Page 122 of Cruel Obsession

I examine the layout, though I hardly need to. I’ve studied these maps until I know every inch of that house.

“The third entrance,” I say, tapping the eastern point. “It leads directly to the original wine cellar. It connects to the newer structure underground. That’s our primary entry.”

Yanis nods, his eyes tracking the route I’m indicating. “Less exposure. Faster access.”

“Three buses will transport the girls to my apartment complex in South New York,” I say, visualizing the route in my mind. “Medical teams are on standby. Trauma counselors ready.”

The complex sits empty—I bought it six months ago as an investment, never imagining it would serve this purpose. Now its vacancy is perfect: discrete, secure, controllable. I’ve already had Mikhail run background checks on every medical professional who’ll be there tonight. No leaks. No one who might owe my father favors.

“What about the staff?” Yanis asks, his accent thickening as it always does before violence becomes a necessity.

I trace a line along the back of the building on the map. “Once the alarms go off and the evacuation starts, we go through the back entrance of the building. There should be no staff at that section of the building anyway. Guards change at midnight. I know them personally.” I consider the men in question. “Popov can be bought. Petrov is more difficult—he needs to be eliminated if necessary.”

My tone remains clinical when discussing Petrov’s potential death. In our world, sentiment is a luxury, and Petrov made his choice years ago when he first took my father’s money. Probably knew exactly what he was protecting in that cellar. Some sins don’t deserve forgiveness.

“How much for Popov?” Yanis asks.

“Fifty thousand. Cash. He’s got gambling debts.” I’ve done my research. Popov’s weakness isn’t loyalty—it’s greed and desperation. Easy enough to exploit. “I’ll have the money ready. He takes it, walks away, and forgets he ever worked there.”

“And if he doesn’t take it?”

“Then he dies with Petrov.” Simple as that. No room for loose ends tonight.

“Mikhail will switch off all cameras remotely,” I add, checking my watch. Time ticking down, each second bringing us closer to execution. “We’ll have a twenty-minute window. After that, the system reboots automatically. We need to be in and moving by then.”

“Twenty minutes,” Stefan repeats, his voice flat. “To find them, extract them, and get clear.”

“It’s enough.” It has to be. I meet his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the doubt I see there. “Mirabel is likely in that cellar by now.”

Father has her.

The thought keeps circling back, digging claws into my concentration. What he’s done to the others, he could be doing to her right now.

“And my girl? Julia?” Stefan’s voice cracks when he mentions his daughter. The sound is so unexpected from the hardened enforcer that both Yanis and I look up sharply.

“We’ll get her,” I tell him for the thousandth time. “I swear it, Stefan.”

“I taught her self-defence,” he says, pulling out a small photo from inside his jacket. His massive, tattooed hand trembles slightly as he stares at his daughter’s image. The photo is creased, worn from being handled too many times. “Krav Maga. Boxing. But against your father’s men…”

His voice trails off. We all know what he’s thinking. What good is training against a man like Gavriil Laurov? Against his network, his resources, his complete absence of conscience?

I’ve never seen this side of Stefan—the shredded, tattooed guy now fighting tears at his daughter’s photo. The vulnerability transforms his face into something almost unrecognizable. For a moment, he’s not the ruthless enforcer who’s broken men’s bones without hesitation. He’s just a father facing his worst nightmare.

“Relax,bratan,” I say. He’s as much a brother to me as Yanis is. I grip his shoulder, feeling the coiled tension beneath his suit. “We will find all the girls safely.”

I’d like to think it’s true, but deep down I’m doubting myself. My father is one evil bastard. I know exactly what men like him do to women. I’ve seen the aftermath before—broken bodies, shattered minds. The kind of damage that never fully heals.

Don’t think like that, mudak.

Not with Mirabel.

I can’t let myself imagine her in one of those cells. Can’t picture what she might have endured already.

Stefan pockets the photo, dragging both hands over his face. When he lowers them, the professional mask is back in place, but I can see the cracks. “How many men do we have on the ground?”

“Fifteen. Plus us.” I point to the positions marked on the blueprint. “Mikhail’s already inside the security network. He’s been monitoring their patterns. We know their rotations, their blind spots, their response times.”

“Your father’s personal guards?” Yanis asks.