Page 56 of Cruel Obsession

This is wrong. This crosses a line even I shouldn’t cross, curious nature be damned.

But as I turn away, heading back to my list of impossible tasks, I know with bone-deep certainty that I won’t be returning this key.

Chapter Eighteen

Arkady

“Arriving in ten,” the driver announces over his shoulder as the limo eases through the Vegas traffic.

“Tulikov got in an hour ago,” Stefan says without looking up. “Three men with him—two inside, one watching the entrance.”

“Only three?” The number doesn’t fit a man as paranoid as Sergei.

“Could have more stationed around the place. I’ll sweep on arrival.”

I nod, checking my watch—a heavy steel Hublot, understated compared to Sergei’s flashy gold abominations.

“Stay within sight but out of hearing,” I tell Stefan as the car glides to a halt. “I want this conversation private, but if he moves wrong—”

“I’ll be there.” Stefan’s hand shifts toward his holster, a movement so natural it appears choreographed.

Vegas throbs around us, unaware of the war brewing beneath its artificial skin. Moscow Nights sits just off the Strip—Russian-owned, high-end, discreet. The kind of place where people with our specific backgrounds can speak freely, knowing every server, every busboy, every valet understands exactly when to become selectively deaf.

Stefan exits first, scanning the perimeter. I follow, adjusting my jacket, feeling the Makarov’s familiar weight against my ribs. The gun should be unnecessary—this meeting is meant for diplomacy, not violence—but old habits and older fears die hard. Especially when dealing with snakes like Sergei Tulikov.

Inside, crystal chandeliers glitter overhead. The hostess recognizes me immediately—a flash of awareness behind a professional smile.

“Mr. Laurov,” she murmurs. “Mr. Tulikov is waiting in the private room.”

I follow her through the main dining area, conscious of conversations dropping as I pass, of glances tilting toward me then away—people who recognize power when it enters their space. Stefan takes a position at the bar where he can monitor both exits and the hallway leading to private rooms.

Sergei sits at a table by the window, vodka in hand, a plate of caviar untouched before him. He doesn’t stand when I enter—a calculated insult… but I don’t really give a fuck about his insults.

“Arkady Laurov,” he says, gesturing with his glass. “You came a long way for this meeting. I’m flattered.”

“I’m here to come to an agreement.” I take the seat across from him, not bothering with pleasantries. “I know you bought the building next to Empire Royale.”

A smile crawls across his face, slippery as a snake. “Oh, do you?”

“Yes.” I keep my voice level despite the acid building in my stomach. “And here’s my offer: I’ll buy the building from you.” I name a figure that’s twice the property’s worth, three times what he paid. Extortion money, but cheaper than war.

His eyes flare at the number—a momentary crack in his façade—before narrowing again.

“Very tempting,” he says, draining his glass. “But it’s not for sale. Especially not if you’re the buyer.” He leans forward. “That casino will only be there to destroy your business, Arkady, just like you destroyed the alliance between our families and my daughter’s life. And my daughter is more valuable to me than anything else in this world.”

Lies. If he valued Rosanna that much, he wouldn’t have spent the last twenty-five years using her as currency in his power games.

“Your concern for your daughter is touching,” I say coldly. “But this isn’t about her. This is business, Sergei. Let’s keep it that way.”

His face darkens, blood rushing beneath the skin. “Business?Business?” He slams his palm against the table, making the glasses jump. “Rosanna has been depressed since the wedding. No medication helps her. She spends all her time in her room, unable to function because of you. She will be a single mother. You humiliated her in front of everyone who matters!”

The rage building behind his eyes shifts into something more calculated. He leans closer, voice dropping to something more toxic.

“I saw how you looked at the registrar when her dress split. And I know she’s now in your house. You were probably fucking her while you were with Rosanna, and you have the balls to tell me Rosanna cheated on you!”

Something snaps inside me. The blood in my veins turns to fire, then to ice. My vision narrows until all I can see is Sergei’s face, all I can hear is Mirabel’s name in his mouth.

How dare he speak of her? How dare he even think about her. The intensity of my reaction stuns me—this isn’t just anger. This is ownership. Possession.