Page 113 of Cruel Submission

Dad is going to live.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Arkady

The Empire Royale office tower sits in the financial district, forty-two stories of glass and concrete that announce wealth without apology.

My downtown office occupies the top floor, panoramic views of the city sprawling below. I prefer it to Ashwater Heights for certain conversations. The kind that require distance from the people we’re protecting.

The kind where we discuss killing our father.

Yanis is already waiting when I arrive. He stands at the ceiling-high window, hands buried in his pockets, shoulders locked in that rigid posture I’ve seen since we were teenagers. A man with a lot on his mind.

“Bratok,” I say, closing the door behind me.

He turns. Same eyes as mine, but where mine have learned to freeze people out, his still hold something I lost years ago. Warmth, maybe. Or the belief that good men can survive in our world.

“We need to talk about the old man.” I cross to the bar cart, pour two fingers of Macallan into crystal tumblers. The liquid catches the afternoon sun, amber and gold, and somehow obscene given what we’re about to discuss.

“I know.” Yanis takes the glass I offer, but doesn’t drink. Just grips it, knuckles tight against crystal. “He’s not going to stop, Arkady. Not after what happened at the gate.”

Five dead on his side. Dmitri dead on ours. The gravel still stained dark where the blood soaked through, no matter how many times we hose it down.

I’d had Gavriil in my crosshairs that day. Perfect shot. The Dragunov scope so clear I could see the individual silver hairs at his temple, the vein in his neck. My finger on the trigger—three pounds of pressure between him breathing and him bleeding out in the leather interior of his Mercedes.

And I’d let him drive away.

Blyad.

“I should have taken the shot.” I drain my whiskey in one swallow. “Had him dead to rights through the Dragunov. Fucking let him go.”

Yanis watches me. Silent. Waiting.

“You know why I didn’t pull the trigger?” My voice is too harsh, giving away the tension inside. “Because some rotted, pathetic piece of me still wants him to be a father, instead of a monster.”

I slam the empty tumbler onto my desk.

“Weak. Stupid.”

“Not stupid. Human.”

“Same thing in this business.” I pour another measure, heavier this time. “Human gets you killed. Gets the people you love killed. I had the shot, Yanis. One squeeze and none of this would have been our problem now.”

Outside, the city churns—cars and commerce and people living ordinary lives where the hardest decision is what to order for lunch. Not whether to murder the man who gave them DNA.

Yanis drains his whiskey in three long swallows, then sets the glass down—measured, deliberate. “He came to Ashwater Heights with assault rifles, Arkady. Came for Debra. Opened fire on our home. Our people. Whatever he was to us once, he’s not that anymore.”

The way he says Debra—there’s something new there. Something that wasn’t present when we pulled her from Gavriil’s estate, her wrists scarred from restraints and her eyes empty.

“How is she?” I ask, studying my brother’s face.

“Better. Dr. Harrison says she’s making progress with the grounding techniques. The nightmares are less frequent.” A pause. When he speaks again, his voice carries a weight I recognize. “You were right. I’m falling for her, Arkady.”

Hardly a surprise. I’ve watched the way he moves around her, the care he takes to stay visible, to keep his hands where she can see them, to ask permission before touching even the most innocent surface. But hearing him name it changes things. Adds gravity to decisions already heavy enough to crush bone.

“She was a prisoner, Arkady.” Steel beneath the words now. “Six years in that house while our father—” He stops. Swallows whatever image tried to surface. “I won’t let her spend another day living in fear. As for the old man... He’s gone too far down to redeem himself.”

Too far down to redeem himself.