Page 102 of Cruel Obsession

I make five more calls to my most trusted men. Each conversation follows the same pattern—brief explanation, immediate agreement. These are the men who followed me into Operation Blackout before. They’ve seen what trafficking does to its victims. They know what we’re up against.

Images from six years ago flash through my mind—the girls huddled in corners, eyes vacant, bodies bruised. The smell of fear and despair that clung to the walls. The memory still shakes me; I force myself to breathe, to focus.

For specialized surveillance, I dial another number—one reserved for operations that require absolute discretion.

“Alexei,” I say when the former CIA operative answers. “I need high-level surveillance on a warehouse. Today.”

“What’s the package?” His voice betrays nothing—no curiosity, no judgment. Just professional detachment.

“Two-hundred grand. Cash.” I pause. “Each.”

A slight intake of breath is his only reaction to the sum. “Location?”

I give him the address and specifics. “I need confirmation if girls are being held there. Numbers, security patterns, entry points. Everything.”

“You suspect trafficking?”

“I don’t suspect. I know.” My tone makes it clear there’s history here. “Can you and Andrei handle this personally?”

“Of course.” No hesitation. “We’ll be in position within the hour.”

“I need the intel by three.”

“You’ll have it.”

The call ends, and I toss the phone onto my desk. Satisfaction courses through me, cold and clarifying. The pieces are falling into place. My father’s operation will be dismantled, the girls freed.

But I won’t just dismantle it. I’ll blow his entire fucking network sky high.

The study suddenly feels too confining—the walls pressing in with memories of another time I stood here, planning to rescue women my father had treated as commodities. I need movement, action to burn off this restlessenergy. I head toward the library, where I’m likely to find Mirabel at this hour.

She’s there, feather duster in hand, working her way slowly along the bookshelves. There’s something off about her movements—she’s sluggish, distracted. When I enter, she startles, nearly dropping the duster, eyes widening when they meet mine.

“Sorry, I just—” She catches herself, voice trailing off.

I study her for a moment, noting the pallor beneath her skin, the slight heaviness to her movements that wasn’t there weeks ago. We’ve barely spoken since our last night together, a night that drew emotions to the surface that I don’t know if I’m ready for. The thought derails me for a dangerous second before I force it away. I don’t have time for distractions—not now, not with what’s at stake.

“Mirabel,” I say too sharply. “I need you to stop what you’re doing. Now.”

She puts down the duster, turning to face me fully. “What’s happened?”

“I’m having important guests this afternoon.” I step closer, into her space. “Seven men. They arrive at 4 p.m. and might stay overnight.”

Her scent hits me—that clean, slightly sweet smell that lingers with me even when she’s not near. It momentarily scrambles my thoughts, reminding me of other moments in other rooms, her body under mine.

Focus, mudak.

“I need food for them,” I continue. “Home-cooked meals. Refreshments. Make sure all the guest bedrooms are ready. Clean sheets, fresh towels, everything pristine.”

Her expression shifts, a frown forming between her brows. “The cook is on leave.”

“Then you’ll have to do it.”

“All of it?” She doesn’t back down. “By myself?”

“Da.”I don’t leave room for argument. “I also need you to stock the bar. Full inventory. And prepare the conference room.”

“The conference room?” Her eyes search mine. “It hasn’t been used in months. It needs a deep clean.”