Page 87 of Cruel Submission

Arkady hands over his card without blinking.

We load everything into the SUV, with instructions for a van to deliver the rest of the furniture. Boxes and bags are stacked to the ceiling, secured with bungee cords. I sit in the front, my hands resting on my stomach. She’s moving now. Small flutters I’m learning to recognize.

“She’s going to be spoiled,” I say.

“Yes,” Arkady agrees. “And?”

I don’t have an answer. I grin instead.

Maybe life is finally taking a change for the better.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Arkady

The Glock 19 breaks down in my hands—slide, barrel, recoil spring.

I’m sitting at the workbench in my gun room, late afternoon sun slanting through the bulletproof glass, turning oil and metal into something almost holy. Empire Royale’s quarterly reports sit untouched on my desk three floors down. Seven-figure decisions that can wait.

Because I’m planning a fucking engagement party.

The absurdity isn’t lost on me. Six months ago, “engagement” made my teeth grind. Now I’m sitting here with gun parts and guest lists, building something that terrifies me more than any enemy I’ve faced.

My phone sits silent beside a cleaning rod. Waiting for Yanis.

I run the bore brush through the barrel—metal scraping metal, the smell of solvent sharp in my throat. This is what I do when my head gets too loud. Strip weapons down to their bones. Reassemble them. Check the chamber twice. Three times. Make sure nothing’s going to fire when it shouldn’t.

Control the things I can control.

The intercom crackles. “Mr. Laurov, your brother is here.”

“Send him in.”

I don’t look up when the door opens. Just keep working—brush, wipe, inspect. Yanis knows where to find me when I’m like this.

“Gun room,” he says. “That bad?”

“That necessary.” I set the barrel down, reach for the slide. “We need to talk. Close the door.”

He does. Moves to the chair across from my workbench, eyes tracking over the disassembled weapons laid out like surgery. “Planning something or just brooding?”

“Planning.” I fit the recoil spring back into place, feel the tension compress under my fingers. “An engagement party.”

Yanis goes completely still.

Then something shifts in his face. “Blyad. You’re actually doing it.”

“Saturday. Two weeks.” I snap the slide back onto the frame, rack it once to check the action. Smooth. Perfect. “Stefan, Natalia, and Julia. Debra. Baby Aleks and Fanny. Diane—Mirabel’s best friend. Mirabel’s father, if he can make it. Everyone who matters.”

“Everyone except Father.” Not a question.

I chamber-check the Glock—empty, like I knew it would be, but I check anyway because this is what I do—then set it aside. Start on the next one. “You asking if I’m inviting our slave-trading khuylo of a father?”

“Just confirming you haven’t lost your fucking mind.”

“My mind’s questionable for other reasons.” I field-strip the second Glock faster than the first, muscle memory making my hands efficient. Brutal. “But Gavriil Laurov gets nowhere near my family.”

“Good.” Yanis leans back, and there’s something almost vicious in his smile now. The brother I recognize. “Because I’d have to hurt you if you invited that mudak. And I’m too fond of you to enjoy it.”