Page 87 of Cruel Obsession

Could I ever come back from this? Could I walk away from Arkady and slide back into ordinary life—register marriages, drink coffee with Diane, worry about normal things?

The answer settles cold in my stomach.

No.

Whatever door I walked through when I signed that contract, it only swings one way. There’s no reversing course, no pretending I don’t know what his skin feels like beneath my fingers.

No, I’ll never be the same.

But part of me doesn’t want to be.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Arkady

I crush a paper coffee cup in my fist, the cardboard yielding with a satisfying crackle as I watch security camera feeds from my casino.

The Empire Royale’s Friday night crowd pulses across the monitors, just as they always do. High rollers with hungry eyes at the VIP tables, tourists clutching glasses that catch the light, my security team positioned at strategic points throughout.

Everything runs as smooth as silk. Exactly how I need it.

The taste of stale coffee lingers on my tongue. I check the time—quarter past nine—then meticulously align my pen parallel to the edge of the desk. Order. Control. The foundations I’ve built my empire on.

My phone vibrates against the polished mahogany, the screen illuminating with a name I’ve been avoiding:Father.

The vibration rattles something loose inside my chest—a familiar cold dread mixed with the heat of rage. Every time I think I’ve built enough distance between us, something drags me back into the shithole that is his world.

“Blyad,” I mutter under my breath. I’m really not in the mood for this right now.

Or ever.

I consider letting it ring out. But ignoring him has never worked. My father isn’t a man who accepts being dismissed.

“Hello, Father.” I keep my voice neutral, leaning back in my chair, fingers instinctively reaching for the signet ring on my right hand and twisting it. Annoys the fuck out of me that the man still makes me want to fidget.

He skips any pretense of pleasantries. “I need one of your warehouses for about two weeks.” His Russian accent thickens when he’s cutting deals, the sound triggering memories of childhood negotiations that always ended in his favor. “I’ll pay upfront.”

My jaw locks, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. I force myself to unclench my teeth before answering. My father never calls about legitimate business.

“What for?” I ask, knowing I’m not going to like the answer. If there even is one.

“Business,” he answers, the edge to his voice telling me that he doesn’t intend to share details. No surprise there.

I stand, moving to the window overlooking the city. Rain streaks the glass, distorting the lights below. I stare past my distorted reflection, for a moment imagining seeing my father staring back.

Pizdets.

I’ve spent years building walls against becoming that cunt, yet here I am, still answering his calls.

“Am I going to be sorry I’m getting dragged into your bullshit?” I run a hand over my face.

“Syn,” he tuts. “When have I ever dragged you into my… bullshit?”

Pretty much every day since I was born. And I fought it every step of the way. I don’t waste my breath saying it out loud. It’s no secret that I am my father’s greatest disappointment.

“You promised you were done with human trafficking after Operation Blackout.” I don’t bother softening the accusation, the words coming out like ice.

He sucks in a breath and I immediately know I hit a nerve. It’s clear he’s still pissed that we intercepted his precious little trafficking operation six years ago, saving a dozen of girls from being sold. “This is different.” He says, not even attemptingto deny it, which tells me he’s prepared an explanation. Rehearsed it, probably. “These girls want better lives. They’re willingly coming for domestic work in wealthy homes.”