Page 123 of Cruel Obsession

“Four, usually. But tonight…” I pause, calculating. “With you there, he’ll probably keep two with him. That leaves two unaccounted for. Likely patrolling the main house.”

“I can handle two,” Stefan says, murder in his eyes.

I don’t doubt it. Stefan’s killed men for less than what they’ve done to his daughter.

The final preparations move quickly. Team assignments laid out. Weapons distributed—nothing that can be traced back to my legitimate operations. Clean pieces, ammunition that can’t be tracked. Communication protocols established, earpieces checked and double-checked.

“Radio silence until we’re inside,” I remind them. “Hand signals only. Mikhail will monitor from the van, but once we’re underground, we’re on our own. The cellar walls are concrete and steel—no signal penetration.”

Stefan nods, though I can still see him plotting some kind of revenge.

“Yanis will keep Father occupied while we breach,” I remind them, though they all know the plan by heart. My brother has always been the better actor of the two of us—the one who can smile while planning your execution.

“Don’t worry,” Yanis says, smoothing his jacket. “I’ve got a real estate venture to discuss with him. Prime commercial property in the Diamond District. He’s been eyeing that area for months. He’ll be distracted.”

There’s an edge to his voice that others might miss, but I catch it. This is personal for him too—different reasons, same rage. Yanis has his own scores to settle with our father. His own reasons for wanting to see the old man burn.

“What happens after?” Stefan asks quietly. “After we extract the girls. What happens to him?”

The question hangs in the air. We all know what he’s really asking.

What happens to Gavriil Laurov?

“That depends,” I say carefully, “on what we find down there.”

If Mirabel’s hurt—if any of them are worse than we expect—I’ll put a bullet in my father’s head myself. Or break his fucking neck. Consequences be damned.

But I don’t say that out loud. Some intentions are better kept silent until the moment demands them.

“Everything’s ready,” I say finally, strapping my custom Makarov into its shoulder holster. The weight of it is reassuring against my ribs. “We move.”

We file out of the office in silence, each man alone with his thoughts. The building feels emptier than usual at this hour—most of my legitimate staff have gone home. Only the security team remains, and they know better than to ask questions.

The armory is two floors down, tucked behind a false wall. Mikhail’s already there, surrounded by monitors and equipment that would make most tech companies jealous. He looks up when we enter, his face pale in the monitor glow.

“Everything’s set,” he says, stroking his keyboard in that way tech geeks do. “I’ve mapped their security grid. The cameras will loop on my command—twenty minutes of recorded footage playing on repeat. They won’t know we’re there until we want them to.”

“Good.” I move to the weapons rack, selecting a suppressed SIG for backup. “You stay in the van. If anything goes wrong—”

“I pull you out,” Mikhail finishes. “I know the drill, Arkady.”

But this isn’t a drill. This is my father’s estate, his fortress. The place where he’s committed atrocities for years, all while maintaining his respectable facade.

Tonight, we tear that facade down.

The drive to my father’s estate takes forty minutes through back roads, our convoy keeping precise intervals to avoid attention. Three vehicles, each carrying pieces of what we need to pull this off.

I ride with Stefan and Yuri, watching the landscape shift from urban sprawl to the manicured wilderness my father prefers. Trees thicken. Street lights disappear. By the time we reach the perimeter, it’s full dark.

The silence in the vehicle is absolute. Stefan stares out the window, jaw working. Yuri checks and rechecks his medical kit—bandages, syringes, emergency supplies for whatever we might need. I watch the trees pass, counting down the minutes.

Mirabel.

Her name echoes in my head, pushing me forward.

When we finally park, a quarter mile from the main gate, the temperature has dropped. The air cuts through my jacket, sharp and clean. The scent of pine and earth is overwhelming out here, away from the city’s permanent haze of exhaust and industry.

We move on foot, spreading out according to plan. My father’s estate sprawls across twenty acres—walls, gates, security patrols. But I know this place. Committed those blueprints to memory.