Page 59 of Cruel Submission

“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?”