowly, like he expected that answer and doesn’t believe it for a second. “We’ll need access to your security footage from yesterday morning.”
“Of course. Vik will provide you with what you need.” I keep my voice even, professional. The footage from my house will show me here. It won’t show me at my father’s. That’s the beauty of having multiple exits and a security man like Vik.
“Your father’s security system was disabled at six thirty-two yesterday morning using the correct code. No duress signal. Who had access to that code?”
“Family. Senior staff. Perhaps half a dozen people total.”
“We’ll need those names.”
“I’ll have my assistant compile a list.”
Morrison’s partner speaks for the first time. “Did your father have any enemies, Mr Saranov?”
I almost laugh. The question is so absurdly naive that I have to work to keep my face neutral. “My father was a businessman in a competitive industry. I’m sure he had rivals.”
“Rivals who might want him dead?”
“If I knew of anyone planning to murder my father, Detective, you would already know about it as well.”
Morrison stands slowly. “We’ll be in touch, Mr Saranov. Don’t leave London.”
“I have no intention of going anywhere.” I rise, buttoning my jacket. “I want whoever did this found.”
He searches my eyes, but he won’t find anything except the truth there. I want whoever did this found, so I can annihilate them myself. “We’ll call if we need anything else from you.”
“Of course.”
Dima enters and escorts them out, while I sit back down and glare at the door. Something isn’t adding up about this, and with Alina’s floated theory, it’s making it even more of a minefield.
I push back from my desk and move to the window. My reflection stares back at me in the glass—same face, different crown. The weight of it sits heavier than I expected, and I’ve only been wearing it for a day.
My phone buzzes. Seva.
“Did they take you in?” he asks without preamble.
“No. They’re fishing. They’ve got nothing.”
“Good. The meeting’s set. Tomorrow night, eight o’clock. Every brigadier confirmed except Dmitri.”
I turn from the window. “Dmitri didn’t confirm?”
“His second said he’s out of the country. Business in Prague.”
“Prague.” I let the word hang there, tasting it for lies. “When did he leave?”
“Two days ago, apparently.”
Two days ago. Before my father was shot. The timing makes my jaw lock. “Get eyes on him. I want to know if he’s actually in Prague or if that’s convenient fiction.”
“Already on it. Anything else?”
“Yeah. You got my back, Vsevolod?
“Ouch. Full naming me? You got a real question behind that, Pakhan Saranov?”
“Yeah, I have a question. Are you going to answer it?”
Silence stretches between us, heavy enough to feel through the phone. Then he laughs, but there’s no humour in it. “You think I killed Nik?”
“I think someone did. I think that someone had access, had motive, and had opportunity. I think the list of people who fit all three is very short, and you’re on it.”
“So are you.”
“I know.” I let that sit. “Which is why I’m asking. Because if it wasn’t you, and it wasn’t me, then we’re both looking for the same ghost.”
Another beat of silence. Then, quieter, “He was my uncle, Kade. He took me in when I needed someone. I loved that old arsehole in my own way.”
Past tense. Loved. Not love. The grief is real, even if it’s buried under layers of Bratva conditioning that won’t let him show it. I recognise it because I do the same thing.
“Then it’s you and me against the entire Saranov organisation. This was an inside job, and I want answers.”
“You’ll get them. We will get them.” He hangs up, and I throw my phone on the desk.
I believe him. Seva is many things, but his loyalty has never been brought into question.
The question remains, who did this, and why did they come after me and then kill him?
It’s a loose tooth that I keep prodding because none of this makes sense.
Unless Alina’s theory is wrong, in which case, it complicates things even more.
But as I sit back down and steeple my fingers, foot tapping against the case, I know in my gut, she’s not wrong. This was never about her. It’s about me. And the sooner I can figure out who, what and why, I can kill the person responsible for it all.