Page 101 of Cruel Submission

He’s here.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Arkady

The ring is still warm on Mirabel’s finger when the first shots crack the afternoon apart.

Blyad.

Everything stops. The jazz. The laughter. Diane’s champagne shattering on stone. And then everything starts again—at a speed most of the people in this garden will never understand.

I’m already moving.

“Stefan, with me. Get Leo and the twins.” I don’t raise my voice. Don’t need to. Stefan reads the command from the way I’m stripping off my jacket and dropping it on the grass, the way my hand goes to my hip where my holster should be, and finds only the waistband of a suit I wore to celebrate something good for once in my miserable fucking life.

“Mirabel.” I turn to her. One second. That’s all I can spare. “Take Debra, Aleks, and Diane inside. Third floor. Lock yourselves in the east bedroom and do not open the door for anyone who isn’t Yanis or me. Da?”

Her face is bloodless, but her eyes are sharp. She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t freeze. Just nods once and grabs her sister’s wrist and pulls Debra toward the house, scooping Aleks from Fanny’s arms on the way.

Yanis catches my arm. “I’m coming with you.”

“Nyet.” I cut him off. “I need you to stay with them.”

“Chert voz’mi, bratan. Let me—”

“No. There’s no time.” I fix him with a look. “I need to know they’re safe.”

“Fine,” He concedes. “You call if you need me.”

“Da. Go.”

He’s gone. The guests are scattering, confusion blooming across faces that don’t belong in this part of my world. The catering staff bolt for the service entrance. Someone is screaming near the south marquee, and Leo’s men are already herding people toward the house.

I cross the lawn at a sprint, heading for my office. The gun safe is recessed behind the bookcase—biometric lock, six-digit override. I press my thumb to the scanner, punch the code, and the door swings open.

My Makarov sits in its cradle. Loaded magazine beside it. I slot the magazine, rack the slide, check the chamber once. Twice. Always twice. Muscle memory.

Next to the Makarov: the Dragunov. My sniper rifle, broken down into three sections. I assemble it in under a minute—barrel, stock, scope—and sling it across my back. Grab two extra magazines for the handgun.

Outside. Now.

The gravel crunches beneath my dress shoes as I round the east wing toward the front gate. Stefan is already in position behind the stone pillar, weapon drawn, body angled for cover. Leo flanks him on the right, compact and still, the way he gets when he’s calculating range and trajectory. Aleksei and Andrei are on either side of the drive—identical stances, identical expressions, the twins communicating in that silent language they’ve shared since birth. All armed. All ready.

Behind us, six of our men have fanned out along the perimeter wall. Trained. Loyal. Ready to die for what we’ve built here.

“Stay put.” I crouch beside Stefan, scanning the tree line beyond the gate. Three black SUVs sit on the road, doors open. Bodies moving between them. “How many does he have?”

“At least eight from what I can see.” Stefan peers around the pillar, eyes tracking movement. “Two behind the lead car. Three near the trees. More in the vehicles—I can see shadows through the glass. Probably more in hiding.”

“Chechens?”

“Some. Mixed crew. A few I recognize from your father’s estate.”

Yobany urod. He’s brought a war party to my engagement.

The irony isn’t lost on me. Today I asked the woman I love to marry me in front of everyone who matters. And now my father is outside my gate with guns, threatening to ruin everything I’ve built.

“Hold positions,” I tell Stefan. “Nobody fires until I give the word or they breach the gate.”