Scarlet

Thorns
***
Sidorov Bratva - Book One

Lisa Lovell
 What happens when your masked mystery lover turns out to be a
Bratva boss?
And you're carrying his baby?

It all started when I broke up with my abusive ex.

Driving around town confused and heartbroken, I stumbled upon a secret
club.

Velvet curtains.
Hidden identities.
No real-life consequences outside these walls.
The perfect escape my broken heart desires.

That’s when I see him.

The moment he enters the room, my body ignites like never before.
Dark eyes behind a thick black mask survey me hungrily.
Skilled hands that know exactly how to make me shatter.

With our faces hidden, we're free.

To touch.
To taste.
To do everything we’d never do in the real world.

Until the unthinkable happens.

A test.
Two pink lines.
I'm pregnant with a baby the doctors said I could never carry.

And just when I think it couldn’t get worse, everything clicks into place.
My masked mystery lover and the most dangerous crime lord in the city?
The. Same. Man.

Osip Sidorov, the man who makes my pulse race with just a glance.
The man I can never have.

Now I'm faced with an impossible choice.

Do I reveal my identity to the father of my child and let him destroy me?
Or run for my life and keep my secrets buried forever?
 Copyright © 2025 Lisa Lovell
All rights reserved. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this
book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,
including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval systems, without
express written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or locales or persons, living or
dead is entirely coincidental.
 Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
 Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
A Message From Lisa
Also by Lisa Lovell
Tarasov Bratva
Porcelain Lies
Porcelain Vows
Korolev Bratva
Ruthless Lullaby
Ruthless Serenade
Vyronov Bratva
Ruby Mayhem
Ruby Menace

Yakov Bratva
Marble Scars
Marble Sins

Ulianov Bratva
Crimson Fury
Crimson Wrath

Vassiliev Bratva
Arrogant Beast
Heartless Liar
Ravaged Hearts

Ivanov Bratva
Scarred Devil
Fierce Sinner
Shattered Oath

Borisov Bratva
Savage Heir
Ruthless King
Damaged Empire
Brutal Prince
Reckless Vows
 Box Sets
Vassiliev Bratva Series
Ivanov Bratva Series
Borisov Bratva Series
Broken Throne Series
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 Scarlet Thorns
Book One of the Sidorov Bratva Duet
 Chapter One
Ilona

The cramping starts low in my pelvis, a dull ache that’s been my

unwelcome companion for the past three weeks.
I shift on Stanley’s leather couch, trying to find a position that
doesn’t make me want to curl into a ball, but his hands are already moving
up my thighs with that familiar possessive confidence.
“Hey,” I murmur, catching his wrists. “Can we just… talk tonight?
I’ve had this headache all day.”
It’s not entirely a lie. The pain radiating from my belly has definitely
triggered a headache, but I can’t bring myself to tell him about the real
issue. Not when I don’t understand it myself.
Stanley’s penthouse apartment stretches around us in all its
minimalist glory— chrome fixtures, glass tables, and furniture that looks
like it belongs in an architectural magazine rather than someone’s home.
The city lights of Boston glitter beyond the ceiling-high windows, but
somehow the view only makes the space feel more isolated. More cold.
“Talk about what?” Stanley doesn’t move his hands. If anything, his
grip tightens slightly. “We just spent dinner talking.”
“I know, but—”
“But what, Ilona?” His voice carries that edge I’ve been hearing more
frequently lately. “We’ve barely touched each other in two weeks.”
Two weeks.
Has it really been that long?
The days have been blurring together lately, each one punctuated by
these episodes of pain that leave me exhausted and on edge. I’ve been
making lame excuses— work stress, family drama, anything but the truth
that something feels very wrong with my body.
“I’m just tired,” I say, which is also true. The kind of bone-deep
exhaustion that sleep doesn’t fix.
“You’re always tired.” Stanley releases my wrists and leans back,
studying me with those dark eyes that once made me feel desired but now
feel like they’re only looking for flaws. “When’s the last time you initiated
anything between us?”
The question catches me off guard. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters. I’m starting to feel like I’m dating a fucking
roommate.”
The profanity hits harder than it should. Stanley rarely swears around
me— he prides himself on being refined, controlled. The fact that his
composure is cracking tells me this conversation is about to go somewhere
I’m not prepared for.
“Stanley, that’s not fair. I’ve been dealing with some health stuff—”
“What health stuff?” He sits forward, but it doesn’t feel like concern.
It feels like interrogation. “You look fine to me.”
You look fine.
Three words that sum up everything wrong with trying to explain
invisible pain to someone who’s never experienced it. I look fine because
I’ve gotten good at hiding the moments when I double over in bathroom
stalls, when I have to grip the edge of my desk until the cramping passes,
when I take longer showers because the heat is the only thing that helps.
“It’s probably nothing,” I say, because admitting I’m scared feels too
vulnerable right now. “Just some cramping.”
“Cramping?” Stanley’s expression shifts to something between
annoyance and disbelief. “Like period cramps?”
“Something like that.”
“So take some ibuprofen and get over it. Women have been dealing
with periods since the beginning of time.”
The dismissiveness in his tone makes my stomach clench in a
different way entirely. This isn’t period pain— I know what that feels like.
This is something else, something that’s been steadily getting worse and
starting to interfere with every aspect of my life. But Stanley has already
decided it’s not worth his consideration.
“It’s not that simple, Stan,” I say quietly.
“Isn’t it?” He stands up and walks to the bar cart in the corner,
pouring himself a scotch with deliberate movements. “Or is this just another
excuse?”
“Excuse for what?”
Stanley takes a slow sip of his drink, watching me over the rim of the
glass. “For whatever the hell has been going on with you lately. The
distance. The mood swings. The way you flinch every time I touch you.”
“I don’t flinch.”
“You flinched just now.”
Did I? I replay the last few minutes in my head and realize he might
be right. When he grabbed my wrists, my instinct was to pull away. But not
because of him— because any pressure on my lower body sends
shockwaves of discomfort through my system.
“I’m in pain, Stanley. That’s not a mood swing or an excuse. That’s a
medical issue that I’m trying to figure out.”
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
It’s a reasonable question with an unreasonable answer. Because I’m
procrastinating, afraid of what they might find. Because my mother spent
years dismissing my concerns about painful periods as “something women
just deal with.” Because part of me keeps hoping it will just go away on its
own.
“I’ve been busy with work, and—”
“Bullshit.” Stanley sets down his glass with enough force to make me
jump. “You’ve got excellent health insurance through your job. You could
see a specialist tomorrow if you wanted to. So either this pain isn’t as
serious as you’re making it out to be, or you’re using it as an excuse to
avoid having sex with me.”
The accusation hangs between us like a loaded weapon. I stare at
him, this man I’ve shared a bed with for eighteen months, and realize I
don’t recognize the person standing in front of me. When did he become so
cold? So calculating?
“You think I’m lying about being in pain?”
“I think you’re avoiding me. And I think there’s a reason for it.”
The pain in my abdomen chooses that moment to flare again, a sharp
twist that makes me press my hand to my side instinctively. Stanley notices
the gesture and his expression hardens further.
“See? You’re fine until I try to touch you. Then suddenly you’re
clutching your stomach like you’re dying.”
“That’s not—” I stop myself before I can finish the sentence. What’s
the point? He’s already made up his mind about what’s happening here.
 “What I think,” Stanley continues, his voice dropping dangerously
quiet, “is that you’re fucking someone else.”
I stare at him. For a moment, I can’t even process what he said.
“What did you just say?”
“You heard me.” He picks up his scotch again, taking another
measured sip. “The signs are all there. The emotional distance. The sexual
withdrawal. The mysterious ‘health issues’ that conveniently flare up
whenever I want sex.”
I stand up too quickly, and the movement sends another wave of
cramping through my pelvis. “You think I’m cheating on you?”
“I know you are.”
The certainty in his voice is what gets me. Not anger or accusation,
but flat, matter-of-fact conviction. Like he’s already tried and convicted me
in his head.
“Based on what evidence?”
“Based on the fact that you disappear for hours with vague
explanations. Based on the fact that you’ve completely shut down
physically. Based on the fact that you’re sitting there lying to my face about
phantom pain instead of just admitting what’s really going on.”
Phantom pain.
The phrase echoes in my head, dismissing weeks of agony with two
casual words. This is the man who’s supposed to love me, support me, and
he can’t even acknowledge that my suffering might be real.
“You want to know where I’ve been disappearing to?” I can hear my
voice rising, but I can’t seem to control it. “I’ve been spending hours
googling my symptoms because I’m scared and I don’t know what’s
happening to my body. I’ve been taking long walks because sitting still
makes the pain worse. I’ve been avoiding my friends because I don’t want
to explain why I can barely function some days.”
Stanley rolls his eyes. “Dramatic as always.”
“Dramatic?” The word comes out as a near-shout. “I’m describing
my actual life, Stanley. My actual experience. And you’re calling it
dramatic?”
“I’m calling it suspicious. Normal people don’t research symptoms
for weeks instead of just making a doctor’s appointment. Normal people
don’t avoid their boyfriend for mysterious health issues that only seem to
affect them when it’s convenient.”
 Heat floods my face, a combination of anger and humiliation that
makes my hands shake.
“You know what’s suspicious? Your immediate assumption that I
must be cheating instead of considering that I might actually be telling you
the truth.”
“Can you blame me?” Stanley sets down his glass and crosses his
arms. “After everything that happened with Melissa, I know what deception
looks like.”
The reference to his ex-girlfriend makes my back stiffen. Melissa,
who I caught him with six months ago in his office. Melissa, whose moans I
heard through the closed door before I walked in on them. Melissa, who he
fucked on his desk while I was at home planning a surprise dinner for our
anniversary.
“Are you serious right now?” I can barely get the words out. “You’re
comparing your actual cheating— which I witnessed with my own eyes—
to your paranoid theories about my medical issues?”
“I apologized for that. I made it right.”
“You apologized, yes. But making it right would have involved
rebuilding trust, not using your guilt as an excuse to become suspicious and
controlling.”
Stanley’s jaw tightens. “I’m not controlling.”
“No? Then what do you call interrogating me about where I’ve been?
What do you call dismissing my pain as lies and excuses? What do you call
accusing me of cheating because I’m not in the mood for sex?”
“I call it being realistic about what happens when someone
completely changes their behavior without an explanation.”
“I gave you an explanation. You just don’t want to believe it.”
“Because it doesn’t make sense!” Stanley’s composure finally cracks
completely. “If you’re really in that much pain, why haven’t you done
anything about it? Why are you choosing to suffer instead of getting help?”
The question hits too close to home because I’ve been asking myself
the same thing. Why haven’t I made that appointment? Why do I keep
hoping this will resolve itself? Why am I so afraid of finding out what’s
wrong?
“Because I’m scared,” I admit quietly. “Because I don’t know what
they’ll find. Because my mother always told me that women just have to
deal with pain and I’ve been trying to deal with it on my own.”
 For a moment, Stanley’s expression softens slightly. “Ilona—”
“But you know what I’m more scared of now?” I continue. “I’m
more scared of staying with someone who assumes the worst about me
instead of trying to understand what I’m going through.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it? I tell you I’m in pain, and you call me a liar. I tell you I
need space to figure out what’s wrong with my body, and you accuse me of
infidelity. What part of that sounds like understanding to you?”
Stanley runs a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it for
the first time all evening. “I just… I need to know that we’re okay. That
you’re still committed to this relationship.”
“My commitment was never in question. But yours might be.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I look around his pristine apartment, taking in the expensive furniture
and carefully curated art. Everything here reflects his taste, his preferences,
his vision of how life should look. There’s nothing of me in this space
except for a single photo of us tucked away on a bookshelf, almost like an
afterthought.
“It means that the second things got difficult, you decided I must be
the problem. You didn’t ask how you could help. You didn’t offer to come
to a doctor’s appointment with me. You didn’t even consider that I might be
telling the truth. You just jumped straight to betrayal.”
“Because that’s what my experience has taught me.”
“Your experience? You mean the experience where you cheated on
me?”
Stanley flinches. “That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because I told you the truth about it. Eventually.”
“Eventually. After I caught you. After you tried to gaslight me into
thinking I’d misunderstood what I saw.” The memories are flooding back
now, sharp and painful. “Just like you’re trying to gaslight me now into
thinking my pain isn’t real.”
“That’s not—”
“It is exactly that.” I walk to the entryway where I dropped my purse
earlier, each step sending fresh waves of discomfort through my body. “And
I’m done with it.”
“Where are you going?”
 I turn to look at him one last time, this man who I thought I loved,
who I thought might love me back. He looks smaller somehow, standing
alone in his perfect apartment with his perfect scotch and his perfectly
reasonable explanations for why everything must be my fault.
“I’m going to figure out what’s wrong with me. And I’m going to do
it without someone constantly questioning my honesty or my motives.”
“Ilona, don’t be ridiculous. We can work through this.”
“Can we? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve
already decided I’m guilty of something. How am I supposed to prove my
innocence to someone who doesn’t want to believe me?”
Stanley takes a step toward me, but I hold up my hand to stop him.
He narrows his eyes at me. “If you walk out that door, don’t expect
me to be here when you change your mind.”
What?
Did he really just say that?
The threat should scare me. Six months ago, it would have. But
standing here now, watching him try to manipulate me into staying, I realize
that losing him might not be the worst thing that could happen to me.
“You know what, Stanley? That might be exactly what I need.”
I close the door behind me before he can respond, and the sound
echoes through the empty hallway like a gunshot. As I head toward the
elevator, I feel exhausted, but somehow more solid than I’ve felt in weeks.
The pain in my abdomen pulses with each heartbeat, reminding me
that whatever’s wrong with my body isn’t going away just because I’ve
walked away from him. But for the first time in months, the physical pain
isn’t the worst thing I’m feeling.
This time, I don’t look back.
 Chapter Two
Osip

Quarterly figures.
Rows and rows of streaming numbers. Columns of figures that are
beginning to blur after three solid hours.
Fuck my life.
I’m reviewing the company financials when Stanley crashes through
my door like a man who’s forgotten how doors work. No knock. He never
knocks anymore. The mahogany slams against the wall, disturbing the
careful silence I maintain in this office.
Stanley Morrison stands there like shit on my expensive carpet. His
usually perfect hair is fucked, his thousand-dollar suit wrinkled like he slept
in it, and his eyes carry that wild look I’ve been seeing more often lately.
Two years as partners, and I’ve watched him deteriorate from calculated
businessman to unpredictable liability.
“We need to talk.” He shuts the door behind him with deliberate
force.
I don’t look up from the spreadsheet. Numbers don’t lie, unlike the
man standing in my office. “Talk.”
“Where’s my cut from the Henderson delivery?”
My pen stops moving across the paper. The Henderson delivery? I set
down the Mont Blanc and lean back in my leather chair, studying Stanley’s
face. His jaw is clenched tight, his hands balled into fists at his sides. This
isn’t a casual inquiry— this is an accusation waiting to explode.
“What Henderson delivery?”
“Don’t play fucking stupid with me, Osip. The one from three weeks
ago. Healthy newborn, premium placement. Should be worth at least two
hundred thousand to me, minimum.”
I pull open the bottom drawer of my desk, retrieving the leather
portfolio where I keep detailed records of every transaction we’ve handled
in the past six months. Each delivery, each payment, each cut distributed to
our network. I flip through the pages methodically, knowing exactly what
I’ll find.
Nothing.
 Not a fucking thing.
“No record.”
Stanley’s face flushes deep red, the color of a man whose blood
pressure is spiking toward dangerous territory.
“Bullshit. Complete fucking bullshit. I set up the placement myself.
Wealthy couple in Connecticut, pre-screened through my contacts at the
country club. They paid in full, upfront.”
“Who’d they pay?” I frown.
“You, supposedly. Through the usual fucking channels.”
I close the portfolio and place it back in the drawer, my movements
deliberately calm and controlled. Stanley’s attitude is filling my pristine
office like a bad smell. The kind of tension that leads to mistakes, and in
our business, mistakes lead to prison sentences… or graves.
“Henderson delivery— where are the medical records? Birth
certificate? Melor’s paperwork?”
Stanley runs both hands through his hair, further destroying what’s
left of his professional appearance. “I don’t know. That’s your fucking
department, isn’t it?”
“My department is operations. Yours is clients and payments. You set
up placement, took payment— you should have records.”
“I do have fucking records.” Stanley pulls out his phone, scrolling
frantically through what I assume are messages or financial files. His
fingers are shaking slightly— a detail I file away for future reference. “The
payment went through our usual Bitcoin wallet. Nine hundred and fifty
thousand, exactly as we agreed.”
“Show me.”
He hesitates. That moment of hesitation tells me everything I need to
know about the truthfulness of his claims.
“I don’t have the phone with me,” he says finally. “It’s at home on
my other fucking device.”
Liar.
Fucking liar.
I’ve been in this business long enough to recognize deception in all
its forms— the slight delay before answering, the unnecessary details, the
convenient excuse. Stanley is either monumentally incompetent or he’s
trying to run a con on me. Given his recent behavior— the mood swings,
the increasingly erratic decision-making, the personal issues bleeding into
our professional relationship— I’m leaning heavily toward the latter.
“Stanley,” I say quietly, my voice dropping to the tone that makes
grown men reconsider their life choices, “are you accusing me of stealing?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m asking where my fucking
money is.”
“Same thing, mudak.”
The room falls silent except for the soft hum of the city thirty floors
below us. Boston sprawls outside my office windows— a maze of old
money and new opportunities, historic brownstones and gleaming
skyscrapers. From up here, everything looks manageable, controllable.
People are just moving pieces on a chess board, and I’ve always been very
fucking good at chess.
But Stan Morrison is becoming a liability I can’t control, and
uncontrolled liabilities have a way of destroying carefully constructed
empires.
Our business arrangement works precisely because it’s built on
military-level precision and clearly defined roles. We deliver orphaned or
disadvantaged babies to affluent people who desperately want children. Dr.
Igor Shiradze provides the medical connections and client credibility— he’s
the respectable face that desperate couples trust with their need for families.
Melor handles the legal maze, turning black market transactions into
seemingly legitimate adoption proceedings that will stand up to government
scrutiny. Radimir manages our digital footprint, ensuring that payments
remain untraceable and communications stay encrypted beyond the reach of
federal investigators.
Stanley was supposed to handle the wealthy client base— the couples
with more money than morals, the ones willing to pay premium prices for
healthy infants with no questions asked. His job was to identify prospects,
vet their financial capabilities, and facilitate the initial payments.
Each of us takes our agreed-upon cut. Each of us follows the
established rules. And the first rule, the most sacred rule, is simple: no one
skims without the others knowing.
“Listen carefully,” I continue, leaning forward slightly in my chair.
“If I owed you money, you would have it. I don’t cheat partners. Cheating
partners leads to dead partners. Bad for business. Very bad, mudak.”
 Stanley’s expression darkens, his earlier panic shifting toward
something more dangerous— anger mixed with desperation. “Maybe you
should ask your precious fucking Dr. Shiradze about that philosophy.”
The comment makes me frown. “What does that mean?”
“It means maybe your faith in the good doctor is misplaced. Maybe
he’s been making some private fucking arrangements that don’t include the
rest of us.”
The possibility has occurred to me recently, though I’ve been
dismissing it as paranoia. Igor Shiradze is everything I’m not— charming,
respectable, genuinely caring about the families he claims to help. He’s the
perfect front for our operation precisely because he believes his own
justifications. In his mind, we’re providing a valuable service, connecting
loving families with orphaned children who need homes.
But if Igor has been playing games behind our backs, making side
deals while maintaining his innocent facade…
“You have proof?”
“I have suspicions. And missing money tends to support suspicions,
doesn’t it?”
Stanley leans forward, placing both hands flat on my desk in an
aggressive posture meant to intimidate. It’s a calculated move designed to
establish dominance, but he’s forgotten who he’s talking to.
I’ve killed men for less disrespectful gestures.
“Here’s what I think happened,” Stanley continues, his voice gaining
confidence as he builds his bullshit story. “I think Dr. Do-Good has been
skimming fucking deliveries for months now. Maybe telling himself it’s for
the greater good, maybe just getting greedy like the rest of us. And I think
you’ve been too blinded by his sterling reputation to notice the obvious
fucking signs.”
I stand slowly, my chair rolling backward on its expensive casters.
Stanley straightens but doesn’t back away from my desk— a mistake that
reveals either incredible courage or terminal stupidity.
“You call me naive.” My voice is still low. Dangerous. Everything
about me is very fucking dangerous right now.
“I’m calling you trusting. Sometimes they’re the same fucking thing
in our line of work.”
The insult hangs between us like a loaded weapon. In my world,
questioning someone’s judgment is questioning their competence.
Questioning their competence is questioning their right to lead. And
questioning my right to lead is a mistake Stanley can only afford to make
once.
“You burst into my office. Accuse me of theft. Suggest I’m too stupid
to manage my operation.” I walk around the desk to close the distance
between us. “That takes courage or stupidity. Which one, pizda?”
Stanley’s bravado wavers slightly, but he doesn’t back down. “I just
want what’s rightfully fucking mine.”
“What’s yours is what we agree is yours. What we don’t agree
doesn’t exist.”
“Fuck that corporate doublespeak, Osip. I’m not your fucking
employee. I’m your partner, and partners don’t get fucked over by other
partners.”
“Partners don’t make accusations without evidence. Partners don’t
disrespect each other. Partners don’t forget their place.”
“Their place?” Stanley laughs, the sound filled with bitterness and
mounting frustration. “What fucking place? We’re all criminals here,
remember? None of us is better than the others when it comes right down to
it.”
Wrong answer.
Completely fucking wrong.
I step closer, close enough that Stanley has to tilt his head back to
maintain eye contact. Close enough that I can smell the expensive cologne
he wears and he can see the scars on my face from fights he’s never had to
participate in.
“Some criminals are smart. Some are careful. Some understand
reputation and respect are the only currencies that matter.” I pause, letting
the words sink in. “Some are just thugs with expensive suits.”
Stanley’s face cycles through white and red like a traffic light. “Are
you fucking threatening me?”
“I explain reality. If I owed you money, you would have it. You
accuse the wrong man. That’s a mistake you can make only once.”
For a moment, I think he might actually swing at me. His hands are
clenched into fists, his breathing has gone shallow and rapid. The muscles
in his shoulders are coiled tight with suppressed violence. But even Stanley
isn’t stupid enough to start a physical fight with me in my own office,
surrounded by my security and thirty-one floors above the street.
 Instead, he straightens his wrinkled suit jacket and heads for the door
with as much dignity as he can salvage. Which isn’t much, now that he’s
blown his load on bullshit and bluster.
“This conversation isn’t fucking over, Osip.”
“Yes. It is.” I fold my arms over my chest.
The door slams behind him with enough force to rattle the windows
and disturb the carefully arranged items on my bookshelf. I listen to his
footsteps disappearing down the hallway toward the elevator, then return
my attention to the quarterly figures that suddenly seem far less important
than they did twenty minutes ago.
Stanley’s accusation about Igor nags at me like a splinter working its
way deeper under the skin. I’ve always prided myself on reading people
accurately, on seeing through deception and identifying threats before they
become critical. But what if I’ve been wrong about the good doctor? What
if his genuine concern for families has been covering something more self-
serving?
Blyad.
What the fuck is going on?
I pull out my secure phone and scroll through the encrypted messages
from our last several transactions. Igor has been handling more of the
medical coordination lately, working directly with hospitals and private
clinics to identify potential opportunities. If he wanted to run side deals
without our knowledge, he’d have both the access and the credibility to pull
it off successfully.
The more I think about it, the more Stanley’s theory begins to make
sense. Igor’s increased involvement in day-to-day operations. His
reluctance to include us in certain client meetings. The way he’s been
deflecting questions about specific transactions by citing patient
confidentiality.
Trust is a currency more volatile than cash, and I learned that lesson
the hard way years before I ever met Stanley or Igor. In this business,
betrayal doesn’t just cost money— it costs lives, families, futures.
If Dr. Igor Shiradze is playing me for a fool, if he’s been running
private operations while maintaining his innocent facade, then he’s about to
learn why that’s a seriously stupid mistake in judgment.
I close the portfolio and lock it back in my desk drawer. The numbers
will have to wait until tomorrow. I have a pregnant wife waiting at home
and a reputation to maintain in public, but my mind is already working
through possibilities, calculating odds and contingencies.
Stanley may be an idiot, yes.
But if he’s right about Igor… well, the good doctor and I need to
have a conversation.
 Chapter Three
Ilona

My hands shake against the steering wheel as I sit in my car outside

Stanley’s building, the engine running but going nowhere.
The tears won’t stop coming— ugly, choking sobs that leave my
chest aching and my vision blurred. I catch my reflection in the rearview
mirror and hate what I see. Mascara streaks down my cheeks, my lips are
swollen from biting them, and my eyes look hollow.
Phantom pain.
The words echo in my head, sharp and dismissive. Nearly two years
together, and that’s what he thinks of my suffering. After sharing a bed,
planning a future, building what I thought was love— and he can reduce my
agony to lies and convenient excuses.
The cramping in my pelvis pulses with each heartbeat, a constant
reminder that something is deeply wrong with my body. But now it’s joined
by a different kind of pain, the kind that comes from realizing the person
you trusted most doesn’t trust you at all.
I should call Dad.
He would listen.
My father always listens when I need him, never dismissing my
concerns or making me feel dramatic for having emotions. He’s been my
anchor since childhood— the one person who sees me exactly as I am and
loves me anyway. When I scraped my knee at seven, he sat with me for an
hour explaining why crying was brave, not weak. When I failed my
calculus final in college, he drove three hours just to take me for ice cream
and remind me that one grade didn’t define my worth.
But the thought of telling him about tonight makes my stomach twist
with shame. How do I explain that the man he’s grown to like— the man he
plays golf with twice a month and discusses business strategies with over
dinner— just accused me of cheating? How do I tell him that I think
Stanley isn’t such a great guy after all?
There’s something else, too. Something that’s been bothering me for
weeks, but that I’ve been pushing aside. The way Dad and Stanley talk
sometimes, in low voices that stop when I enter the room. The way they
exchange glances during family dinners, like they share secrets I’m not
privy to. I’ve told myself it’s just male bonding, the natural evolution of a
relationship between a father and his daughter’s boyfriend.
But tonight, with Stanley’s accusations still burning in my ears, I
can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to their connection than casual
friendship.
Stop it, Ilona.
You’re being paranoid.
Dad wouldn’t keep secrets from me— not important ones. And
whatever Stanley is hiding, whatever darkness is eating at him from the
inside, I won’t drag my father into it.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand and shift the car into drive.
I need to move. I need to be anywhere but here, parked outside the building
where the man I thought I loved just shattered my heart into a thousand
pieces.
The streets of Boston blur past as I drive without a destination, letting
muscle memory guide me through neighborhoods I’ve known since
childhood. The pain in my abdomen flares with each bump in the road, but I
barely notice it anymore. Physical pain is manageable. It’s the emotional
devastation that’s threatening to pull me under.
I’m stopped at a red light when I see it— a building I’ve never paid
attention to before, though I must have passed it dozens of times. The sign
glows in deep red neon: The Scarlet Fox. Something about the name tugs at
me, draws my attention like a magnet. The exterior is understated but
elegant, dark brick with tall windows that reveal warm light spilling from
within.
On impulse, I turn into the small parking lot. This isn’t me— I don’t
drink alone at strange bars, don’t make reckless decisions when I’m
emotionally compromised. But maybe that’s exactly what I need tonight.
Maybe I need to be someone other than the woman who just got called a
liar by her boyfriend.
Screw him!
Fixing my make up with jerky movements, I swing open the door and
get out of the car.
The interior of The Scarlet Fox is nothing like the sports bars and
trendy cocktail lounges Stanley prefers. This place feels like a secret, all
dark wood and burgundy velvet, soft jazz flowing from hidden speakers.
The lighting is warm and intimate, casting everything in golden shadows
that make the space feel like a sanctuary.
The bartender notices me immediately— tall, dark-haired, with an
easy smile that reaches his eyes. His rolled-up sleeves reveal forearms
marked with intricate tattoos, and there’s something about his presence that
feels both professional and genuinely welcoming.
“What can I get you?” he asks, sliding a cocktail napkin across the
polished bar.
“Something strong,” I say, my voice still rough from crying.
“Something that will help me forget the last two hours of my life.”
He studies my face for a moment— not in a creepy way, but with the
practiced assessment of someone who’s seen plenty of heartbreak walk
through these doors. “Whiskey neat, or something with more sugar to take
the edge off?”
“Whiskey. Definitely whiskey.”
He pours two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal glass and sets it in
front of me. The first sip burns, but it’s a clean burn that cuts through the
fog of hurt and anger clouding my thoughts.
“Rough night?” he asks, wiping down glasses as he looks up at me.
“Jealous boyfriend drama,” I say, taking another sip. The alcohol is
already warming my chest, loosening the tight knot of tension between my
shoulder blades.
Something shifts in his expression—a flicker of understanding that
goes beyond casual bartender sympathy. “Ah. One of those.”
“One of what?”
“Guys who think their insecurity is your problem to solve.” He leans
against the bar, lowering his voice slightly. “Been there. Not fun.”
The whiskey is making me bold, or maybe it’s just the relief of
talking to someone who doesn’t immediately dismiss my experience. “How
do you know it’s his insecurity and not my actual guilt?”
“Because guilty people don’t cry like you’ve been crying. They get
defensive or angry.” He gives me a casual glance over his shoulder. “You
look like someone who’s been kicked while they were already down.”
The observation hits harder than it should. I drain the rest of my
whiskey and push the glass toward him for a refill.
“I’m Jack, by the way,” he says, pouring another generous measure.
“Ilona.”
 “Nice to meet you, Ilona. And for what it’s worth, jealous boyfriends
usually reveal more about themselves than about their girlfriends.”
The second whiskey goes down easier, spreading warmth through my
limbs and blurring the sharp edges of tonight’s confrontation. Jack
continues polishing glasses, occasionally making small talk with other
patrons, but his attention keeps returning to me with a kindness I
desperately need.
“You know,” he says after I’ve finished my second drink, “we’ve got
a private event in the back tonight. Might be exactly what you need to lift
your mood a little.”
I raise an eyebrow, the alcohol making me braver than usual. “What
kind of event?”
Jack’s smile is mysterious, almost conspiratorial. “Nothing too
special. Just… something different. You don’t have to do anything you
don’t want to do. But it might help you remember that you’re in control of
your own choices.”
The words resonate more than they should. Control. When was the
last time I felt truly in control of anything? Stanley controls where we go,
what we do, how we spend our time together. My body is controlling me
with pain I can’t predict or prevent. Even my own emotions feel like they’re
running the show tonight.
“Different how?”
Instead of answering directly, Jack glances around the bar, then
gestures for me to follow him. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
The whiskey has made my legs slightly unsteady, but I slide off the
barstool and follow him through a doorway I hadn’t noticed before. We
walk down a dimly lit corridor that feels like stepping into another world
entirely. The walls are lined with rich fabric, and the lighting shifts from
warm gold to something more mysterious— deeper shadows punctuated by
strategic pools of light.
The corridor ends at a hallway lined with doors, each marked only
with a number. The atmosphere here is different— charged with possibility
and secrets.
Jack stops and turns to face me, his expression serious but kind.
“This is our Masked Night event,” he says quietly. “Anonymous
encounters, entirely by choice. You get paired with someone at random.”
 I suck in a sharp breath. “Paired with someone? What does that
mean?”
He gives me a cheeky grin. “Whatever you want it to mean. But there
are no obligations, no expectations beyond what you decide in the
moment.”
He reaches into a nearby cabinet and withdraws something black and
elegant— a mask made of intricate lace that would cover the upper half of
my face while leaving my mouth free.
“No names,” he continues. “No personal information exchanged.
Cameras and emergency systems throughout, so you’re safe at all times. If
you want to leave, you leave. If you want to talk, you talk. If you want
more…” He shrugs. “That’s entirely up to you.”
I stare at the mask in his hands, my heart hammering madly. This is
insane. I don’t do things like this— I’m careful, responsible, the kind of
person who researches restaurants before trying them. Anonymous
encounters with strangers in private rooms are the stuff of fantasies, not real
life.
But as I look at the mask, I realize that careful and responsible
haven’t gotten me very far tonight. Careful and responsible just earned me
accusations of infidelity from a man who cheated on me six months ago.
“Room Five is yours if you want it,” Jack says, pointing to a door
halfway down the hall. “There’s a changing room with robes and other
options if you prefer. But again— no pressure. You can walk away right
now and just finish your drink at the bar.”
He hands me the mask, and the lace feels soft and expensive against
my fingers. Quality fabric, not some cheap costume store purchase.
Everything about this place seems designed for people who value discretion
and luxury.
“What do I do if I change my mind?”
“There’s a call button in every room. Press it, and someone will come
get you immediately. No questions asked.” Jack’s smile is reassuring. “We
take care of our guests here, Ilona. You’re in control at all times.”
Control.
There’s that word again.
I look down the hallway toward Room Five, then back at the mask in
my hands. Every rational part of my brain is screaming that this is a terrible
idea, that I’m making decisions based on hurt and alcohol rather than sound
judgment.
But the rational part of my brain also trusted Stanley Morrison. The
rational part of my brain has been dismissing my own pain for weeks,
trying to push through and pretend everything is fine when it’s clearly not.
Maybe it’s time to listen to a different part of myself. The part that’s
tired of being questioned and dismissed. The part that wants to feel valued
rather than accused. The part that craves anonymity and freedom from the
weight of other people’s expectations.
“No names,” I repeat, testing the words.
“No names. No history. No baggage. Just whatever happens in the
moment.”
I lift the mask and examine it more closely. The lace pattern is
intricate, almost artistic. When I hold it up to my face, it transforms my
reflection in the glass door beside me into someone mysterious and
unrecognizable.
Someone brave.
“I’ll take Room Five,” I hear myself saying.
Jack nods and leads me to the door, producing a key card from his
pocket. “Take your time. Someone will join you when you’re ready, or you
can change your mind and leave whenever you want.”
The room beyond the door is like stepping into a dream. Everything
is soft and luxurious— plush seating, warm lighting that flatters without
being harsh, music playing at barely audible levels. There’s a mirror on the
far wall, and when I catch sight of myself in it, I’m startled by how different
I look with the mask on.
Not like Ilona Katona Shiradze, the woman who got accused of
cheating tonight. Not like the responsible daughter who calls her father
every Sunday. Not like the girlfriend who’s been making excuses for her
boyfriend’s behavior for months.
Like someone else entirely. Someone who makes her own choices
and doesn’t apologize for them.
I sit on the edge of the velvet couch, my pulse thrumming in my ears.
I don’t know who will walk through the door of room five, or if anyone will
at all. I don’t know what I’ll do if someone does appear, or how far I’m
willing to take this crazy experiment in anonymous rebellion.
 But for the first time in weeks— maybe months— I feel like I’m
exactly where I’m supposed to be.
The mask is my armor, the room is my sanctuary, and whatever
happens next will be my choice alone.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and wait to see who I become.
 Chapter Four
Osip

The drive home is shit.

Boston traffic moves like molasses through streets lined with homes
that are rich in heritage as much as wealth, but tonight, all that money feels
like a noose around my neck. I scowl through the windshield while
Stanley’s bullshit echoes in my head.
Maybe your faith in the good doctor is misplaced.
Fucking pizda thinks he can storm into my office and question my
judgment. Question my operation. Two years of partnership, and now he
wants to cry about imaginary money.
Chert voz’mi.
But the bastard planted a seed. Igor’s weird behavior lately— the
private meetings, the dodged questions, taking over more of the day-to-day
shit. If Stanley’s right about anything, it’s that trust will get you killed in
this business.
I pull into my driveway. The house screams old money— Federal-
style mansion in Beacon Hill, the kind of place that makes tourists take
pictures. Six bedrooms, original hardwood, price tag that would make
grown men weep. All of it designed to say “successful businessman”
instead of “criminal piece of shit.”
The door opens before I reach it. Galina stands there in a pink
maternity dress, hand resting on her belly. Seven months pregnant and still
moves like a dancer. No drama, no interrogation about where I’ve been or
why I’m late. This is Galina— steady as stone, complicated as a glass of
water.
“You’re late,” she says. Not angry. Just stating facts.
“Business ran long.”
She nods and locks the door behind me. “You must be tired,
husband.”
I shrug. “I’ll live.”
The house smells like those lavender candles she burns constantly.
Trying to make this museum feel like a home, I guess.
“Are you hungry? I kept dinner warm.”
 “Not hungry.” I hang my jacket on the rack in the hall. “How was
your day?”
“Productive.” She settles onto the cream sofa, careful with her belly.
“I finished the nursery colors. Three greens that work for either a boy or a
girl.”
She spreads paint samples on the coffee table like they’re treasure
maps. The domestic shit feels surreal after today— choosing between sage
and forest green while I’m wondering if my business partner is stealing
from me. And where I’ll bury the body if he is.
“Green is fine,” I say, pouring vodka from the crystal decanter.
“Which green?” Patient as a saint talking to a slow child.
I glance at the samples without seeing them. “Your choice. You have
good taste.”
It’s true. Galina turned this cold showpiece into something warm.
She’s got a gift for making expensive things feel comfortable. But watching
her arrange paint chips, I feel like I’m watching someone else’s life through
glass. Here but not here.
“I thought about names today,” she says, rubbing her belly. “If it’s a
boy, maybe Viktor? After your grandfather?”
Viktor. My grandfather died coughing blood at fifty-two, lungs
destroyed by steel mill work. Good man who deserved better than life gave
him.
“Maybe.”
Galina studies me with those calm eyes that never push for more than
I’m willing to give. She’s learned to read my moods without starting fights
— makes her the perfect wife for a man like me.
“Osip,” she says quietly, “you don’t have to pretend enthusiasm you
don’t feel. I know this isn’t exactly your idea of fun.”
The honesty hits like cold water. We’ve never talked about it directly
— the family conversations, the mutual benefits, the practical arrangement
dressed up as romance. But Galina’s not stupid. She knows what this is. A
marriage of convenience. A contract designed to give me respectability.
And an heir.
“The baby will be loved,” I say. Truth. I might not have chosen this
path, but I won’t punish a kid for adult decisions.
“I know.” She folds the samples with precise movements. “And you
don’t need to stay celibate for my sake while I’m… unavailable. I
understand men have needs.”
The words hang between us like a business deal. Practical.
Reasonable. Cold as winter in Siberia.
“Galina—”
“I’m not naive, Osip. Our families brought us together because it was
a good match. But I know how these marriages work. You’re discreet,
you’re careful, and you come home to me.” She meets my eyes without
flinching. “I won’t ask questions I don’t want answers to.”
The permission should feel liberating. Instead, it feels like being
offered a candy bar when you’re starving. A quick fix when what I need is a
real meal.
I finish my vodka and set the glass down too hard. “I’m going for a
walk.”
“It’s late.” She pinches her lips together, and I fight down a surge of
guilt. I’m not cut out for playing the dutiful husband.
“I need air.” I shrug.
Galina nods and gets up carefully, all pregnant grace. “Don’t wake
me when you come in. Baby’s been restless tonight.”
She kisses my cheek— dry, polite contact that feels more like duty
than affection—and heads upstairs. I listen to her footsteps, the soft closing
of our bedroom door, the house settling into quiet.
Standing alone in my expensive living room, surrounded by furniture
that projects exactly the right image, I feel more isolated than I did in that
Siberian cell five years ago. At least there, I knew what I was fighting. A
fucked-up system that I eventually learned to manipulate.
Here, I don’t know what I’m fighting.
All I know is that I’m fighting… something.
I grab my jacket and call a cab. The driver doesn’t ask questions
when I give him a Back Bay address, just nods and drives. Boston at night
looks different from the back seat— more honest somehow. Less concerned
with keeping up appearances. A lot like me.
The Scarlet Fox sits between a boutique and an art gallery, the
exterior discreet, classy. I’ve passed this place dozens of times without it
standing out, which tells me they know how to keep secrets.
The vibe inside hits me immediately— warm wood, burgundy fabric,
jazz at exactly the right volume. The kind of place where people come to
disappear instead of to be seen. It’s good. I like it.
 The bartender spots me before I reach the bar. Tall, dark hair,
confident without being cocky. He gives me a smooth smile as he reaches
me.
“Evening, sir. What’s your pleasure?” He leans forward, elbows
resting on the polished counter.
“Vodka. Neat.” I haul a barstool over and angle a hip onto it.
Without a word, he pours Beluga— top shelf without asking. Either
good instincts or expensive taste. He reaches for a towel and begins buffing
wine glasses he takes from the washer nearby.
“Rough night?” he asks as I kill half the glass.
“Business.” More than just business. My brain is bursting with
unanswered questions and simmering rage.
“Ah.” He keeps polishing glasses. “The kind that follows you
home?”
I study his face for calculation or curiosity. Instead, there’s just
professional interest— someone who’s heard plenty of sob stories and
learned not to judge.
“Something like that.” I scowl into my vodka.
“I’m Jack. Bartender, occasional therapist, full-time keeper of
secrets.”
No pushiness, no probing for more details. In my world, that
discretion is worth gold.
“Osip.” I empty my glass in one mouthful.
“Russian?” He watches me.
“Da.” I nod.
Jack refills without being asked. “My grandfather was Russian. Came
over after the revolution with nothing but clothes and a chess set carved
from whalebone.”
“Chess teaches patience. And how to think three moves ahead.”
Although I’ve been known to have an entire game mapped out before I’ve
even begun it.
“Speaking of thinking ahead…” Jack leans closer, voice dropping.
“We host private events here. Masked nights. Anonymous encounters for
people who want to forget who they are for a few hours.”
I set down my glass. “What kind of encounters?”
“Whatever kind you want. Talk, companionship, physical contact—
up to the participants. No names, no personal information, no contact
outside these walls.” He pauses. “No judgment, no expectations, no
consequences beyond what happens in the moment.”
“Sounds like a fucking fairy tale.” I snort lightly.
“The best things usually do.” Jack’s smile is pure charm. “But
sometimes we need fairy tales to remember we’re still breathing.”
The words hit deeper than they should.
When’s the last time I felt alive instead of just surviving?
Never.
“What kind of people do this?” I can’t help the curiosity that’s
beginning to build.
“People who want to forget who they are. People tired of performing
their lives instead of living them. Interested?”
I drain the vodka. This is insane. I have responsibilities, a pregnant
wife who trusts me to be discreet. But discretion and anonymity aren’t the
same thing.
“How does it work?” I shouldn’t be asking this shit. But what the
hell. You only live once.
Jack shifts to something more professional. “Everyone wears masks.
Random room assignment— no choosing, just fate. If you don’t like your
pairing, you leave. If you do like it…” He shrugs. “That’s between you and
them.”
“Security?”
“Cameras in common areas, emergency buttons in private rooms.
Break the rules— reveal identity, make outside contact, violate consent—
and it’s a permanent ban. We protect members because they trust us with
secrets.”
I think about Galina’s careful permission, Stanley’s accusations, the
weight of always being “switched on.” When’s the last time someone
looked at me and saw just a man instead of a reputation?
“Interested.”
Jack nods like he expected this. “Follow me.”
The corridor behind the bar feels like entering another world. Soft
lights, thick carpet, fabric-lined walls that swallow sound. Everything
designed for intimacy and secrets.
He stops at a cabinet and pulls out something black and elegant— a
mask that would cover the upper half of my face. The leather is butter-soft,
expensive.
 “No phones past this point. No weapons. No real names.” Jack hands
me the mask. “What happens here stays here. What you learn about
yourself is yours to keep.”
The mask feels oddly heavy in my hands; like its weight will keep
my secrets. Quality craftsmanship, nothing cheap or theatrical. Crafted by
someone who understands that anonymity can be a luxury.
“Room assignments are random?”
“Completely. The person inside could be a lawyer, a teacher, a
socialite looking for thrills. Part of the appeal is not knowing.”
The mask changes everything when I lift it to my face. Once this
goes on, I stop being Osip Sidorov— businessman, husband, criminal. I
become just another anonymous figure looking for something he can’t
name.
“Any advice?” The question feels foolish. I always pride myself on
knowing exactly what I’m getting into. But for once in my life, I like the
idea of stepping into the unknown.
Jack’s smile is mysterious. “Don’t think too much. Thinking is what
brought you here.”
Blyad.
He’s right.
“Room Five,” Jack says, pointing down a hallway with numbered
doors. “There’s a change room at the end of the hall, if you’d like to get
washed up. Maybe change out of your clothes. Take your time. Leave
whenever you want. Trust your gut.”
I nod, turning away as he leaves me standing there.
The change room is as luxurious as everything else in this place—
slate floors, rain shower heads, towels thick as fur.
I strip off my suit like shedding dead skin. The day’s bullshit swirls
down the drain with soap and hot water. Stanley’s accusations, Igor’s
possible betrayal, Galina’s clinical permission to fuck around— all of it
washes away until there’s just me and steam and silence.
The water beats against muscles gone tight from stress. I let it run
hotter than comfortable, scalding away the grime of doing business with
men who’d sell their mothers for the right price. I lather soap over a body
that’s seen more than its share of hard living— scars across my ribs from
street fights, the puckered bullet wound on my shoulder from a deal gone
sideways in Vladivostok. Battle trophies from a war that never ends.
 I towel off and wrap the Egyptian cotton around my waist. The mask
goes on, transforming me into someone else as the leather fits like a second
skin. Someone without a pregnant wife or suspicious business partners or
blood on his hands.
The hallway feels different when I walk through half-naked. More
honest. My bare feet sink into plush carpet, and Room Five waits at the end
like a question I’m not sure I want answered.
What the fuck are you doing, dolboyob?
But my hand reaches for the handle anyway. Some magnetic pull
stronger than logic or caution. The need to feel something real instead of
the constant performance of being Osip Sidorov.
My pulse kicks up, that familiar pre-fight adrenaline flooding my
system. Except this isn’t violence waiting for me.
I don’t know what’s waiting.
 Chapter Five
Ilona

The door to Room Five closes behind me with a soft click that feels
final, like sealing myself into a confession booth.
The space beyond is nothing like I imagined— warm amber lighting
pools in intimate corners, casting everything in honeyed shadows. The air
carries hints of sandalwood and something floral that makes me think of
expensive hotels in cities I’ve never visited.
My pulse pounds as I take in the details: burgundy velvet furniture
arranged for conversation rather than seduction, candles flickering on
floating shelves, music so soft it might be my own heartbeat. This isn’t
some sleazy hookup room. It’s elegant. Sophisticated. The kind of place
where secrets are shared over aged whiskey rather than screamed in parking
lots. And yet…
What the hell am I doing?
The question loops through my mind as I stand frozen just inside the
entrance. A little over three hours ago, I was planning a quiet evening with
Stanley, maybe ordering takeout and watching something mindless on
Netflix. Now I’m wearing a lace mask in a private room, waiting for a
stranger to join me in… what exactly?
Jack’s words echo back: Whatever you decide in the moment.
The weight of complete choice should feel liberating, but instead it
terrifies me. I’ve spent so long letting other people set the parameters of my
life— Stanley choosing our restaurants, my mother dismissing my health
concerns, even my job dictating how I spend forty hours each week.
When’s the last time I made a decision based purely on what I wanted?
I imagine how I look right now, and somehow, it’s not the way I did
when I arrived here. Something’s changed in me. The mask transforms my
features into something mysterious, almost ethereal. My hair falls in waves
around my shoulders, and the soft lighting makes my skin look luminous
rather than blotchy from crying. For a moment, I imagine what a stranger
might see— not the woman who got accused of infidelity tonight, but
someone worth pursuing.
 The thought sends heat spiraling through my chest, followed
immediately by shame.
Three hours.
It’s been three hours since I walked out on Stanley, and I’m already
imagining being desired by someone else. What does that say about me?
About us?
But the shame battles with something else— relief so profound it
makes my knees weak. Relief that whatever happens in this room stays
here, anonymous and consequence-free. Relief that for thirty minutes or an
hour, I can exist without the weight of being Ilona Shiradze with all her
complications and failures.
The changing room adjoins this space through a door I hadn’t noticed
initially. Without overthinking it, I strip off and slip inside and immediately
understand why Jack mentioned it. The space is pure luxury— marble
surfaces, rainfall shower, towels thick enough to sleep on. Everything
designed to help you shed more than just clothes.
I turn the water as hot as I can stand and step under the spray. The
heat works its way into muscles knotted with tension, washing away the
residue of Stanley’s accusations and my own self-doubt. Steam fills the air,
creating a cocoon that feels separate from the real world.
When I emerge, wrapped in a robe soft as silk, I feel like someone
else entirely. The pain in my pelvis has faded to a dull ache— maybe the
heat helped, or maybe adrenaline is masking it. Either way, I’ll take the
reprieve.
Back in the room, I settle into one of the velvet chairs and secure the
mask properly. The lace sits comfortably against my skin, intricate enough
to obscure my features while leaving my mouth and chin exposed. Through
the eyeholes, the room takes on an even more dreamlike quality.
I close my eyes and let myself sink into the chair’s embrace. For the
first time in weeks, I’m not planning anything, not trying to solve anything,
not pretending everything is fine when it’s clearly falling apart. I’m just…
existing. Waiting. Open to whatever comes next.
The door opens so quietly that I almost miss it.
And then, I see him— a figure that makes every nerve ending in my
body snap to attention. Tall doesn’t begin to cover it; he fills the doorway
like he was designed for it. His build suggests power held in careful check,
all lean muscle and controlled grace. Dark hair, gray-blue eyes visible
through his own mask, and a sculpted jawline framed by a neatly trimmed
beard.
He wears only a towel around his waist, the fabric riding low on
narrow hips, baring skin that looks like it’s seen both sun and violence. The
sight sends heat flooding through me so suddenly I forget to breathe. This
isn’t some soft businessman looking for a thrill. This is something else
entirely— dangerous and magnetic in ways that should terrify me but don’t.
My God.
The candlelight plays across his chest, illuminating a canvas of ink
and muscle that makes my mouth go dry. His shoulders are broad enough to
block out the rest of the room, tapering down to a waist that speaks of
discipline and control. But it’s the tattoos that steal my breath— intricate
Russian script wrapping around his ribs, disappearing beneath the towel’s
edge. A hawk spreads its wings across his left pectoral, feathers so detailed
I can almost feel them beneath my fingertips.
His abs aren’t the gym-sculpted perfection Stanley obsesses over.
These are working muscles, carved from something harder than vanity. A
scar cuts through the ink near his hip— pale against bronze skin— and
somehow it only adds to his raw magnetism.
More tattoos emerge as he crosses the room: geometric patterns down
his right arm, something that might be prison markings on his knuckles.
This is a body that tells stories I’ll never hear, that’s survived things I can’t
imagine.
The towel sits dangerously low, revealing that V of muscle that
makes coherent thought impossible. My pulse pounds in places I forgot
existed. Stanley’s body is a monument to supplements and personal trainers.
This man’s body is a weapon, honed and marked by actual life.
“Holy hell,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
He moves with the kind of controlled precision that suggests either
military training or something darker. When he settles into the chair across
from me, the air between us sparks with electricity I’ve never experienced.
Every cell in my body is suddenly awake, aware, humming with
anticipation.
“Who are you?” The question tumbles out before I remember the
rules.
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studies my face with an
intensity that makes me feel exposed despite the mask. When he finally
speaks, his voice is low, accented with something Eastern European that
makes my spine tingle.
“You’re sad.” It’s not a question. “What hurts you?”
The directness catches me off guard. No small talk, no pretense, no
games. Just recognition of something I thought I was hiding successfully.
“I… um… I—” I start to deflect, to minimize, to perform the dance
I’ve perfected over months of not wanting to burden anyone with my
problems.
“You have thirty minutes,” he says simply. “Speak.”
Something in his tone— command and invitation wrapped together
— unlocks something inside me. Maybe it’s the anonymity, or the whiskey
still warming my blood, or the way he’s looking at me like my words
actually matter. But suddenly, I’m talking.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I begin, and once I start, I can’t
stop. The words pour out like water through a broken dam— Stanley’s
jealousy, his cheating, the way he’s made me question my own reality. The
health issues I can’t explain or escape. The loneliness of being dismissed by
the person who’s supposed to care most.
I don’t use names. Some survival instinct keeps me from revealing
too much. But emotionally, I strip bare, sharing fears and frustrations I’ve
never spoken aloud.
He listens without interruption, without judgment, without trying to
fix or minimize or redirect. He just… receives. Everything I give him, he
takes seriously, treating my pain like it matters.
“My boyfriend thinks I’m lying about being sick,” I hear myself
saying. “He thinks phantom pain is more believable than the possibility that
I’m actually suffering. And the worst part? Sometimes I wonder if he’s
right. If maybe I am making it worse than it is because I’m desperate for
someone to care.”
The stranger’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers
behind his eyes— anger, maybe, or recognition.
“Pain doesn’t need witnesses to be real,” he says so quietly I have to
strain to catch his voice. “Men who dismiss what they can’t see are
cowards.”
The depth of his words leave me reeling— not painful, but stunning
in their absolute certainty. When was the last time someone defended me
without knowing all the details? When was the last time someone took my
side without question?
I keep talking, spilling weeks of accumulated hurt and frustration.
About feeling invisible in my own relationship. About the fear that
something is seriously wrong with my body and no one believes me enough
to help me figure it out. About the crushing loneliness of loving someone
who sees my needs as inconvenience.
“And on top of it all, he’s the one who cheated on me… with his last
girlfriend. Can you believe that?” The admission makes my chest tighten,
although not with pain, but with outrage at the unfairness of it all.
He makes a sound low in his throat, and I realize that this stranger is
offering something Stanley never did— the simple gift of being heard.
When I finally run out of words, silence settles between us. Not
awkward or heavy, but peaceful. Like we’ve both exhaled something we’d
been holding too long.
He stands slowly, moves toward my chair with the same careful
precision. My breath catches as I watch him come close, almost closing the
distance between us.
He reaches out, fingers barely grazing my cheek where tears have
tracked through the mask. The touch is reverent, tender, electric. Not sexual
exactly, but intimate in a way that has nothing to do with physical contact.
This close, it’s hard to ignore his body’s response to our proximity—
his cock is jutting against the thick towel around his waist. He’s making no
effort to hide it, but also no move to act on it. He wants me, that much is
clear, but he’s holding himself in perfect check. The restraint is somehow
more arousing than aggression would be.
We stare at each other through our masks, breath mingling in the
small space between us. I want to memorize this moment— the weight of
his gaze, the heat of his skin, the way I feel both safe and on the edge of
something unthinkably dangerous.
Then, without a word, he turns and leaves.
I sit in the sudden silence, stunned and shaken in the best possible
way. My emotions tangle together— exhilaration, sadness, confusion,
longing so sharp it’s almost painful. I touch the spot where his fingers
grazed my skin, still tingling from the contact.
What the hell just happened?
Will I ever see him again?
 Would I even know it was him?
The questions have no answers, but for the first time in months, I
don’t mind the uncertainty. Tonight, someone saw me— really saw me—
and found me worth touching, worth listening to, worth the restraint that
must have cost him.
I don’t know his name.
I’ll never know his name.
I’ll probably never see him again.
But I know how it feels to matter to someone, even if only for thirty
minutes in a room full of shadows and secrets.
And right now, that’s enough.
 Chapter Six
Osip

I wake with my cock harder than steel and her voice echoing in my
skull.
The digital clock glows 5:47 a.m. in the darkness. Too early for
business, too late to pretend I’ll fall back asleep.
Galina sleeps beside me, one hand resting on her swollen belly. So
far along and she still looks like porcelain— untouchable, perfect,
breakable. Her breathing is deep and even, the kind of sleep that comes
from a clear conscience.
I slip from the Egyptian cotton sheets without disturbing the mattress,
bare feet silent as I stalk across the bedroom. The bathroom door closes
with a whisper as I shut it carefully, shoulders tight with tension I can’t
shake. I feel like a man who’s been fighting wars in his sleep.
The shower runs scalding, steam filling the marble-tiled space. I step
under the spray and let it beat against muscles knotted with stress and
unwanted arousal. The water should wash away the memory of Room Five.
Of candlelight flickering across lace masks. Of tears I had no right to
witness.
It doesn’t work.
My balls pull tight with a need that’s almost painful. My hand wraps
around my cock, and I’m back in that burgundy chair, watching the woman
from last night break apart in front of a complete stranger. The way she
looked at me when I walked through the door— not like the dangerous
bastard everyone else sees, but like something worth wanting. Worth the
restraint that nearly killed me.
Her voice was broken and honest: My boyfriend thinks I’m lying
about being sick.
The memory of her pain hits harder than my physical need. Someone
dismissing her suffering like it’s inconvenience rather than truth. If I knew
the bastard’s name, I’d teach him what real pain feels like. Slowly.
My grip tightens on my shaft, movements rough and urgent along my
slick flesh. The image of her in that chair, spilling secrets to a masked
stranger, trusting me with vulnerability I didn’t earn. The way she said
“holy hell” when she saw me, like I was something magnificent instead of
monstrous.
Pleasure uncoils with each stroke of my fist, my palm slapping wetly
against the dense mat of dark hair at the base of my cock as I pick up the
pace. I see her deep eyes, those sweet lips, made for kissing. Made for
wrapping around my hot flesh.
Blyad.
Release hits like violence, stealing my breath and leaving me hollow.
But even as I come down from the high, she’s still there. Still talking in that
broken, beautiful voice. Still looking at me like I matter.
Chert voz’mi.
I brace against the tile wall, letting the water run cold until my skin
protests. Force my thoughts to business. To numbers and logistics and
problems I can actually solve. The woman from Room Five is a distraction
I can’t afford. A complication that leads nowhere.
But my body remembers the magnetic pull between us. The way the
air changed when I entered that room. The restraint it took to walk away
instead of…
Stop it, mudak.
I towel off roughly, skin raw and red from the heat. I feel composed
on the surface, but there’s chaos underneath. I’ve mastered control in every
aspect of my life except this. Some random woman I’ll probably never see
again.
Wrapping the towel around my hips, I leave the bathroom. The walk-
in closet spans the length of the bedroom, organized precisely. Charcoal
Armani, pressed and waiting. Italian leather shoes polished to a mirror
gleam. Every piece chosen to project power, success, respectability. The
uniform of Osip Sidorov, legitimate businessman.
Galina is awake when I emerge, sitting at her antique vanity in cream
silk that makes her skin glow like alabaster. She catches my reflection in the
three-way mirror but doesn’t comment on how long I was in the shower or
the tension radiating from every line of my body.
“Good morning, husband.” Her voice is calm, serene, never
demanding more than I’m willing to give.
“Morning.” I adjust my tie briskly, fingers steady despite the storm in
my head. “Sleep well?”
 “The baby was restless.” She touches her belly with maternal
reverence, still studying her reflection instead of me. “Dr. Martinez says it’s
normal at this stage.”
Normal. Everything about Galina is normal. Predictable. Safe. She’ll
be an excellent mother— patient, nurturing, undemanding. Everything our
child needs. Everything I should want in a wife.
So why does normal feel like suffocation?
“I’ll be late tonight. Business.”
She nods, applying lipstick with the same careful precision she brings
to everything. Two years of marriage, and she’s never asked what kind of
business keeps me out until midnight. Never questioned the secure phones
or encrypted messages. Our arrangement suits us both— mutual benefit
without messy complications.
Except now I know what messy feels like. Know that it’s masked
with lace and willing to give everything to a stranger.
Get your head out of your ass, dolboyob.
I yank my thoughts back to the present. “Have a good day,” I tell my
beautiful wife as I brush my lips over her forehead and then leave the room
before she replies.
The garage houses my collection— Aston Martin, Bentley, Mercedes
S-Class. I choose the BMW today, something understated that won’t draw
attention. The engine purrs to life, German engineering at its finest. But
even the familiar ritual of driving can’t quiet my thoughts.
Boston traffic crawls, and I get stuck in streets lined with history and
hidden money. Brownstones that have housed four generations of the same
families. Businesses built on handshake deals and old-world connections.
This city runs on tradition, reputation, trust.
All things I’ve been systematically destroying for profit.
My office building rises thirty-two floors above the financial district,
glass and steel reflecting clouds and ambition. The elevator carries me past
floors of legitimate businesses—law firms, investment banks, consulting
groups. People who earn money through intelligence rather than violence.
The thirty-second floor belongs entirely to my operation. Reception
area decorated in mahogany and leather, projecting stability and success.
My private office overlooks Boston Harbor, where ships once brought
fortunes in tea and rum. Now they bring different kinds of cargo. More
valuable. More dangerous.
 More lucrative for me.
I pour coffee from the machine my assistant installed— single-origin
beans from Colombia, ground fresh each morning. The ritual provides
structure, clears my head.
The quarterly reports spread across my desk like accusations.
Columns of numbers that should tell a story of profit and growth. Instead,
they now speak of betrayal in languages I’m fluent in— missing payments,
redirected transfers, accounts that don’t balance.
My fingers trace patterns in the data, connecting dots that form a
picture I don’t want to see. At first glance, clerical errors. System glitches.
But I’ve been in this business long enough to recognize theft when it’s
wearing a three-piece suit and speaking with a medical degree.
Someone with access to client payments. Someone trusted enough to
handle transfers without oversight. Someone who could convince desperate
couples that their money was buying legitimate adoptions.
Igor Shiradze.
The realization has me grinding my teeth. I lean back in my leather
chair, the mechanism creaking under sudden weight. Dr. Igor Shiradze, the
respectable gynecologist who gives our operation legitimacy. The ‘Hope
Merchant’ as they call him, who convinces wealthy couples that their
money buys dreams, futures, the families they couldn’t create naturally.
My most trusted partner. The man I protected from the violent
realities of our business.
I cross-reference payment schedules with client contact logs, fingers
flying across the keyboard with increasing urgency. The Henderson delivery
Stanley was screaming about yesterday? The payment went directly to
Shiradze’s private account, never touching our books. Same pattern with
three other recent transactions worth over half a million combined.
Suka!
My coffee mug shatters against the wall, ceramic exploding like my
carefully controlled composure. Dark liquid stains the off-white paint,
dripping down like black blood. The sound echoes in the empty office,
sharp and final.
Fucking Stanley was right. Igor hasn’t just been skimming— he’s
been building his own empire. Using our connections, our reputation, our
blood money to establish himself as the sole face of the operation. While I
handled the dirty work, he collected the profits and the respect.
 I grab my secure phone with hands that want to break things. Dial
Mrs. Patterson in Greenwich, the socialite who adopted twin boys six
months ago. My voice sounds steady when she answers, betraying none of
the rage building in my chest.
“Mrs. Patterson? This is an administrative follow-up regarding your
recent adoption. We’re conducting internal audits of our payment
processing.”
“Oh, certainly. Dr. Shiradze handled everything personally. Such a
compassionate man, so dedicated to helping orphaned children find wealthy
families.”
Each word drives the knife deeper. “Dr. Shiradze received payment
directly?”
“Of course. Four hundred thousand, as we discussed. He was very
thorough about explaining the fees— medical expenses, legal processing,
facility costs. I never dealt with anyone else from your organization.”
My jaw tightens. “You didn’t?”
“Well, I assumed it was just Dr. Shiradze’s practice. Very boutique,
very exclusive. I never heard any other names mentioned.”
I end the call before I say something that reveals the violence
building inside me. Dial another client. Same story. Then another. Each
conversation confirms what the numbers already told me— Igor has been
running a shadow operation, collecting full payments while reporting a
fraction to our partnership.
By the fourth call, I’m recording. Evidence. Documentation. Proof
that will stand up in court or justify what happens next.
“Mrs. Callahan, this is regarding your recent adoption. For our
records, can you confirm who processed your payment?”
“Dr. Shiradze, handled everything personally. Two hundred and fifty
thousand, paid to his private account as instructed. He assured me the fee
covered all legal and medical expenses.” Her voice carries the relief of
someone who believes she avoided the seedy side of “off-the-books”
adoption. “Very professional, very discreet.”
“Did Dr. Shiradze mention working with partners? Other associates?”
“No, just his practice. He made the whole process feel so personal,
not like those terrible stories you hear about black market babies.”
The irony almost makes me laugh out loud. She thinks she avoided
the black market by paying Igor directly. Doesn’t realize Igor is the black
market, just wearing a white coat and speaking with authority.
I end the recording and save it to encrypted storage. Six calls. Same
fucking pattern. Every client thinks Igor runs a legitimate adoption service.
Every payment went to his accounts. None of them ever heard the name
Osip Sidorov.
The rage builds slow and steady, like a nuclear reactor approaching
critical mass. Igor’s gentle bedside manner. His passionate speeches about
helping families find hope, helping orphaned and disadvantaged babies find
loving parents. His fucking gratitude every time I shielded him from the
consequences of our business.
All performance. Calculation. A long con designed to position
himself as the legitimate face while I remained the criminal in the shadows.
Pizdets!
I slam my fist on the mahogany desk, the impact reverberating
through expensive wood. Pain shoots up my arm, but it’s nothing compared
to the humiliation burning in my chest.
How long has this been happening? How much has he stolen? How
many clients exist that I don’t even know about?
Trust is a luxury I can no longer afford. Vulnerability gets you killed
in this world. Igor made me vulnerable by making me believe our
partnership was built on shared principles of trust instead of mutual greed.
Rage burns like acid in my chest. A feeling I need to douse with
something soothing. On impulse, I reach for my phone and dial again.
“Osip. Figured you’d call eventually,” says Jack from the Scarlet
Fox.
“Do you know if she’ll be back?”
Long pause. “You know I can’t share details about members.
Confidentiality is what keeps this place running. People trust us with their
secrets.”
“How much?”
“Excuse me?”
“How much for information? When she comes in, what she asks,
which room she takes.” I lean back in my chair, leather creaking. “Name
your price.”
Longer pause. I can almost hear him weighing loyalty against
opportunity. “This isn’t about money, Osip. It’s about trust. These people
rely on discretion.”
 “Fifty thousand.”
Silence stretches across the connection. The amount hangs between
us like a challenge, more money than most people see in a year.
Finally: “She asked if masked nights were regular events. Whether
the same people usually attended. Seemed… affected by last night.”
Affected.
The word rolls through me like expensive liquor, warming parts of
my chest that have been cold for years.
“If she comes back, give her Room Five and let me know
immediately.”
“Osip—”
“One hundred thousand. Cash.”
His sharp intake of breath is all the answer I need. “Room Five. I’ll
call you.”
I end the call and stare at the financial records spread across my desk.
Igor’s betrayal demands immediate attention, strategic response, careful
planning. But all I can think about is candlelight and the sound of her breath
catching when I touched her face.
She was a stranger. One night of anonymous connection that should
have ended when I walked out of that room.
But she felt like the only real thing in my world.
Blyad.
 Chapter Seven
Ilona

It’s 8:15 a.m.

The fluorescent lights in the precinct buzz with their familiar
electrical hum as I push through the glass doors. The scent hits me
immediately— burned coffee, industrial disinfectant, and that particular
staleness that comes from too many people working too many hours in too
small a space. Normally, this cocktail of chaos and routine feels like coming
home. Today, it feels like stepping into someone else’s life.
My desk sits in the corner of the bullpen, a fortress of organized
efficiency surrounded by the controlled mayhem that defines the Boston
Police Department’s administrative wing. Two monitors glow with case
files and scheduling software, while my coffee mug— the one Dad brought
me back from a conference in Chicago— sits exactly where I left it
yesterday. Everything is the same. Everything should feel normal.
But I’m not the same woman who sat here yesterday morning.
The memory of candlelight and velvet chairs drifts through my mind
unbidden. TMG— The Masked Guy. I’ve been calling him that in my
thoughts because I can’t quite bring myself to think of him as a stranger
anymore. Not after the way he listened. Not after the way he looked at me
like my pain mattered, like my words carried weight instead of
inconvenience.
Heat spreads across my cheeks as I remember his voice: Pain doesn’t
need witnesses to be real.
“Morning, sunshine.”
Captain Jason Mulholland’s gravelly voice cuts through my reverie,
and I look up to find him approaching my desk with that easy smile that’s
gotten me through more difficult days than I can count. His silver hair is
slightly messed from running his hands through it— a sure sign he’s already
been wrestling with paperwork for an hour.
“Good morning, Captain.” I reach out and hand him the large coffee I
picked up from the café down the street. “Dark roast, two sugars, splash of
cream.”
 His eyes light up as he accepts the cup, genuine gratitude warming
his weathered features. “You’re an angel, Ilona. Absolute angel.”
“Just trying to keep you functional.” I settle into my chair, powering
up my computer. “Though I have to ask— did you even go home last night?
Because that’s the same shirt you were wearing yesterday.”
Jason glances down at his rumpled button-down and has the grace to
look sheepish. “Caught red-handed. There was that armed robbery case
from Tuesday, and the witness statements weren’t adding up, so I figured
I’d just—”
“Jason.” I give him the look that usually makes junior officers
confess to eating evidence room donuts. “You’re not twenty-five anymore.
Your body needs actual rest, not catnaps in your office chair.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He mock-salutes me with his coffee cup. “Though I
have to say, you look… different today.”
The observation makes me blink in surprise. Different how? Can he
see it somehow— the fact that I spent last night in a room with a half-naked
stranger, sharing secrets I’ve never told anyone? Do I wear the experience
on my face like a scarlet letter?
“Different?” I keep my voice carefully neutral while my pulse jumps.
“What do you mean?”
Jason studies me with those sharp blue eyes that made him an
excellent detective and now make him an excellent captain.
“I don’t know. Brighter, maybe? Like you got some good news or…”
His expression shifts to something more paternal, more protective. “Please
tell me Stanley didn’t propose. Because I still have serious reservations
about that boy.”
Relief floods through me so fast I almost laugh. He’s fishing for
Stanley-related gossip, not analyzing my moral choices.
“No proposals. Quite the opposite, actually.”
“Opposite?” Jason’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “Don’t tell
me—”
“We had a fight.” The words come out easier than they should. “A
big one.”
“About time.” The response is immediate and unapologetic. “That
kid’s been treating you like an accessory instead of a partner for months.
What finally broke the camel’s back?”
 I consider how much to share. Jason has been like a second father to
me since I started working here three years ago, offering advice and
protection and the kind of steady presence my actual father sometimes
struggles with due to his harrowing work schedule. But telling him about
Stanley’s accusations means admitting how bad things had gotten. It means
acknowledging that I stayed in a relationship where my integrity was
questioned regularly.
“He accused me of cheating,” I say quietly.
Jason’s coffee cup hits his desk with enough force to slosh dark
liquid over the rim. “That sonofabitch.” Jason’s voice drops to the tone he
uses when interrogating suspects. “You deserve better, kiddo. A lot better.”
The nickname makes me smile despite everything. Jason started
calling me ‘kiddo’ my first week on the job, when I was fresh out of college
and terrified of making mistakes. Now it feels like a badge of honor—
proof that I belong here, that I’m valued for who I am rather than who I’m
sleeping with.
“Thanks, Jason. That… means more than you know.”
“Anytime.” He pauses, and I can see him weighing whether to push
for more details. After a moment, he seems to decide against it. “Now,
what’s on the agenda today? Please tell me you’ve figured out a way to
make the quarterly budget meeting less soul-crushing.”
I laugh, grateful for the subject change. “I’ve prepared a full
presentation with charts and graphs that will make even Mr. McAllister’s
eyes glaze over within the first five minutes. Then you can slip out the back
while he’s unconscious.”
“Brilliant strategy. This is why you’re indispensable.”
The morning flows into familiar rhythms after that. I update Jason’s
calendar, field calls from witnesses who’ve suddenly remembered crucial
details weeks after giving their initial statements, and format reports that
will probably sit in filing cabinets for the next decade. The work is routine,
comfortable, requiring just enough attention to keep my mind occupied
without overwhelming me.
Officer Martinez stops by around ten-thirty with questions about a
court appearance next week, and I walk him through the process while
secretly admiring how he’s finally learned to keep his uniform pressed. At
eleven, Detective Washington brings me a box of evidence photos that need
to be digitized, and we spend twenty minutes troubleshooting the scanner
that has apparently decided to reproduce everything in shades of green.
This is my world— practical problems with practical solutions,
people who appreciate competence and efficiency, work that matters even
when it’s unglamorous. For three years, it’s been enough. More than
enough.
But today, as I organize files and schedule meetings, part of my mind
keeps drifting to burgundy velvet and the weight of pale eyes behind a
leather mask. TMG’s voice echoes through my thoughts at random
moments: Men who dismiss what they can’t see are cowards.
He understood something about me in thirty minutes that Stanley
never grasped. The realization should be disturbing— I shared more
emotional intimacy with a stranger than with the man I thought I loved.
Instead, it feels like awakening from a long, unsatisfying dream.
Around two o’clock, I’m updating the witness contact database when
the pain hits.
It starts low, a familiar cramping in my pelvis that I’ve learned to
breathe through. But this time, instead of the dull ache I’ve grown
accustomed to, it’s sharp. Vicious. Like someone is twisting a knife through
my lower abdomen and then adding a few extra turns for good measure.
My breath catches, fingers automatically gripping the edge of my
desk as sweat breaks out across my forehead. The computer screen blurs,
and for a moment I think I might actually pass out. The pain radiates up
through my torso and down into my thighs, making my legs feel weak and
unsteady.
Breathe, I tell myself.
Just breathe through it.
But breathing doesn’t help this time. If anything, the deep breaths
seem to make the cramping worse, each inhale stretching muscles that feel
like they’re being shredded from the inside. Nausea rolls through me in
waves, and I have to close my eyes to keep myself from throwing up all
over my keyboard.
This isn’t normal period pain. This isn’t stress or bad food or any of
the explanations I’ve been clinging to for weeks. This is something else
entirely, something that’s getting worse instead of better.
The attack lasts maybe three minutes, but it feels like hours. When it
finally ebbs, leaving me shaky and exhausted, I realize I’ve been holding
my breath. My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to escape, and
my hands are trembling as I reach for my water bottle.
I glance around the bullpen, checking to see if anyone noticed my
moment of crisis. Riley is on the phone, Washington is buried in case files,
and Jason is in his office with the door closed, probably on a conference
call about budgets. No one saw me fall apart at my desk.
Good. The last thing I need is workplace sympathy or suggestions
that I should go home and rest. I’ve been resting for weeks, and it hasn’t
helped. Whatever’s happening inside my body isn’t going to be solved by
taking it easy.
I force myself to sit up straighter, to pretend normalcy while my
internal voice screams warnings I’ve been ignoring for too long. This isn’t
something I can push through anymore. This isn’t something I can hide.
Twenty minutes later, when I’m reasonably sure I can stand without
collapsing, I walk to Jason’s office and knock on the doorframe. He looks
up from a stack of reports, immediately noting something in my expression.
“Everything okay?”
“I’m wondering if I could leave a little early today.” I keep my voice
steady, professional. “I have some personal stuff to take care of.”
Jason’s concern is immediate and genuine. “Of course. Are you
feeling alright? You look a little pale.”
“Just tired. It’s been a long week.”
He studies my face for a moment, and I can see him weighing
whether to press for details. Finally, he nods. “Take care of yourself, kiddo.
Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow if you need more time.”
“Thanks, Jason. Really.”
I gather my things with careful movements, afraid that sudden
motion might trigger another attack. My purse feels heavier than usual, and
I have to concentrate on walking normally as I make my way to the
elevator.
The drive home passes in a haze of Boston traffic and escalating
dread. Each red light gives me time to think, to analyze what just happened
and what it might mean. The pain was different this time— more intense,
more focused, more urgent. Like my body was trying to tell me something I
keep refusing to hear.
By the time I reach my apartment, I’ve made a decision. Tomorrow,
I’m calling Dad.
 Igor Shiradze has been my hero since childhood— the brilliant
doctor who saves babies and helps families, the man who taught me that
knowledge and compassion can heal anything. If anyone can figure out
what’s wrong with me, it’s him. And more importantly, he’s the one person
who will take my concerns seriously without dismissing them as female
hysteria or stress-related nonsense.
I should have told him weeks ago. Should have trusted his expertise
instead of hoping the problem would resolve itself. But admitting I need
help feels like admitting failure, like confirming that I can’t handle my own
life.
The apartment is quiet and cool when I unlock the door, afternoon
sunlight streaming through windows I forgot to cover this morning. I drop
my purse by the entrance and walk straight to my bedroom, not bothering to
change out of my work clothes before collapsing onto the unmade bed.
The cramping has settled into a low, persistent ache that makes me
want to curl into a ball. I pull a pillow against my stomach and let myself
feel the full weight of what’s been building for weeks— the fear, the
uncertainty, the growing certainty that something inside me is
fundamentally wrong.
Yet again, I let myself cry. Not the angry tears I shed over Stanley’s
betrayal, but the scared, overwhelmed tears of someone who’s been
pretending to be strong for too long. They come silently, soaking into the
pillowcase as I hold myself in the growing darkness.
Part of me wants to text TMG, to somehow reach across the
anonymous divide and share this new fear with someone who listened
without judgment. But that’s impossible— the whole point of Masked
Nights is the separation between fantasy and reality. Whatever comfort I
found in Room Five stays there, locked away behind lace and candlelight.
Tomorrow, I’ll call Dad.
Tomorrow, I’ll stop pretending everything is fine when it’s clearly
falling apart.
Tomorrow, I’ll start getting real answers instead of hoping problems
disappear on their own.
 Chapter Eight
Ilona

Morning rolls around sooner than expected.

I wake to the familiar knife twist in my pelvis, except this time it
feels like someone’s added barbed wire to the blade. The digital clock reads
6:23 a.m., but I’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness for hours, each
wave of cramping jolting me back to awareness like an electric shock.
Rolling onto my side doesn’t help. Neither does the heating pad I
keep permanently plugged in beside my bed. The pain radiates from my
lower abdomen down into my thighs, up through my ribs, making every
breath feel deliberate and costly. My lower back aches like I’ve been lifting
concrete blocks in my sleep.
This isn’t normal, Ilona.
You can’t keep pretending it is.
I catalog the symptoms I’ve been tracking in my phone for weeks:
pain that’s getting worse instead of better, periods that arrive two weeks late
or disappear entirely, exhaustion that sleep doesn’t touch, and the sharp,
stabbing sensation every time Stanley tried to…
I push that thought away. Stanley’s not here now, but the pain
remains. Which means this isn’t about stress or relationship drama or any of
the convenient explanations I’ve been clinging to.
The shower helps marginally, hot water beating against tight muscles.
But before long, it’s back.
I need help.
I must speak to Dad.
The drive to my parents’ house takes forty minutes through Boston’s
maze of one-way streets and construction zones. My father has always been
my safe harbor— but asking for help feels like admitting I can’t handle my
own life.
He’s a doctor, for God’s sake!
He’ll know what to do.
I can’t understand why I’ve been so reluctant to approach him. He
handles this sort of thing all the time. He’d have no problem with it coming
from his own daughter.
 Their house sits in one of Brookline’s quieter neighborhoods, a
beautiful colonial with pristine landscaping that speaks of financial stability
and professional success. The kind of home that says “respected doctor” to
anyone who passes by. I’ve always felt proud pulling into this driveway,
knowing I come from this solid foundation.
But as I approach the front door, voices carry from the kitchen
window— raised, tense, unmistakably argumentative.
“Igor, my payment was declined again. We are in the red!” Mom’s
voice carries a strain I rarely hear, sharp with frustration and something that
sounds like fear.
I freeze with my hand on the doorknob, guilt and curiosity warring in
my chest. I shouldn’t be listening to this. But I can’t seem to make myself
knock either.
“Don’t worry, I forgot to transfer money. I’ll fix it tomorrow.” Dad’s
response is casual, dismissive in a way that doesn’t match the gravity in
Mom’s tone.
“You’re a respected doctor with thirty years of practice. This
shouldn’t be happening!” There’s desperation bleeding through her words
now. “The mortgage, the car payments, my mother’s care facility— we
can’t keep juggling everything on credit.”
My stomach drops. Financial problems? Dad has always been the
picture of professional success, his practice thriving, money never a
concern that we discussed as a family. What’s happening that I don’t know
about?
I finally manage to turn the knob and step inside, my footsteps
deliberately loud as I enter. The argument dies instantly, voices cutting off
mid-sentence like someone hit a mute button.
“Ilona?” Mom appears in the kitchen doorway, hastily wiping tears
from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Her smile is bright, but I can tell
it’s forced. “Sweetheart, I wasn’t expecting you this early.”
“Hi, Mom.” I study her face, noting the redness around her eyes, the
forced cheerfulness that doesn’t mask her distress. “Everything okay?”
“Of course. Just… morning coffee talk.” She waves a hand
dismissively. “You know how your father and I can get into debates about
household budgets.”
The lie sits uncomfortably between us. Whatever I overheard wasn’t
a casual debate— it was genuine panic disguised as marital bickering.
 Dad emerges from the kitchen, and his transformation is remarkable.
Gone is whatever tension was in his voice moments ago, replaced by his
familiar warm smile and open arms. “There’s my girl. What brings you by
so early?”
I let him fold me into a hug that smells like coffee and the expensive
cologne he’s worn since I was little. For a moment, I’m tempted to pretend I
didn’t hear anything, to let them maintain whatever illusion they’re
protecting me from.
But the cramping chooses that moment to flare again, a sharp
reminder of why I came here.
“I wanted to talk to you,” I say quietly. “About some health stuff I’ve
been dealing with.”
Dad’s expression shifts immediately from casual affection to
professional concern. “What kind of health stuff?”
Mom excuses herself with another forced smile, claiming she needs
to return some phone calls. She kisses my forehead before disappearing
upstairs, but I catch the worried glance she exchanges with Dad.
Whatever’s happening between them, they’re united in not wanting me to
know about it.
“Dad,” I begin, then stop, not knowing how to go on without
sounding like a drama queen. How do I describe symptoms that have no
clear pattern or obvious cause?
“Sit.” He guides me to the kitchen table, already slipping into doctor
mode. “Tell me everything.”
So I do. I tell him about the pain that’s gotten progressively worse
over the past two months. About cycles that have become unpredictable—
sometimes three weeks apart, sometimes missed, and sometimes lasting for
far too long. About exhaustion that makes simple tasks feel overwhelming,
pain that shoots through my pelvis at random moments, the way intimacy
has become uncomfortable and then impossible.
Dad listens without interruption, his expression growing more serious
with each symptom I describe. When I awkwardly mention the pain during
sex, his jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t make me feel embarrassed or
ashamed.
“Can you lean back for me?” he asks gently. “I want to check a few
things.”
 His examination is thorough but gentle— pressing carefully along
my abdomen, noting when I wince or tense. His hands are clinical,
professional, but I can see worry building behind his eyes.
“Does this hurt?” He applies gentle pressure to my lower right side.
“Yes.” The word comes out sharply as pain radiates from the spot
he’s touching.
“And here?” Left side now, same result.
He sits back, running a hand over his salt-and-pepper hair. “Darling, I
need you to see my team for some tests. A full pelvic ultrasound, blood
work, possibly an MRI depending on what we find.”
The word “tests” makes me go tense. “You think it’s something
serious?”
“I think it’s something that needs proper investigation.” His voice is
carefully measured, neither dismissive nor alarmist. “Your symptoms
suggest several possibilities, but I won’t speculate until we have data.”
For the first time in weeks, I feel a surge of relief. It feels good not to
be dismissed, not minimized, not told to take some ibuprofen and deal with
it.
“Thank you,” I whisper, surprised by the emotion clogging my throat.
“I was starting to think maybe I was being dramatic.”
Dad’s expression darkens. “Who told you that?”
The question is sharp enough to make me look up. “No one directly.
Just… Stanley wasn’t very understanding about it.”
“Stanley.” The name comes out flat, disapproving. “How has he been
treating you lately?”
I hesitate, weighing how much to share. But if I’m asking Dad to
help with my health, maybe I need to be honest about everything else, too.
“We had a fight,” I say quietly. “A few days ago. He… he accused
me of cheating because I didn’t want to be intimate. Said my health issues
were convenient excuses.”
Dad’s hands clench into fists on the table, and for a moment, I see
something dangerous flash across his features— protective rage that
transforms his gentle demeanor into something harder.
“Do you want me to speak to him?” His voice is eerily calm.
“Absolutely not.” The response is immediate and firm. “This is
between me and him. I don’t want you involved.”
 Dad studies my face for a long moment, clearly struggling with the
desire to interfere. Finally, he nods. “If he gives you any trouble at all, you
tell me immediately.”
“I will.” The promise seems to satisfy him, though tension still
radiates from his shoulders.
He disappears into the kitchen and returns with chamomile tea in the
mug I always used as a child— pale blue ceramic with tiny painted flowers
that are now slightly faded from years of use. The gesture is so familiar, so
comforting, that tears prick my eyes.
“I’ll call Dr. Khan first thing Monday morning,” he says, settling
back into his chair. “He’s the best gynecologist in the city, and he owes me
a favor. We’ll get you in immediately.”
“Thank you.” I wrap my hands around the warm mug, letting the heat
soak into my palms. “I’ve been scared to find out what’s wrong.”
“Fear is normal. But whatever this is, we’ll handle it.” His voice
carries absolute conviction. “You’re not facing this alone.”
I believe him. I’ve always believed him. Dad has been my anchor
since childhood— the parent who never dismissed my concerns, who took
my dreams seriously, who made me feel capable of anything.
But as I watch him now, I notice things I’ve been missing. The slight
slump to his shoulders. The way his eyes don’t quite meet mine when he
talks about calling in favors. The expensive watch that’s no longer on his
wrist— sold, maybe, to help with whatever financial crisis I overheard
earlier.
“Dad,” I begin carefully, “the conversation I walked in on with
Mom… Are you sure everything’s okay?”
His smile is immediate but not convincing. “Darling, I don’t want
you to worry about things that aren’t yours to carry. Your mother and I are
fine. We’re just… adjusting some investments.”
The explanation sounds rehearsed, like something he’s practiced
saying. But his tone makes it clear the conversation is over, so I don’t push.
Not yet.
We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, sipping tea and
existing in the familiar bubble of father-daughter affection that’s sustained
me through every crisis of my life. But underneath the comfort, questions
multiply like cancer cells.
 Why are my parents struggling financially when Dad’s practice
should be thriving? Why did he deflect so quickly when I asked? And why
does he look so tired, so worn, like he’s carrying a weight I can’t see?
I finish my tea and stand to leave, accepting another hug that feels
more desperate than usual. He holds me a beat too long, like he’s trying to
memorize the moment.
“I love you, little bird,” he murmurs against my hair, using the
nickname from my childhood.
“I love you, too, Dad.” I step back. “Tell Mom I said goodbye. I’ll
call later so we can chat.”
But as I drive away, watching the beautiful colonial disappear in my
rearview mirror, unease settles in my chest. He said not to worry about
things that aren’t mine to carry.
But that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Because whatever’s happening with my body is only part of the
problem. My father— my anchor, my hero, my safe harbor— is dealing
with something he won’t let me help with.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t know if he can fix it by
himself.
 Chapter Nine
Ilona

The waiting room smells like disinfectant; it makes my nose wrinkle.

I sit in one of those generic beige chairs that populate every medical
office in America, my knee bouncing with nervous energy I can’t seem to
control. The magazines on the glass table beside me are months old—
issues of Better Homes & Gardens and Health that someone probably
selected to project optimism and wellness. I don’t touch them.
My hands are clammy despite the aggressive air conditioning that
makes me wish I’d brought a sweater. The fluorescent lights overhead cast
everything in harsh, clinical tones that make my skin look gray and tired.
Fitting, since that’s exactly how I feel.
Yesterday was a marathon of tests— blood draws that left my arm
purple and tender, ultrasounds with cold gel and uncomfortable pressure,
hormone panels that required fasting until I felt dizzy. Each procedure
carried its own small humiliation, its own reminder that my body has
become something foreign and untrustworthy.
The worst part was the MRI. Forty-five minutes trapped in a metal
tube while machinery thundered around me like artillery fire. I closed my
eyes and tried to pretend I was somewhere else, but there’s no escaping the
sound of your own body being dissected by technology.
What if it’s something serious?
The thought circles my brain like a vulture, refusing to land but never
flying away.
What if it’s cancer?
What if it’s nothing and I’m just dramatic?
What if I waited too long?
I’ve been pushing these symptoms aside for months, telling myself
they’d resolve on their own. Women deal with pain, my mother always said.
It’s part of being female. But this goes beyond normal female experience—
this feels like warfare conducted inside my own flesh.
“Ilona Shiradze?”
The nurse’s voice is soft, kind, nothing like the sharp efficiency I
expected. She’s older, maybe sixty, with graying hair pulled back in a neat
bun and scrubs decorated with tiny flowers. Her smile is genuine as she
approaches.
“Dr. Khan is ready to see you now.”
My heart pounds as I stand, legs unsteady beneath me. The hallway
stretches longer than it should, each step echoing off polished linoleum.
Past exam rooms with closed doors, past medical equipment I can’t identify,
toward answers I’m not sure I want to hear.
Dr. Khan’s consultation room is warmer than the waiting area—
wood furniture instead of plastic, soft lighting instead of fluorescent
harshness, actual artwork on the walls instead of motivational posters about
wellness. He’s younger than I expected, maybe early forties, with kind eyes
behind wire-rimmed glasses and the sort of calm demeanor that probably
cost him years of practice.
“Please, sit.” He gestures to a comfortable chair across from his desk,
then settles into his own with my file spread before him. “I know waiting
for results can be stressful, so I’ll get straight to the point.”
My mouth goes dry.
Here it comes.
“Ilona, your results indicate that you have endometriosis.”
I stare at him. Endometriosis. I’ve heard it before, of course—
whispered conversations between women, medical articles I’ve skimmed
and forgotten. But hearing it applied to my body, my future, my life, makes
everything else fade to static.
“It’s a chronic condition where tissue similar to the lining of your
uterus grows in other areas of your pelvis,” Dr. Khan continues, his voice
steady and professional. “This explains the pain you’ve been experiencing,
the irregular cycles, the discomfort during intercourse.”
I hear the words, but they feel like they’re coming from underwater.
Chronic. That means forever. That means this pain isn’t temporary, isn’t
something I can push through and overcome with determination.
“Is it…?” I clear my throat, try again. “Is it treatable?”
“Absolutely. We have several options— hormonal therapy to slow
the progression, pain management strategies, surgical intervention if
necessary. Many women with endometriosis live full, normal lives.”
Normal.
What’s normal about taking medication forever? What’s normal
about surgeries and treatments and managing a condition that turns your
own body against you?
“What about…?” The question sticks in my throat like glass. “What
about having children?”
Dr. Khan’s expression softens, and I know before he speaks that this
is the part he dreads discussing.
“Endometriosis can impact fertility, yes. The scar tissue can interfere
with ovulation and implantation. But it’s important to understand that
difficult doesn’t mean impossible. Many women with endometriosis
conceive naturally, and there are assisted reproductive technologies if
needed.”
Difficult.
Assisted technologies.
The clinical language can’t soften the brutal truth underneath— my
dream of easy pregnancy, of carrying my future husband’s child without
medical intervention, of the natural progression I’ve imagined since
childhood, is probably gone.
“I need to emphasize that every case is different,” he continues
gently. “Your condition appears to be moderate, which means early
intervention can be very effective. You’re young, you’re otherwise healthy.
There’s every reason for optimism.”
I nod because that’s what you do when your doctor offers hope. But
inside, I’m drowning. The future I’ve carried in my head since I was a little
girl playing with dolls— marriage, pregnancy, babies, the whole beautiful
sequence— feels like it’s disintegrating.
“I’d like to start you on hormone therapy to help manage the pain and
slow progression. We’ll monitor your response and adjust as needed. In the
meantime, I want you to know that this diagnosis doesn’t define you or
limit what you can achieve.”
He hands me pamphlets, prescriptions, follow-up appointment cards.
Information to help me navigate this new reality. I take everything with
hands that feel disconnected from my body, still struggling to process that
this conversation is actually happening.
“Do you have any other questions right now?”
I shake my head, not trusting my voice. Questions will come later,
probably hundreds of them. Right now, I just need to escape before I fall
apart completely.
“Thank you,” I manage.
 Dr. Khan stands when I do, his expression compassionate but
professional.
“Ilona, I know this feels overwhelming right now. That’s completely
normal. But you’re not facing this alone, and this doesn’t change who you
are.”
Except it does. Everything’s changed. I just don’t know how to
explain that to someone who deals with these conversations every day.
The walk to the parking lot passes in a fog. My feet carry me through
automatic doors, across asphalt that shimmers with heat, to my car sitting
under the relentless July sun. The metal handle burns my palm when I open
the door, but the pain barely registers against the numbness spreading
through my chest.
I slide into the driver’s seat and close the door, sealing myself into
privacy. That’s when it hits.
The sob comes from somewhere deep, wrenching through my chest
like it’s being torn from my bones. Then another. And another. Until I’m
gasping, doubled over, tears streaming down my face as everything I’ve
been holding back for weeks pours out.
Endometriosis.
The word echoes in my head, heavy with implications I’m only
beginning to understand. This isn’t something I’ll recover from. This is
something I’ll carry forever, managing and medicating and accommodating
until it becomes a part of my identity.
The woman who can’t have children easily.
The woman whose body betrayed her.
The woman who’s broken in ways that can’t be fixed.
I think about all the times I’ve imagined holding my own baby,
feeling life growing inside me, sharing that miracle with someone I love.
The nursery I’ve designed in my head, the names I’ve considered, the future
I’ve built around motherhood. None of it feels possible anymore.
What if I’m unlovable now?
What if this makes me less than whole?
The tears come harder, ugly and desperate. I cry for the diagnosis, for
the pain I’ve endured, for the pain still to come. I cry for the children I
might never carry, the pregnancy I might never experience, the simple
future that’s been complicated beyond recognition.
 I cry for feeling broken and damaged and reduced to a medical
condition I never wanted to understand.
When the storm finally passes, I sit in the silence of my car,
emotionally drained and physically exhausted. The air conditioning runs
automatically, but I’m still hot, still shaking, still trying to process what my
life looks like now.
Home feels like the last place I want to be. The apartment filled with
reminders of a relationship that imploded just as my health started falling
apart. The silence that will give me too much time to think, to spiral, to
imagine worst-case scenarios.
I need… something. Distraction. Connection. Something that makes
me feel human instead of broken.
And suddenly, I know what that something is.
TMG.
The masked guy. The memory of his voice echoes through my
exhaustion: Pain doesn’t need witnesses to be real.
He understood something about me that Stanley never grasped. He
offered comfort without trying to fix anything, acceptance without
demanding explanations. For thirty minutes, I felt like myself instead of a
collection of symptoms and problems.
I need that again. I need to remember what it feels like to be desired
instead of diagnosed, to be mysterious instead of medical.
Before I can second-guess myself, I dial the number I memorized
after my first visit.
“Scarlet Fox.” Jack’s voice is warm, professional.
“Hi,” I say, trying to sound casual instead of desperate. “Do you still
do masked nights?”
“Every Friday night. That’s tonight, actually.” A pause. “Will we be
seeing you again?”
My heart skips at the timing. Friday night. Tonight. Like the universe
is offering me exactly what I need when I need it most.
“Yes,” I hear myself saying. “I’ll be there.”
I end the call and sit in the parking lot for another few minutes, trying
to reconcile the woman who just received a life-changing diagnosis with the
woman who’s planning to return to an anonymous encounter club. But
somehow, it makes perfect sense.
 I’m not looking for sex. I’m not looking for romance or
complications or anything beyond this moment. I’m looking to feel human
again, to remember that I’m more than my medical chart, to exist in a space
where endometriosis doesn’t define me.
And maybe— though I shouldn’t hope this— he’ll be there. The
stranger who saw something worth touching in a woman who’s been feeling
untouchable.
I start the engine and pull out of the parking lot, driving toward home
with something that feels dangerously like hope building in my chest.
Tonight, I won’t be Ilona Shiradze, the woman who just got diagnosed with
endometriosis. Tonight, I’ll be whoever I choose to be behind a lace mask.
And for now, that’s all I need.
 Chapter Ten
Ilona

The air in Scarlet Fox feels different tonight.

Maybe it’s me that’s different— broken in ways I’m still learning to
understand. The burgundy velvet and amber lighting that once felt
mysterious now feel like sanctuary, like the only place in the world where I
can exist without pretending everything is fine.
Jack recognizes me immediately, his dark eyes softening with
something that might be concern. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t offer
sympathetic platitudes. Just nods toward the familiar hallway and slides a
lace mask across the polished bar.
“Room Five,” he says quietly. “Same as before.”
My fingers tremble as I take the mask. The delicate lace feels fragile,
like it might disintegrate if I grip too tightly. But then again, everything
feels fragile right now.
The corridor stretches before me, each step echoes my heartbeat—
erratic, desperate, alive despite everything trying to kill it. The scent of
sandalwood and roses grows stronger as I approach the familiar door, and
my body remembers this space with startling clarity.
Inside, candles flicker against burgundy walls, casting dancing
shadows that make the room feel alive. The velvet chair where I confessed
my deepest fears sits exactly where I left it, patient and waiting. Everything
is the same. Perfect. Untouched by the diagnosis that’s rewritten my entire
future.
I sink into the chair and let the mask settle over my features,
transforming me into someone else. Someone whose body isn’t a
battleground. Someone who doesn’t carry the weight of chronic illness like
a stone in her chest.
The tears start without permission.
They’re different from the ugly sobs in the parking lot earlier. These
are quiet, exhausted, mourning tears for the woman I was this morning—
naive enough to believe pain always had solutions, that bodies were
trustworthy, that wanting children was enough to ensure you could have
them.
 Endometriosis.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the flow, but grief
has its own rhythm. So I let it come. Let it wash through me until my chest
feels hollow and my breathing steadies into something resembling
composure.
He probably won’t come tonight.
Why would he?
Lightning doesn’t strike twice, and whatever magic existed between
us was probably a one-time thing. A beautiful anomaly that I’ve built into
something bigger than it was because I’m desperate for connection.
But God, I hope he does. I need to remember what it feels like to be
heard, desired instead of diagnosed. To be seen as a woman instead of a
patient. To exist in a space where my worth isn’t measured by my
reproductive capacity.
The soft click of the adjoining bathroom door makes my pulse spike.
Running water. The rush of a shower, steam seeping under the
doorframe. He’s here. Actually here. My skin prickles with awareness,
every nerve ending suddenly alive and focused on the sounds filtering
through the wall.
What if it’s someone else this time?
I smooth my robe with hands that won’t stop shaking, trying to look
composed instead of devastated. Trying to be the mysterious woman from
last week instead of the broken girl who cried in a doctor’s office this
afternoon.
The water stops.
Silence stretches, taut and electric.
When the door opens, my breath catches so sharply it hurts.
It’s him.
He stands in the doorway, towel riding low on narrow hips, water still
beading on bronze skin. The candlelight plays across muscles that speak of
discipline and violence, illuminating tattoos that tell stories I’ll never know.
His dark hair is slicked back, revealing the sharp angles of his face behind
the leather mask.
He’s magnificent. Dangerous. Everything my rational mind should
avoid and everything my body craves with frightening intensity.
He settles into the chair across from me without a word, studying my
face with the same penetrating focus as before. Like he can see through the
lace to the woman underneath. Like he knows exactly what kind of day I’ve
had.
“I was hoping you’d be here,” I whisper, the words tumbling out
before I can stop them. “Last time was… nice.”
The understatement hangs between us like a confession. Nice doesn’t
begin to cover what happened in this room— the way he listened without
judgment, the electric connection that made me feel alive for the first time
in months.
“Speak to me,” he says simply.
Where do I even begin? How do I explain that everything I thought I
knew about my body, my future, my worth as a woman has been stripped
away in a single doctor’s appointment?
“I got some medical news today,” I start, then stop, overwhelmed by
the magnitude of what that simple statement contains.
His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his posture.
Complete focus. Like my words matter more than anything else in the
world.
“The pains… I have endometriosis.” The word feels foreign, clinical
and cold. “It’s a chronic condition that… that means my body is basically
attacking itself. The pain I’ve been dealing with, the irregular cycles, the
way intimacy became impossible— it all makes sense now.”
I pause, waiting for him to offer platitudes or solutions or any of the
things people say when they don’t know how to fix something. But he just
watches, patient and present, giving me space to fall apart.
“The worst part isn’t the pain,” I continue, my voice breaking. “It’s
what it means for my future. Having children might be difficult. Maybe
impossible. And I’ve wanted to be a mother since I was little, you know? I
used to line up my dolls and pretend they were my babies, plan their names
and their nurseries and their whole lives.”
The tears come without permission, but I don’t try to hide them. Not
here. Not with him.
“And now… I’m broken in ways that can’t be fixed.” The words
carry the weight of every fear I’ve had since walking out of that doctor’s
office. That I’m damaged goods. That no one will want me now. That my
body has betrayed me in the most fundamental way possible.
He leans forward slightly, those pale eyes never leaving my face.
When he speaks, his voice is rough, weighted with absolute conviction.
 “You are not broken.”
Four words. Simple. Absolute. They hit me like lightning, stealing
my breath and sending heat through my chest.
The certainty in his voice makes me want to believe him. Makes me
want to crawl into his lap and let him convince me with his hands and
mouth that I’m still desirable, still whole, still worth wanting.
My gaze drops to the towel around his waist, to the impressive bulge
there. He wants me. Even knowing about my diagnosis, my uncertain future
— he still wants me.
“Is that…?” I gesture toward his erection, warmth spreading across
my skin. “Because of me?” I feel my cheeks flame, but I can’t help asking.
His response is wordless— just a slight nod and the barest hint of a
dangerous smile. He doesn’t try to hide or adjust himself, doesn’t apologize
for his body’s response. He just owns it, owns the desire crackling between
us.
I can’t look away. Can’t breathe. Can’t think beyond the magnetic
pull drawing me toward him like gravity.
He stands slowly, deliberately, every movement controlled and
predatory. His hands move to the towel’s edge, fingers working the knot
with casual confidence.
“Wait,” I breathe, but I don’t mean it. I need this. Need to see him,
need to remember what desire feels like when it’s not clouded by pain or
medical terminology.
The terry cloth falls to the floor.
My mouth goes dry. He’s godlike. Tall and lean and powerfully built,
his cock standing proud and thick. Tattoos cover his torso like a roadmap of
violence and survival— Russian script across his ribs, geometric patterns
down his arms, something that might be prison markings on his knuckles.
Scars interrupt the ink in places, pale against bronze skin, telling stories of
fights he’s survived.
This is a body that’s seen war. That’s taken damage and kept going.
That’s strong enough to survive anything.
He wraps his hand around his length, stroking slowly, eyes locked on
mine. The sight sends molten heat pooling between my thighs.
“Touch yourself,” he commands softly.
My breath catches. “I can’t—”
 A slight shake of his head. His eyes say everything. “You can. Show
me.”
The unspoken words unlock something primal inside me, something
that’s been buried under months of pain and insecurity. My hand drifts to
the belt of my robe, fingers trembling as I work the knot loose.
The silk falls open, exposing my breasts to the candlelight. I’m not
wearing anything underneath— hadn’t planned this, but my body knew
what it needed before my mind caught up.
His eyes darken to slate as they rake over my bare skin, pupils
dilating with hunger that makes me feel powerful despite everything. He
increases the pace of his strokes, and I can see moisture beading at the
swollen head of his cock, pre-cum glistening in the candlelight.
I part my legs without being asked, the cool air hitting my already
slick flesh. I’m soaked, my arousal coating my inner thighs; I’ve been wet
since the moment he walked through that door. My fingers find my center,
sliding through the wetness before circling my swollen clit with gentle
pressure that makes my back arch off the velvet.
What the hell are you doing, Ilona?
Have you gone insane?
It’s too late to turn back. A low growl escapes his throat at the sight
of my glistening pussy spread before him, the sound vibrating through me
and making my walls clench around nothing.
We watch each other, breathing heavy, movements synchronized.
There’s something deeply intimate about this— more intimate than
anything with Stanley ever was. We’re stripped bare in every way that
matters, vulnerable and honest and completely present.
My fingers slide lower, parting my slick folds before pushing two
fingers deep inside myself. I’m so wet they slide in effortlessly, my inner
walls gripping them as his grip tightens on his thick shaft. The sensation
makes me whimper, hips rolling against my own touch as I work myself
open. I’m lost in the heat building between us, in the way he’s watching me
fuck myself with my fingers.
His breathing becomes labored, his hand working his length from
base to tip with increasing urgency. The thick vein running along the
underside of his cock throbs with each stroke, and I can see how his heavy
balls tighten as he watches me pleasure myself. The sight of him losing
control pushes me higher, closer to the edge I’ve been circling.
 My free hand finds my breast, rolling the hardened nipple between
my fingers as I pump my other hand in and out of my pussy with increasing
urgency. I add a third finger, stretching myself as I imagine what it would
feel like to have his thick cock filling me instead. The dual sensations make
me cry out, sharp and desperate, my juices flowing freely over my working
fingers.
He’s close now, his strokes becoming erratic, his hips thrusting
forward involuntarily into his fist. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the
air conditioning, and his jaw clenches with the effort of control. I can see
the muscles in his thighs trembling with restraint.
I curl my fingers inside myself, finding that perfect spot that makes
my back arch. My thumb finds my clit, rubbing tight circles around the
swollen bud as my fingers work inside me. The wet sounds of my fingers
moving in and out of my pussy fill the room, mixing with our harsh
breathing.
The intensity in his eyes breaks me. My orgasm crashes through me,
my pussy clamping down hard on my fingers as waves of pleasure tear
through my core. I arch off the chair, my free hand gripping the velvet as I
finger myself through the climax, my walls pulsing rhythmically around my
digits. It’s violent and beautiful and exactly what I need— release from
everything that’s been building inside me.
My cries of pleasure push him over the edge. His head falls back,
throat working as he pumps his length with desperate strokes. When he
comes, it’s with a deep groan that I feel in my bones, thick spurts of cum
painting his taut belly. The sight of his release triggers another smaller
climax in me, my oversensitive pussy fluttering around my still-moving
fingers.
The sight of him losing control because of me sends aftershocks
through my sensitized body. I’ve never felt so powerful, so desired, so
completely alive.
We sit in the aftermath, breathing heavy, eyes locked across the space
between us. The air crackles with satisfaction and something deeper—
connection that transcends the physical, understanding that goes beyond
words.
He moves then, standing and crossing to where I sit boneless in my
chair. His approach is slow, unthreatening, but predatory in a way that
makes my pulse spike again.
 When he reaches me, he leans down and presses his lips to my
forehead— soft, sweet, achingly tender. The kiss burns through me like a
brand, claiming something I didn’t know I was offering.
His finger traces down my spine, just one gentle touch that leaves fire
in its wake. I close my eyes, trying to memorize this moment— the scent of
his skin, the warmth of his body, the way he makes me feel beautiful
instead of broken.
When I open my eyes again, he’s gone.
Just like that.
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone with the echoes of
what just happened. My body still hums with satisfaction, with the memory
of his hands on himself while watching me fall apart.
I don’t know his name.
I’ll never know his name.
But I know how it feels to be desired completely, to have someone
see my pleasure as sacred instead of inconvenient. I know what it’s like to
exist in a space where I’m just a woman sharing intimacy with a man who
thinks I’m perfect as I am.
And God help me, I want to see him again.
 Chapter Eleven

Ilona

The cool night air hits my face as I step out of The Scarlet Fox, and I
feel like I’m floating.
My skin still hums with electricity from TMG’s touch. The memory
of his hands, his voice, the intensity of our connection sends warmth
spiraling through my chest.
For the first time in months, I feel alive. Powerful. Like myself again.
My phone buzzes insistently from my purse as I walk toward the
parking area, but I ignore it. Whatever crisis needs my attention can wait.
Right now, I want to hold onto this feeling— this sense of being desired,
heard, valued. TMG gave me something tonight that I’d forgotten I
deserved.
The phone buzzes again. And again. Twelve missed calls when I
finally check the screen, all from Stanley.
Not tonight, I think, sliding the phone back into my purse. Whatever
he wants to fight about, whatever new accusation he’s manufactured, I don’t
have the energy or the desire to engage. The contrast between how TMG
treated me— with reverence, with attention, with genuine care— and how
Stanley has been treating me feels stark and undeniable.
I’m done pretending that’s acceptable.
The parking lot is dimly lit, pools of yellow light from overhead
lamps casting long shadows between the cars. My heels click against
asphalt as I approach my Honda, keys already in hand. The night feels full
of possibility instead of threat, my body still humming with the afterglow.
Then I see him.
Stanley leans against my car like he owns it, arms crossed over his
chest in a pose designed to intimidate. His perfectly styled hair catches the
lamplight, and his expression is dark with the kind of controlled rage I’ve
learned to recognize as dangerous. My stomach drops as the fantasy bubble
of the evening pops like soap film.
“So you’re coming here now,” he says, his voice deceptively calm.
“The Scarlet Fox.”
Shit.
 How long has he been waiting here? How did he even know I was
here? The questions multiply in my head, but I force myself to keep
walking. I won’t let him see that his presence rattles me. I won’t let him
steal the gift I was given tonight.
“Stanley.” I keep my voice steady, professional. Like he’s a difficult
client instead of the man who shared my bed for two years. “What are you
doing here?”
He pushes off from my car, moving to block the driver’s side door.
“Answer my question first. What the hell are you doing in a place like
this?”
“A place like what?” I raise an eyebrow, channeling some of TMG’s
quiet confidence. “It’s a bar. I had a drink.”
“Don’t play stupid with me, Ilona. I know what this place is.” His
eyes are hard. “Private rooms. Anonymous encounters. Very… discreet.”
Ice floods my veins. How does he know about that? How much does
he know? But I keep my expression neutral, refusing to give him the
reaction he’s fishing for.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I step toward my car door,
but he shifts to block me more completely. “Move, Stanley. I want to go
home.”
“Who are you fucking?”
The question hits like a slap. Direct, brutal, designed to wound. But
instead of the shame and defensiveness he’s expecting, I feel something else
rising in my chest— anger. Clean, righteous anger that cuts through fear
like a blade.
“No one.” The truth comes out steady, unashamed. Because it is the
truth, technically. What happened with TMG transcended physical acts. It
was connection, understanding, intimacy without penetration. “Move away
from my car.”
“Bullshit.” Stanley’s composure cracks, revealing the jealous rage
underneath. He slams his hand against my hood with enough force to make
the metal ring. “First you won’t have sex with me, then you start sneaking
around to bars, staying out until all hours—”
“I’m sick, Stanley!” The words explode from me with two years of
accumulated frustration. “I have endometriosis. That’s why sex hurts.
That’s why I’ve been distant. But you never bothered to ask, did you? It
was easier to just accuse me of cheating.”
 His expression doesn’t change. No surprise, no concern, no
recognition of the pain I’ve been carrying. Just the same cold calculation,
like he’s deciding whether my diagnosis is convenient for his narrative.
“So you’re saying you have some… condition that makes you
frigid?” The word lands like acid. “How convenient. Right when I start
asking questions about your behavior.”
“Convenient?” I stare at him, finally seeing him clearly for the first
time. This man I thought I loved, who I defended to my friends and family,
who I made excuses for when he cheated. “You think I’m lying about a
medical diagnosis to avoid having sex with you?”
“I think you’re lying about a lot of things.” He steps closer, using his
height to intimidate. “The constant excuses, the way you flinch every time I
touch you. Something’s going on, and I’m going to find out what.”
The accusations pour out of him like poison from an infected wound.
Every insecurity, every projection, every twisted interpretation of my
behavior when I was struggling with pain and confusion. He’s constructed
an entire story where I’m the villain and he’s the victim.
“You want to know what’s going on?” The anger builds to something
volcanic, powerful enough to burn away nearly two years of conditioning
that taught me to minimize my own needs. “I’ve been feeling lonely in this
relationship for months. Like I’m only useful to you in the bedroom. You
never ask about my emotions, my fears, my dreams. When I try to tell you
something’s wrong, you dismiss it as overreacting.”
“Here we go.” Stanley rolls his eyes. “The victim routine again.”
“And when you cheated on me with Melissa,” I continue, my voice
rising with each word, “you somehow made it my fault. Like I wasn’t
available enough, wasn’t understanding enough about your needs. But the
second I need understanding about my health, you decide I must be lying.”
“That’s different—”
“How? How is it different?” I’m shouting now, months of suppressed
frustration pouring out in the empty parking lot. “You get a free pass for
actual infidelity, but I get interrogated for going to a bar alone?”
Stanley’s face flushes with anger and something that might be
embarrassment. “You don’t get to throw that in my face forever. I
apologized for Melissa. I made it right.”
“Made it right?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in the sound. “You
mean you convinced me to take you back after I caught you fucking her on
your desk. That’s not making it right, that’s manipulation.”
“I never manipulated—”
“You gaslight me constantly!” The words feel like liberation, like
finally naming something that’s been suffocating me for months. “Every
time I have a concern, you tell me I’m overreacting. Every time I need
something from you, you make it about how I’m being unreasonable.
You’ve made me question my own reality so often I started to believe
maybe I was crazy.”
Stanley’s expression shifts from anger to something colder. “So what
are you saying? You want to throw away two years because you’re having
some kind of emotional breakdown?”
The dismissal in his tone— reducing everything I’ve said to a
breakdown—crystallizes something inside me. This is who he really is. Not
the charming man who swept me off my feet, but this person who reduces
my pain to inconvenience and my needs to hysteria.
“It’s over, Stanley.” The words surprise me as much as they surprise
him, but once they’re out, they feel like the most honest thing I’ve said in
months.
“What?”
“I’m done. I can’t do this anymore. I’m breaking up with you.”
For a moment, we both stand frozen in the lamplight, my declaration
hanging between us like a challenge. Stanley’s face cycles through shock,
disbelief, and finally fury as the reality of what I’ve said sinks in.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.” I move
toward my car door again, and this time he doesn’t stop me immediately.
“Move, Stanley.”
“This is insane.” His voice is rising, desperation bleeding through the
anger. “You’re having some kind of breakdown because of medical issues,
and you’re making decisions you’ll regret—”
“The only thing I regret is staying as long as I did.” I insert my key
into the lock, hands steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system.
“Now move away from my car.”
Instead of stepping back, he grabs my arm— not gently, not
affectionately, but with the kind of grip designed to control. “You’re not
thinking clearly. Let’s go back to my place and talk about this rationally.”
 “Don’t touch me!” I yank my arm free with enough force to send him
stumbling backward. The command comes from somewhere deep, fueled
by months of boundaries violated and autonomy ignored. “Ever again!”
Stanley’s face transforms into something I’ve never seen before—
ugly, entitled rage at being denied what he considers his property. For a split
second, I think he might actually grab me again, might try to physically
prevent me from leaving.
But I’m already in the car, doors locked, engine turning over.
Through the windshield, I can see him standing in the lamplight looking
like a stranger— or maybe like himself, finally, without the mask of charm
and manipulation.
I reverse out of the parking space with deliberate care, refusing to
screech tires or flee like I’m running away. Because I’m not running. I’m
walking toward something better, something healthier, something that
honors who I actually am instead of who he needed me to be.
In my rearview mirror, Stanley grows smaller and smaller until he
disappears entirely into the darkness behind me.
As I drive through Boston’s quiet streets, the adrenaline begins to
fade, replaced by something lighter and more fragile— relief. The kind of
relief that comes from finally putting down a weight you didn’t realize you
were carrying.
My phone buzzes with a text, probably from Stanley, but I don’t
check it. Tonight isn’t about him anymore. It’s about the woman who
walked into Room Five afraid and desperate, and walked out remembering
her own worth.
It’s about an unknown man’s hands on my face, treating me like
something precious.
It’s about the future I’m finally free to imagine without Stanley’s
emotional abuse.
I drive toward home with the windows down, letting the cool air
wash away the last traces of a relationship that was slowly killing me.
And for the first time in months, I feel like I can breathe.
 Chapter Twelve
Osip

The numbers on my computer screen blur together like broken code.

I’ve been staring at the same spreadsheet for twenty minutes, but all I
can see are her eyes behind that lace mask. Eyes that roved over me with
something raw and hungry that made my chest tighten.
I got home after midnight last night, the drive from The Scarlet Fox
passing in a haze of her scent still in my nostrils. Galina was fast asleep,
one hand resting protectively over her swollen belly, dark hair spread across
Egyptian cotton like spilled ink. She looked peaceful. Innocent. Everything
I’m not.
I should have slipped into bed beside her, should have let my wife’s
presence ground me back to reality. Instead, I stood in our bedroom
doorway for several minutes, watching her breathe while my mind replayed
every second of what happened in that burgundy room.
The woman’s voice, defeated and honest: I’m broken in ways that
can’t be fixed.
The trust in her eyes when she told a masked stranger about her
health problems. The way she said it— quiet, broken, like she was
confessing to murder instead of a medical condition.
Endometriosis.
She can’t have children easily. Maybe not at all.
The knowledge sits heavy in my chest. This information should be
irrelevant— she’s a stranger, a masked encounter that was supposed to end
when I walked out that door. But it gnaws at me anyway, this understanding
of her pain, her broken dreams.
I’d tried to sleep. Tossed and turned for two hours while Galina slept
peacefully beside me, her pregnancy-deepened breathing a constant
reminder of what I was betraying just by thinking about another woman.
Finally, I gave up and went to the shower.
Under scalding water, with steam filling the marble-tiled space, I’d
wrapped my hand around my cock and let myself remember. Her lips
parting when she saw me. The heat of her skin when I touched her cheek.
The way she looked at me like I was salvation instead of damnation.
 I came harder than I had in months, biting my knuckles to keep from
making noise that would wake my pregnant wife. The guilt hit immediately
after— sharp, acidic, the kind that burns your throat and leaves you hollow.
But even the guilt couldn’t erase the memory of her voice, the
magnetic pull I felt sitting across from her in that candlelit room.
Now I’m here at my office, trying to focus on legitimate business
while my thoughts are consumed by a woman whose name I’ll never know.
A woman who trusted me with secrets she probably hasn’t shared with
anyone else.
My secure phone buzzes against the mahogany desk, and I snatch it
up. Radimir’s name flashes on the screen.
“What do you have for me?”
“Blyad, Osip.” My younger brother’s voice carries exhaustion and
something sharper— anger mixed with disbelief. “I’ve been digging
through financial records all night. This is worse than we thought.”
I lean forward, forcing my attention away from red velvet and lace
masks. “How much worse?”
“Shiradze isn’t just skimming— he’s built an entire parallel
operation. I’m talking about theft going back at least three years, maybe
longer.” The sound of rapid typing echoes through the phone. “You know
how methodical I am with data, da? Well, this fucker has been methodical
too.”
Radimir talks fast when he’s excited or angry, his words tumbling
over each other like machine-gun fire. Of my two brothers, he’s the one
who lives inside computers and server farms, more comfortable with code
than conversation. But when he finds something that pisses him off, he
becomes eloquent in his rage.
“Give me specifics,” I growl.
“Remember the Kowalski couple from Hartford? Shiradze told us
they changed their minds, remember? Well guess what— they paid four
hundred thousand for twin boys through ‘Dr. Shiradze’s private practice’.
We never saw a kopeck of that money. According to our books, that
placement never happened.”
My jaw tightens. “Keep going.”
“The Richmond family in Newport— three hundred fifty thousand
for a healthy newborn girl. The Castellanos in Manhattan— five hundred
thousand for what they were told was a rare ‘expedited placement.’ All of
them think they dealt exclusively with Igor’s medical practice. None of
them even heard the name Sidorov.”
Each revelation builds the anger inside me. Igor hasn’t just been
stealing money— he’s been stealing clients, building his own empire while
using our infrastructure and connections.
Yobani Urod!
“How many clients total?”
“That I can confirm? Fourteen major transactions in the past eighteen
months alone. We’re talking about seven million dollars that never touched
our accounts, Osip. Seven fucking million.”
The number reverberates through my skull like artillery fire. Seven
million dollars. Enough to run our entire operation for years or to buy off
half the police department. Money that should have been split between our
partnership, used to expand operations, shared according to the agreements
we all signed.
“But here’s the beautiful part,” Radimir continues, his voice dripping
with bitter sarcasm. “The suka is still taking his cut from our legitimate
transactions. So he’s getting paid twice— once from us for the work we
know about, and again from his private clients for the work we don’t.”
“The medical records?”
“Forged. He’s using real birth certificates and legal documents, but
routing everything through shell companies that don’t exist on paper. Very
sophisticated operation. If I didn’t know what to look for, I never would
have found it.”
I close my eyes, processing the scope of Igor’s betrayal. This isn’t
opportunistic theft— it’s strategic warfare. While I protected him from the
violent realities of our business, while I handled enforcement and collection
and all the ugly necessities that kept our operation running, he was building
a competing empire using my own resources.
“The contacts?” I ask. “How is he finding these clients?”
“Hospital networks, fertility clinics, private practices. He’s got
legitimate medical credentials, remember? He can walk into any elite
medical facility and start conversations with desperate couples. Meanwhile,
we’re stuck dealing with back-alley introductions and word-of-mouth
referrals.”
The strategy is brilliant in its simplicity. Igor presents himself as the
respectable face of adoption services while I remain the criminal in the
shadows. Clients trust him because he’s Dr. Igor Shiradze, respected
gynecologist, not some Russian gangster with blood on his hands.
“There’s more,” Radimir says quietly. “I found communications with
lawyers, accountants, even a contact at Child Protective Services. This isn’t
just about money, brat. He’s building infrastructure to completely bypass
our operation.”
K chertu ublyudka!
Igor isn’t just stealing from me— he’s positioning himself to
eliminate me entirely. Once his network is established, once he has enough
clients and resources, he won’t need Osip Sidorov anymore.
“What about Stanley’s accusations?” I ask.
“Morrison was right about the missing money, wrong about the
cause. That Henderson delivery he was screaming about? Igor took the full
payment and reported it as a failed placement. Client got their baby, Igor
got his money, and we got fucked.”
Everything slots into place with sickening clarity. Stanley’s rage
wasn’t about imaginary money— it was about real theft that I was too blind
to see. While I dismissed his accusations as paranoia and jealousy, Igor was
systematically dismantling our partnership from the inside.
“How long have you known?” Radimir asks quietly.
“Suspected for a few days. Had confirmation yesterday.” I scrub my
free hand over my face. “Stanley came into my office making wild
accusations. I thought he was losing his shit, looking for someone to blame
for his own failures.”
“Stanley Morrison is a lot of things, but he’s not stupid about
money.”
True. For all his faults, Stanley has always been good with numbers
and client relationships. If he noticed irregularities, I should have taken him
seriously instead of dismissing him as a paranoid mudak.
“So what do we do?” Radimir asks. “This kind of betrayal… in the
old country, there would be no question.”
In the old country.
In Siberia, where I learned that trust is a luxury that gets you killed.
Where betrayal is answered with violence so swift and brutal that it serves
as a lesson for anyone else considering disloyalty.
But this isn’t Siberia. This is Boston, where I’ve built a life based on
respectability and careful distance from my past. Where I’m a legitimate
businessman, not a killer figuring out the best way to eliminate a problem.
“Leave it to me,” I tell my brother.
“Osip—”
“I said leave it to me.”
The line goes dead, and I set the phone down with deliberate care.
The office falls silent except for the hum of air conditioning and the distant
murmur of traffic thirty floors below.
Seven million dollars.
Fourteen stolen clients.
Taking regular payments anyway.
Three years of systematic betrayal.
Igor Shiradze has been playing me for a fool while positioning
himself to inherit everything I’ve built. The compassionate doctor who talks
about helping families find hope, the respected professional who convinced
me that our business was about more than money— all performance, all
calculation.
I lean back in my leather chair, letting the familiar calm settle over
me. The cold calculation that’s kept me breathing through wars, prison,
business deals that could have ended with bullets instead of handshakes.
When violence becomes necessary, emotion is a luxury I can’t afford.
But underneath the professional fury, something else burns. Personal
betrayal. The sting of being made to look like a fool in front of my brothers,
my partners. Igor didn’t just steal money— he stole my reputation, my
judgment, my ability to trust my own instincts.
That’s not business.
That’s personal.
And personal betrayals require personal consequences.
I pick up my phone and dial Igor’s number, my fingers steady despite
the rage building in my chest. The phone rings four times before his
familiar voice answers, warm and concerned as always.
“Osip? This is unexpected. Everything alright?”
The fake concern in his tone makes my teeth clench. “Igor. We need
to talk.”
“Of course. What’s on your mind?”
“Not over the phone. Dinner. Tomorrow night.”
A pause. “Tomorrow? I’m actually in New York for a medical
conference. Very last-minute invitation— I literally flew out this morning.
But I’ll be back early next week if—”
“When exactly?”
“Thursday evening. I land at Logan around six. Is this urgent?
Because if there’s an emergency with one of our clients—”
“Thursday works. At Deuxave, eight o’clock. We have business to
discuss.”
Longer silence this time. I can almost hear his head ticking, trying to
read the temperature of this conversation through my tone.
“Business? Osip, if this is about any administrative issues or
scheduling conflicts, I’m sure we can sort everything out quickly. You know
how these medical conferences can complicate scheduling—”
“Thursday. Eight o’clock. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll see you then. Should I… is there anything
specific I should prepare? Financial records or client files?”
“Just yourself, Igor. That’s all I need.”
I end the call before he can respond, setting the phone down with the
same deliberate care. Thursday gives me four days to calm the fuck down
and plan this conversation. Four days to decide exactly how to handle a
man who’s been stealing from me for years while presenting himself as my
most trusted partner.
Four days to figure out whether Dr. Igor Shiradze walks out of that
restaurant alive.
The thought should disturb me more than it does. But as I sit in my
office, surrounded by the trappings of corporate success, all I feel is the
familiar weight of necessity. Some problems can be solved with lawyers
and contracts. Others require more direct solutions.
Igor Shiradze chose his path when he decided to steal from me. Now
he gets to live with the consequences.
Or die with them.
 Chapter Thirteen
Osip

The restaurant is exactly the kind of place an honest businessman

would choose—expensive enough to project success, quiet enough for
conversations that shouldn’t be overheard.
I arrive early, claiming the corner booth that gives me clear sight
lines to every entrance. Old habits. In my world, paranoia keeps you
breathing.
I order black coffee and check my Patek Philippe. Igor’s five minutes
late, which is unlike him. The good doctor prides himself on punctuality,
the same way he prides himself on his reputation, his charity work, and his
fucking humanitarian facade.
Ublyudok!
All bullshit, as it turns out.
My secure phone holds the evidence— recorded conversations with
clients who paid him directly, financial records that don’t match our books,
a pattern of theft so systematic it took Radimir days to uncover. Igor
Shiradze, the respectable gynecologist who gives our operation legitimacy,
has been running his own empire while we handled the dirty work.
The betrayal tastes like copper pennies in my mouth.
When he finally appears, gliding through the restaurant like he owns
the place, my blood pressure spikes. Designer suit, confident smile, the
practiced charm that makes desperate couples trust him with their darkest
desires. He looks every inch the successful doctor— except I now know
he’s been buying that success with stolen money.
“Osip.” He slides into the seat across from me, immediately noting
my expression. “You look like someone shot your dog.”
“Funny you should mention shooting.” I keep my voice level,
controlled. “We need to talk.”
Igor’s smile falters slightly, but he maintains his composure. “About
what?”
I get straight to the point. I place the manila folder on the table
between us, thick with printed evidence. Financial records, transaction logs,
copies of payments that went directly to his accounts instead of our shared
operation.
“About the millions you’ve been stealing from our partnership.”
The color drains from his face, but he recovers quickly. “I don’t
know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t?” I flip open the folder, revealing highlighted bank
statements. “Let’s go over it then. Mrs. Patterson in Greenwich. Four
hundred thousand, paid directly to your private account. The Walkers in
Connecticut— two hundred fifty. Should I continue?”
“Those are legitimate medical fees—”
“Cut the shit, Igor.” My patience evaporates like alcohol in fire. “I’ve
spoken to the clients. They all think you run an independent adoption
service. None of them know my name or Stanley’s.”
He opens his mouth to deny it again, but I’m done with his lies. I pull
out my phone, queue up one of the recorded conversations, and press play
without a word.
Mrs. Callahan’s voice fills the space between us: “Dr. Shiradze
handled everything personally. Two hundred and fifty thousand, paid to his
private account as instructed. Very professional, very discreet.”
Igor’s facade cracks like ice under pressure. His hands tremble
slightly as he reaches for his water glass, and I know I’ve got him.
“That proves nothing,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction.
“It proves you’re a thieving mudak who’s been playing me for a
fool.” I lean forward, voice dropping to the tone that makes grown men
need a change of underwear. “How long, Igor? How long have you been
running private deals?”
Sweat beads on his forehead despite the restaurant’s aggressive air
conditioning. “You don’t understand the pressure I’m under, Osip. The
medical board is asking questions. There’s a journalist sniffing around,
rumors about my involvement in questionable adoptions. A birth mother in
Bulgaria is threatening to go public.”
“So you decided to steal from us?”
“I’m the face of this fucking operation!” His voice rises before he
catches himself, glancing around nervously. “The coverups aren’t cheap.
Payoffs to officials, hush money to potential witnesses—”
“That’s Melor’s department. You know that.” I study his face,
watching for tells. “This isn’t about expenses, you greedy pizda. This is
about building your own business while using our infrastructure.”
Igor’s desperation transforms into something uglier— cornered
animal aggression. “Fine. You want the truth? The payoffs are getting more
expensive. Officials want more money. Birth mothers want more. Everyone
wants their cut, and I’m the one they come to because I’m respectable. I
have a reputation to protect.”
“Reputation.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re a criminal,
Igor. Same as me, same as Stanley. The only difference is your crimes wear
a white coat.”
“I’m nothing like you.” His voice turns venomous. “I help families. I
create hope. You’re just a thug with expensive suits.”
The insult hits exactly the nerve he intended. I feel the familiar ice
spreading through my veins, the cold calculation that comes before
violence. But I maintain control. This isn’t some street corner in
Vladivostok— this is a public restaurant where witnesses have
smartphones.
“You betrayed us, Igor, but I’ll give you a chance.” I say quietly.
“Pay back what you stole. Every fucking kopeck. Do that, and you walk
away breathing.”
Igor’s expression shifts, fear replaced by something more dangerous
— arrogance. He leans forward, eyes narrowing as his voice drops to a
whisper.
“Betray you? That’s rich coming from a Bratva criminal, Osip. I’ve
been in this business long enough to know where you buried all the bodies
from your past— figuratively and literally.” His smile turns cold,
calculating. “Don’t think I don’t know about the things you’ve done. I’ve
got proof too. So before you start throwing around accusations, remember: I
can bring down your entire fucking life with a single phone call.”
The threat sets my teeth on edge. Igor knows about Vladivostok.
About the men I took care of to earn my reputation. About the graves that
would link me to cases the American authorities would love to solve.
But instead of backing down, something harder crystallizes in my
chest. Igor just declared war. He chose this path.
“Fine,” I say, keeping my expression stone cold. “Forget about it
then.”
“As I thought.” His smirk radiates satisfaction, the look of a man
who thinks he’s won. “Smart boy.”
 Boy?
The condescension ignites something murderous in my chest, but I
don’t let it show. Igor’s revealed his true nature— not the compassionate
doctor I thought I knew, but a pizda who’s been playing a longer game than
I realized.
I stand, pushing my chair back with deliberate force. “We’re done
here.”
“You bet we are.”
I ignore his comment. I pay the bill without another word, walking
through the restaurant with Igor trailing behind. The summer night air hits
us like a wall of heat as we exit into the parking lot.
Our cars are parked side by side— my BMW and his pristine
Mercedes, both symbols of success built on blood money. I stop beside my
driver’s door, keys in hand, but I don’t open it.
“Igor.” My voice carries across the empty space between us. “One
last chance. Pay back the money you stole and walk away. Then we never
see each other again.”
He looks confused, like he can’t believe I’m still pushing after his
threats. “I thought we just went through this.”
“I won’t say it again. Be smart and walk away without
consequences.”
“Be smart?” Igor’s arrogance returns full force, transforming his
features into something ugly and unfamiliar. “No, you be smart, you
fucking cunt. Threaten me once more and I’ll expose you to the cops and
ruin your life. You understand? There won’t be anything left of your
miserable existence. No pregnant wife at home, no child. I can take it all
away from you in an instant.”
The mention of Galina and my child flips a switch I didn’t know
existed.
My hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around his throat as I slam him
against the side of his Mercedes. His eyes bulge with shock and terror, the
arrogant mask finally slipping completely.
“Please, Osip,” he gasps, clawing at my grip. “I have a family, a wife,
a daughter—”
I consider loosening my grip for a moment, but his bleating pleas are
nothing but a mask for what he has in mind. The movement in his pocket
almost doesn’t register through my rage. By the time I see the glint of steel,
the blade is already arcing toward my neck. Prison instincts take over,
reflexes honed in cells where hesitation meant death.
I catch his wrist mid-strike, our faces inches apart as we struggle for
control. Igor’s eyes are wild with desperation and fear, his breath coming in
panicked gasps. The knife trembles between us, sharp edge gleaming in the
moonlight.
He’s weaker than me.
Always has been.
I twist his wrist with brutal efficiency, redirecting the blade’s angle.
The steel slides between his ribs like it was meant to be there, finding his
heart with anatomical precision.
Igor’s eyes go wide with shock and disbelief. Blood blooms across
his expensive shirt, dark red spreading like spilled wine. He tries to speak,
but only gurgling sounds emerge as crimson bubbles at the corners of his
mouth.
His knees buckle, and I release him. He slides down the side of his
car, leaving a smear of blood on pristine white paint. His knife remains
buried in his chest, his hands fluttering weakly around the handle as life
drains from his eyes.
The final breath leaves him with a soft sigh, and Igor Shiradze—
respected doctor, loving father, thieving pizda— becomes just another body
in a parking lot.
Chert voz’mi!
This wasn’t the plan. I came here hoping for strong conversation,
maybe threats at worst. But Igor forced my hand when he pulled that blade,
when he threatened Galina and my unborn child.
Blyad!
I check my watch. Two minutes since we left the restaurant. I scan
the parking lot— empty except for heat shimmer rising from asphalt. No
witnesses, no security cameras visible. Just me and Igor’s cooling corpse.
My phone is in my hand before conscious thought intervenes. First
call goes to my cleanup crew— professionals who specialize in making
problems disappear.
“Yes, boss,” the voice answers on the first ring.
“Parking lot behind Deuxave on Commonwealth. One body, minimal
blood. How fast?”
“Twenty minutes.”
 “Make it fifteen.” I end the call and immediately dial Melor.
“Brat,” my brother’s voice carries its usual dry humor. “Please tell
me you’re calling about something legal.”
“Igor Shiradze is about to commit suicide.”
Long pause. “Osip—”
“How long to make it official?”
Another pause, longer this time. Melor understands the implications
without explanation— suicide means no murder investigation, no scrutiny
of our business arrangements.
“Blyad. That won’t be easy,” he says finally. “Shiradze is a well-
known gynecologist. Respected in the community. Suicide will raise
questions.”
“You’re the legal guy in our operation,” I remind him. “Pull some
strings.”
“I’ll do my best, but it won’t be cheap, brat.”
“I don’t give two shits about the cost. Just do it.”
The line goes dead, leaving me alone with Igor’s body and the weight
of what just happened. My hands are steady as I light a cigarette, but
something feels different inside my chest. Hollow. Like I’ve crossed a line I
didn’t know existed.
Fifteen minutes later, my cleanup crew arrives in an unmarked van.
They work with professional efficiency— wrapping the body, bleaching the
blood, polishing away evidence until the parking lot looks untouched. Good
as new. Igor’s Mercedes disappears with them, destined for a chop shop that
doesn’t ask questions.
I drive back to my office in silence, navigating Boston’s streets in
what feels like slow motion. The thirty-second floor feels different when I
enter— not like a sanctuary anymore, but like a monument to choices I
can’t unmake.
Vodka helps take the edge off, but it doesn’t touch the cold spreading
through my chest. I stand at the ceiling-height windows, watching the city
sprawl below me like a circuit board of light and shadow.
I killed Igor Shiradze today.
Not really in self-defense, or in the heat of the moment, but because
he pushed me past a boundary I didn’t know I had. The man who threatened
my unborn child doesn’t get to keep breathing.
 But for the first time in my adult life, I feel something I haven’t
experienced since childhood.
Shame.
It sits in my stomach like spoiled food, making me question
everything I thought I knew about myself. What kind of father kills a
father? What kind of man brings this darkness into his child’s world before
that child even draws breath?
I drain another shot of vodka and check my phone. No messages
from Galina, no updates from Melor, no emergencies requiring my
attention. Just silence and the weight of Igor’s blood on my hands.
Tomorrow, I’ll have to tell Stanley what happened. Tomorrow, I’ll
have to restructure our entire operation around the hole Igor’s death creates.
Tomorrow, I’ll have to figure out how to live with what I’ve done.
But tonight, I sit in my expensive office, drinking expensive vodka,
and wondering if my unborn son will grow up to be proud of his father— or
will he be terrified of him.
 Chapter Fourteen
Osip

I wake with my neck twisted at an angle that would cripple a normal

man.
The leather couch in my office served as my bed for exactly four
hours. The city beyond my windows is already alive with morning traffic,
but all I can think about is the weight of Igor’s body sliding down his
Mercedes, the wet sound his final breath made.
My hands don’t shake as I pour coffee from yesterday’s pot. Cold,
bitter, perfect for a man who killed his business partner just hours ago. The
vodka bottle on my desk is empty— I spent the rest of the night trying to
wash the taste of blood from my mouth.
It didn’t work.
I’m reviewing the financial damage Igor’s theft will cause when
Stanley crashes through my door like a fucking hurricane. No knock, no
greeting, just pure dramatic bullshit. His face is flushed with excitement,
eyes bright with something that looks dangerously close to satisfaction.
“Shiradze is dead,” he announces, like he’s delivering Christmas
morning news.
The shock on Igor’s face when I caught his wrist flashes through my
mind— those final seconds when he realized his arrogance had gotten him
killed. I keep my expression neutral, voice steady.
“I know.”
Stanley’s excitement falters slightly. “You know?” His voice rises to
that whiny pitch that’s always annoyed me. “He owed me two million
dollars, Osip. Two. Fucking. Million.”
The audacity is breathtaking. Yesterday this mudak was accusing me
of theft, and now he wants to collect debts from a corpse. I lean back in my
chair, studying his face for signs of sanity.
“What exactly does this have to do with me?”
Stanley plants both hands on my mahogany desk, leaning forward
with the kind of aggressive posture that would get him killed in any serious
establishment. His cologne is too strong, his desperation too obvious.
“You will pay what he owed me.”
 A bitter laugh escapes before I can stop it— harsh, humorless sound
that echoes off my office walls. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
I stand slowly, letting my size and presence fill the space between us.
Stanley tries to maintain his aggressive stance, but I can see uncertainty
creeping into his eyes.
“That piece of shit stole from me too,” I continue, my voice low and
menacing. “Millions, Stanley. And you think I’m going to pay his debts?
Shiradze was a thief and a rat. I’m not paying a single cent of what he owes
you.”
“You won’t get away with this.” Stanley takes a step back, but his
jaw remains set in stubborn lines. “You will regret this, Osip. Mark my
words.”
The threat hangs between us like smoke from a gun barrel. I walk
around the desk, closing the distance until we’re close enough that he can
smell the vodka on my breath from last night.
“Is that a threat?”
“Consider it a promise between old friends.” His smile is cold,
calculating, nothing like the eager kid I used to know. “I’ll get my money,
one way or the other.”
Stanley backs toward the door, maintaining eye contact like he thinks
breaking the stare would show weakness. His transformation is remarkable
— gone is any pretense of partnership or friendship, replaced by something
harder and more dangerous.
“You have a week,” he says from the doorway. “You know where to
find me. If you don’t pay, we’re done. All bets are off.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds like a
countdown timer starting. I stand in the sudden silence, trying to process
what just happened.
The cunt just threatened me.
Again.
Stanley Morrison— my former friend, my business partner, the
spoiled rich boy I protected for years— just declared war over money he
was never owed. Igor’s debt died with Igor, but Stanley’s too fucking stupid
or too desperate to understand basic business principles.
Pizdets.
This won’t end well. For him.
I’m reaching for my chair when my phone buzzes against the desk.
 Text from Jack: She is here. Masked night.
The words hit me like a shot of pure adrenaline. She’s there. The
woman from Room Five, the one who’s been haunting my thoughts since
our first encounter. After the darkness of the past twenty-four hours—
Igor’s betrayal, his death, Stanley’s threats— she feels like salvation.
I grab my jacket and head for the door. The Scarlet Fox calls, and for
the first time since Igor pulled that knife, I feel something other than cold
rage spreading through my chest.
The drive to Back Bay passes in a blur of anticipation and need.
Boston’s evening traffic can’t move fast enough, every red light a personal
insult. By the time I park outside the familiar brick facade, my pulse is
hammering against my collar.
Jack spots me the moment I walk through the entrance. His knowing
look carries across the warm-lit space as he mouths the words that make my
chest tighten: “Room Five.”
I slide a hundred-dollar bill across the bar without a word— a small
payment for information, for discretion, for the kind of service that keeps
places like this running. Jack palms the cash smoothly, his smile carrying
just enough smugness to be annoying.
The corridor behind the bar feels different today. Not like an escape
from reality, but like stepping into the only reality that matters. I strip off
my suit in the changing room, letting hot water from the rainfall shower
wash away the stench of violence and betrayal.
Igor’s blood is long gone from my hands, but I scrub them anyway.
Stanley’s threats echo in my head, but they feel distant now, unimportant
compared to what waits behind the door to Room Five.
The towel sits low on my hips as I walk down the hallway, each step
bringing me closer to something I can’t name but desperately need. The
leather mask transforms me somehow— not Osip Sidorov the criminal, not
the man who killed his partner yesterday, but someone cleaner. Someone
worthy of whatever forgiveness waits in that burgundy room.
I open the door to paradise.
She’s sitting in the same velvet chair, lace mask catching candlelight.
But something’s different about her posture— not the broken desperation
from our first meeting, but something deeper. Sadness mixed with
determination, vulnerability wrapped in quiet strength.
 “I was hoping you’d come,” she says, and her voice carries relief so
profound it makes my chest ache.
I settle into the chair across from her, studying the way shadows play
across her exposed mouth. This is a completely different universe from the
cold darkness where I ended Igor’s life. Here, soft lighting replaces harsh
fluorescents, roses replace the metallic scent of blood, and this masked
woman’s presence replaces the weight of violence.
This is another dimension of existence entirely.
For the first time in twenty-four hours, I can breathe.
 Chapter Fifteen
Ilona

I’ve been waiting in Room Five for nearly an hour, and the
anticipation is killing me.
Tonight feels different. I feel different. The steam from my shower
still clings to the air, mixing with the familiar scent of sandalwood and
roses that makes this space feel like a sanctuary. But I’m not here for
sanctuary anymore. I’m here for him.
For TMG. The man I’ve thought about every night since my first
time here, my fingers finding myself in the darkness while imagining his
hands, his mouth, his body claiming mine.
Stanley is gone. Really, truly gone this time. And with him went the
last thread connecting me to the woman who apologized for taking up
space, who minimized her own pain to make others comfortable. That
woman died in a parking lot outside this very building, buried under the
weight of accusations and dismissed suffering.
The woman sitting here now— draped in nothing but a silk robe that
whispers against my bare skin— wants something different. Something
real. Something that burns away everything else until only truth remains.
I hear the soft rush of running water from the adjoining bathroom,
and my pulse spikes. He’s here. My mysterious stranger who sees through
masks and pretense to something raw and honest underneath.
When the door opens, my breath catches the way it always does. His
huge shoulders dwarf the doorway, towel riding low on his hips, water still
beading on bronze skin that I want to scoop up with my tongue. The
candlelight plays across muscles that are practically begging to be explored
by fingertips, illuminating tattoos that mark him as dangerous in ways that
should terrify me.
But fear is the last thing I feel as his eyes find mine through the
leather mask.
Tonight, I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to confess my fears or seek
comfort for wounds I can’t name. Tonight, I want to feel alive in the most
fundamental way possible.
 I stand slowly, deliberately, every movement designed to drive him to
the edge of control. His gaze follows the motion silently, pupils dilating
with hunger that makes my skin flush hot.
The robe slides from my shoulders like liquid silk, pooling at my feet
in a whisper of fabric against skin. I’m completely naked now, exposed in
the flickering candlelight, and the vulnerability should make me self-
conscious. Instead, it makes me powerful.
The way he looks at me— like I’m the only woman who’s ever
existed, like my body is art worth studying— sends molten heat pooling
between my thighs. I’m already slick with arousal, my nipples peaked and
aching for his touch.
His erection strains against the terry cloth towel, thick and
demanding, and the sight makes my mouth water with need. I’ve never
wanted to taste a man the way I want to taste him. Never craved the weight
and heat of someone filling my mouth until I can’t think or breathe or exist
as anything but sensation.
“I want you,” I whisper, the words escaping before I can stop them.
“I want all of you.”
He doesn’t speak— he never does— but the way his breathing
changes tells me everything. Shallow, controlled, like he’s fighting a war
between restraint and desire.
I cross the space between us with slow, measured steps, my bare feet
silent on plush carpet. When I reach him, I place my palm flat against his
chest, feeling the thunderous beat of his heart beneath bronze skin marked
with ink and scars.
“Touch me,” I breathe against his throat, tasting salt and something
uniquely masculine. “Please.”
His control snaps like a cable under too much tension.
His hands find my waist, fingers digging into soft flesh as he lifts me
effortlessly. My legs wrap around his hips instinctively, the heat of his
arousal pressing against my slick center through the towel. The friction
makes me gasp, head falling back as sparks of pleasure shoot through my
core.
He carries me to the velvet sofa, setting me down with care before his
mouth crashes against mine. The kiss is everything our previous encounters
promised— hungry, desperate, consuming. His tongue slides against mine
in a rhythm that mimics what I want him to do to my body, and I moan into
his mouth like a woman starving.
When he breaks away, we’re both breathing hard. His eyes burn with
intensity that makes my knees weak, and I reach for the towel around his
waist with trembling fingers.
“Yes,” he growls, the single word rough with need.
The terry cloth falls away, and I finally see him completely. He’s
magnificent— long and thick and perfect, pre-cum glistening at the
throbbing head. My hand wraps around his length almost of its own accord,
stroking from base to tip with movements that make his hips jerk forward.
He’s so hard, so hot in my palm, and the low groan that escapes his
throat when I squeeze gently makes my pussy clench with need. I want him
inside me. Want to feel this beautiful cock stretching me open, claiming me
in ways I’ve never been claimed.
His hands find my breasts, palms rough against sensitive skin as he
kneads and caresses. When his mouth follows, sucking one tight nipple
between his lips, I arch off the sofa with a cry that echoes through the room.
“Oh God,” I gasp as his tongue swirls around the hardened bud,
sending shockwaves of pleasure straight to my clit. “Don’t stop.”
He lavishes attention on both breasts until I’m writhing beneath him,
my hands fisted in his dark hair as I hold him against me. Every pull of his
mouth, every scrape of his teeth, every soothing swipe of his tongue drives
me higher toward a precipice I’m desperate to fall from.
When his hand slides between my thighs, finding me wet and ready,
we both groan at the contact. His fingers part my slick folds, circling my
swollen clit with just enough pressure to make me see stars.
“Wet,” he murmurs against my breast, voice thick with arousal. “So
fucking wet for me.”
The crude words should shock me. Instead, they make me wetter, my
hips rolling against his hand as I chase the friction I need. I’ve never been
this aroused, this desperate, this completely lost to sensation.
“Please,” I whimper, not even sure what I’m begging for. “I need—”
“I know what you need.” His fingers slide lower, two thick digits
pushing deep inside my clenching heat. “This. You need me to fill you up,
make you come until you forget everything but my name.”
Except I don’t know his name. This beautiful, dangerous man who’s
playing my body like an instrument only he knows how to tune— I’ll never
know what to call him in the darkness when I touch myself to memories of
this moment.
His fingers work inside me with devastating precision, curling
against a spot deep inside that makes my thigh muscles strain and my vision
blur. His thumb finds my clit, rubbing tight circles around the swollen bud
as he finger-fucks me toward oblivion.
“Come for me,” he commands against my throat, teeth scraping
sensitive skin.
I don’t need more encouragement. The orgasm crashes through me
like a tidal wave, my pussy clamping down hard on his fingers as waves of
pleasure tear through my core.
“Oh! God, yes! Fuck!” I scream as my body convulses against his
hand.
Before the aftershocks fade, he’s reaching for something from the
table beside us. A condom wrapper tears in the dim light, and I watch
through heavy-lidded eyes as he rolls the latex down his impressive length
with practiced movements.
“Ready?” he says, positioning himself between my spread thighs.
The head of his cock nudges against my entrance, hot and demanding.
“Yes.” The word comes out as a broken whisper. “I’ve never been
more ready for anything.”
He pushes forward slowly, giving my body time to adjust to his
considerable size. There’s pressure, stretching, the sweet burn of being
filled completely— but no pain. For the first time in my sexual life, there’s
no pain at all.
The realization brings tears to my eyes even as pleasure builds low in
my belly. This is what it’s supposed to feel like. This connection, this
perfect fit, this sense of coming home to a place I didn’t know existed.
“Blyad,” he breathes when he’s fully seated, his forehead pressed
against mine. “So fucking good.”
I can only nod, overwhelmed by the sensation of being so completely
claimed. He’s deep enough that I feel him everywhere— in my chest, my
throat, my very soul. We’re connected in a way that transcends the physical,
bound together by something neither of us can name.
When he begins to move, it’s with slow, deep strokes that hit every
sensitive spot inside me. Each thrust builds the tension higher, winding me
tighter until I’m balanced on the knife’s edge between sanity and surrender.
 Our rhythm builds gradually, passion and desperation taking over
until we’re moving together with animalistic need. The sound of skin
slapping against skin fills the room, punctuated by my cries and his growls
of pleasure.
“Yes! Yes! Fuck, yes!” I’ve never been vocal during sex, but with
him, I can’t help it.
He hooks my leg over his shoulder, changing the angle so he hits that
perfect spot with every thrust. The new position sends me spiraling toward
another climax, my walls fluttering around his driving length.
“That’s it,” he groans, feeling my approaching release. “Come on my
cock. Show me how good I make you feel.”
The command pushes me over the edge. My second orgasm is even
more intense than the first, my entire body spasming as pleasure rips
through me like lightning. I’m vaguely aware of screaming, of my nails
digging into his shoulders, of my pussy milking his cock as I fall apart
completely.
He follows me over, his rhythm breaking as he buries himself deep
and finds his own release. I feel him pulse inside me, feel the way his entire
body goes rigid with the force of his climax.
We collapse together in a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs, both
breathing hard as we come down from the high. The silence that follows
isn’t awkward— it’s profound, weighted with the magnitude of what just
happened between us.
He pulls out gently, disposing of the condom before returning to
gather me against his chest. His lips find my temple, pressing a kiss so soft
and gentle it makes my heart ache.
In this moment, I feel whole in a way I never have before. Complete.
Like all the broken pieces of myself have finally clicked into place.
When he moves to leave, instinct takes over. My hand shoots out,
fingers wrapping around his wrist before I can stop myself.
“Wait.” The word escapes involuntarily. “I know I shouldn’t ask you
this but… can I see you again?”
He stares at me for a long moment, gray-blue eyes searching my face
for something I can’t name. The silence stretches between us, taut and
fragile, and I’m sure he’s going to disappear like smoke.
Then, without a word, he turns and walks toward the bathroom.
 My heart sinks. This is it— the end of whatever magic we’ve shared.
I’ve pushed too hard, asked for too much, broken the unspoken rules that
keep this place running.
But minutes later, he returns. Moving with that same smooth grace,
he approaches the sofa where I’m still curled beneath a throw blanket.
Something small and white changes hands so quickly that I almost miss it—
a slip of paper pressed into my palm with deliberate secrecy.
Our eyes meet one final time, and I see something there that makes
my breath catch. Not goodbye, but promise. Not ending, but beginning.
Then he’s gone, disappeared into the night like the phantom he’s
always been.
With trembling fingers, I unfold the paper. Four words written in
strong, masculine handwriting:
Download VanishMe app user ID @osip
I stare at the words until they blur, my heart racing. He’s giving me a
way to reach him. A door into whatever world he inhabits when he’s not
wearing masks in shadowy rooms.
I don’t know what VanishMe is or how it works. I don’t know who
@osip is or what he’ll expect from me. But as I sit here in the aftermath of
the most incredible sexual experience of my life, I know one thing with
absolute certainty:
I’m going to find out.
 Chapter Sixteen
Osip

The guilt eats at me as I drive through Boston’s sleeping streets.

My hands shake against the steering wheel— not from fear, but from
the weight of what I’ve done. What I’ve felt.
The woman from Room Five. Her skin under my hands, the
connection that burned through me like live wire. I’ve never experienced
anything like it— raw, honest, spiritual in ways that sex has never been
before.
And that makes it worse.
Galina gave me permission. Told me that she understood men have
needs, that she wouldn’t ask questions as long as I remained discreet. But
permission doesn’t erase the sense of betrayal.
It wasn’t supposed to feel like that. It was supposed to be release—
physical, meaningless, forgettable. Instead, it was everything I didn’t know
I was searching for, wrapped in lace and candlelight and the kind of trust I
don’t deserve.
Chert voz’mi!
I broke every rule I’ve ever set for myself.
The VanishMe information burns in my memory. Giving her access
to me outside those walls, outside the safety of anonymity— it’s the kind of
mistake that destroys carefully constructed lives. The app makes messages
disappear after sixty seconds, but the connection remains. The door stays
open.
What the fuck were you thinking, dolboyob?
My phone buzzes against the dashboard, but I ignore it. Stanley,
probably, calling with more paranoid accusations about missing money. Or
Melor with updates about Igor’s “suicide” that will require more bribes,
more lies, more threads in the web I’m weaving to keep my world intact.
But all I can think about is her voice, broken and honest: I want you.
I want all of you.
The memory makes my cock twitch despite the guilt crushing my
chest. She offered herself completely— no games, no manipulation, no
hidden agenda. Just pure need, honest desire, the kind of vulnerability that’s
rarer than diamonds in my world.
I pull into my driveway and sit in the darkness, staring at the colonial
mansion that should feel like home but never has. Behind those windows,
Galina sleeps peacefully, trusting her husband to honor their arrangement,
to keep his sins away from her pristine world.
She deserves better than this.
Better than me.
The front door is unlocked— unusual for Galina, who’s paranoid
about security since her pregnancy started showing. I make a mental note to
speak with her about it as I step into the foyer.
“Galina?” My voice echoes through the hallway.
Silence.
The house feels different. Colder. Like something is wrong. I check
my watch— almost two in the morning. She should be asleep, dreaming
whatever dreams pregnant women have about futures I’ll never understand.
I find her in the sitting room.
She’s on the cream sofa, perfectly positioned like she’s napping. One
hand rests over her swollen belly, the other dangles toward the Persian rug.
Her dark hair spills across the silk cushions, and her face looks peaceful.
Serene.
Too peaceful.
“Galina.” I cross the room, my pulse starting to race for reasons I
can’t name. “Are you okay?”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t stir. The wrongness hits me before
conscious thought can process it— the unnatural stillness, the way her chest
doesn’t rise and fall, the absolute absence of life in a space that should pulse
with it.
I’ve seen enough death to recognize it instantly.
“No.” The word escapes as I drop beside the sofa, hands reaching for
her throat to check for a pulse I already know won’t be there. “No, no, no
—”
Her skin is room temperature. Not warm, not alive, just… gone. The
woman who made me tea every morning, who arranged paint samples like
treasure maps, who carried my child with quiet dignity— gone.
That’s when I see the cord.
 Thin, black, expensive. The kind used for window blinds or
electronic equipment. It’s partially hidden beneath her hair, wrapped around
her throat. No struggle marks on her hands. No signs of a fight.
Someone did this. Someone came into my home and murdered my
pregnant wife while I was fucking another woman. Mere minutes ago.
The realization crushes me, making me choke on air that suddenly
feels too thick.
While I was fucking another woman, while I was lost in burgundy
velvet and lace masks, someone was strangling the life from the only family
I had.
Then I see it.
Movement. Beneath the fabric of her maternity shirt, something
shifts. I tug the soft fabric aside urgently. Something pushes against the taut
skin of her belly with desperate, rhythmic motion.
My son.
Still alive.
Still fighting.
“Bozhe moy,” I whisper, hands hovering over her abdomen as tiny
feet press against the inside of her womb. My pulse starts racing even more,
my heartbeat pounding like a war drum against my eardrums, drowning out
everything except my son’s feeble movements. “Hang on, malysh. Papa’s
here.”
The sight is beautiful and horrifying— my child struggling for
survival inside his murdered mother. Each movement feels like a
countdown, precious seconds ticking away while I stand paralyzed by shock
and fury.
Jesus Christ, what do I do?
What the fuck do I do?
My phone is in my hands before conscious thought intervenes,
fingers dialing emergency services with muscle memory forged in crisis.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My wife—” The words stick in my throat. “She’s been murdered.
She’s pregnant. The baby might still— please, hurry.”
“Sir, I need you to stay calm. What’s your address?”
I rattle off the information while watching my son’s movements grow
weaker, less frequent. I’ve stared death in the face countless times. I’ve
faced enemies who would gut me without hesitation. But this sight— it
shatters something deep inside me that I thought was already dead,
something I never knew could still bleed. Each kick feels like a goodbye, a
farewell I’m powerless to prevent.
God, please help.
“Paramedics are en route. Are you safe? Is the perpetrator still in the
area?”
Safe. What a fucking joke. I’ll never be safe again. Not after this. Not
from myself.
“No one’s here,” I manage. “Just hurry. Please.”
The minutes crawl by like hours. I can’t even touch her— this is a
crime scene now, evidence that needs to be preserved. But I can’t look away
either, watching the final movements of a child I’ll never hold, never teach
to throw a punch or speak Russian or navigate the ugly realities of our
world.
I pace beside her, eyes fixed to her belly as I rake my hands through
my hair and try not to roar in sheer fucking frustration and helplessness. By
the time the sirens pierce the night air, the movement has nearly stopped.
No!
Bozhe moy, please, no!
Paramedics flood my living room with equipment and urgency. They
work over Galina like seasoned professionals, checking for vitals,
attempting resuscitation procedures. But I’ve encountered death enough
times to know the grim truth. Truth that is written all over the paramedics’
faces— the grim set of their mouths, the way they avoid my eyes while
going through the motions.
“Is the baby…” I can’t finish the question I already know the answer
to.
“We need to get her to the hospital immediately,” the lead paramedic
says, but his voice carries no hope. “There might be a chance for the baby if
we move fast enough.”
They load her onto a stretcher, working frantically even as they
move. I follow them toward the ambulance, watching their coordinated
actions give way to something more desperate.
“Come on,” one of them mutters, checking monitors. “Come on,
come on…!”
But as they slide the stretcher into the back, their movements slow.
The lead paramedic checks something, then exchanges a long look with his
partner. The kind of look that passes between professionals when hope dies.
“The baby—” I start, but the words get caught in my throat.
“We’re doing everything we can,” one of them says, but his tone tells
me it’s hopeless. “Radio ahead,” he says quietly to his partner. “Tell them to
have the coroner ready when we arrive.”
The words slice through me.
Coroner.
Not emergency surgery, not intensive care.
The fucking coroner.
“Sir, please stay here,” the paramedic tells me, his voice gentle but
final. “The police will need to speak with you. There’s nothing you can do
now.”
Somehow, I listen. For whatever fucked up reason, my legs refuse to
move, like they’re frozen solid. I silently watch the ambulance disappear
into the night, red lights fading into the distance, leaving me alone with a
crushing feeling I can’t even begin to name.
Gone.
Both gone.
Everything I had, everything I was trying to become, erased. Erased
while I was buried inside another woman.
Behind me, crime scene technicians flood my living room with
equipment and cameras, documenting the destruction of my world.
“Mr. Sidorov?” A detective approaches— middle-aged, tired eyes,
the look of someone who’s seen too much death. “I’m Detective Cavesson.
I need to ask you some questions.”
“Da.” My voice comes out flat and dead. Lifeless, almost.
“Where were you tonight between 10 p.m. and 2 a.m.?”
The question I’ve been expecting. The one that requires lies, alibis,
explanations that will hold up under scrutiny. In my world, you always have
a story prepared for the police.
“Business dinner,” I hear myself lying. “Client meeting that ran late.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“Yes.” I give him the contact details of my brothers. My mind goes
numb as he keeps questioning. More lies pile on top of the first, a tower of
deception that will eventually collapse but might buy me time to find who
did this. To make them pay in ways the justice system never could.
An hour passes.
 Questions, photographs, evidence collection.
When the house finally empties, when the last police car disappears
into the dawn, I’m alone with the silence and the weight of what I’ve lost
tonight.
I sit on the couch where I found her, staring at the cushions where my
future died. The cord is gone— evidence now— but I can still see it, can
still imagine the final moments when Galina realized what was happening.
Did she fight? Did she call for me? Did she wonder where her
husband was while someone stole her breath?
The guilt crushes me in ways that feel like drowning in concrete—
heavy, inescapable, filling every breath with the taste of my own failure.
This is agony without end, a punishment that no amount of blood or
vengeance can ever wash away.
I failed her.
I failed my son.
I failed at the one thing I thought I might actually be good at—
protecting the people I love.
My phone buzzes with messages I can’t read, calls I can’t answer.
The world keeps spinning, business keeps moving, but I can’t seem to make
myself care about anything beyond this moment, this room, this
overwhelming certainty that I deserved this. I brought this upon myself. I
brought this upon them.
The universe has a sense of justice after all. It took away my
redemption the same night I threw it away. But why them? Why do the
innocent have to bleed for the monster I chose to become?
In the growing light of morning, I finally understand what it means to
lose everything that matters. I finally know what it feels like to be truly
broken.
And somewhere out there, the person who did this is still breathing.
Still living in a world where my wife and son can’t.
That’s going to change.
Whatever it takes, however long it takes, whoever I have to kill—
that’s going to change one day.
The sun rises over Boston like it’s just another day, like nothing has
changed. But everything has changed. Everything that mattered is gone.
And I’m still here, still breathing, still carrying the weight of sins that
can never be forgiven.
 I close my eyes and let the guilt wash over me like a tsunami wave. I
let it mark me as the kind of man who loses everything he touches, because
he doesn’t deserve to keep it.
The kind of man who can never love anyone without killing them.
 Chapter Seventeen
Ilona

The morning after feels like swimming through honey— everything

slow, thick, weighted with the memory of his hands on my skin.
I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in Room Five,
feeling the heat of his mouth against my throat, the way he filled me so
completely I forgot my own name.
My body hums with a restless energy that has nothing to do with
exhaustion. Even now, twelve hours later, I can feel the ghost of his touch
between my thighs.
I ended up touching myself again in the darkness of my bedroom,
fingers working frantically as I replayed every moment. The memory of his
thick length stretching me open, the low growl he made when I clenched
around him. I came so hard I had to bite my pillow to muffle the sound, but
it wasn’t enough. Nothing will ever be enough now that I know what real
desire feels like.
He’s awakened something in me I didn’t know existed. Some
desperate part of myself that craves his possession like oxygen. The slip of
paper with his VanishMe contact burns like a brand in my jewelry box, a
secret door to a world I’m both terrified and desperate to enter.
But today is Saturday, and reality intrudes with all its mundane
demands. I need to see my parents. Need to tell them about the
endometriosis diagnosis, about the grandchildren they might never have.
The conversation will be difficult, but Dad will understand. He’s always
understood everything about me.
I try calling them as I get dressed, but neither picks up. Strange, but
not alarming— they probably went out for one of their romantic dinners.
Dad still brings Mom flowers every Friday, still opens doors for her like
they’re newlyweds instead of a couple married for thirty years. Their love
story has always been my template for what relationships should look like.
The drive to their house in Beacon Hill takes longer than usual,
Saturday morning traffic crawling through streets lined with historic
brownstones and carefully maintained gardens. Their house sits at the end
of a tree-lined avenue. I’ve always felt proud pulling into this driveway,
knowing I come from this solid foundation. Dad worked his way up from
nothing, building a practice that serves Boston’s elite while never forgetting
his humanitarian roots. He volunteers at free clinics, donates to children’s
charities, makes time for patients who can’t afford private care.
He’s everything I want to be— successful, compassionate, beloved
by everyone who knows him.
Using my key, I let myself in through the front door. “Mom? Dad?”
My voice echoes through the foyer, bouncing off mahogany panels and
crystal chandeliers.
Silence.
The house feels wrong immediately. Too quiet, too still, like it’s
holding its breath. The air carries a weight that makes my chest tighten with
undefined dread.
I head toward the kitchen, expecting to find evidence of their usual
Saturday routine— coffee brewing, newspapers spread across the marble
countertops, classical music playing softly from hidden speakers.
Instead, I find chaos.
The kitchen looks like a tornado hit it. Cabinet doors hang open, their
contents scattered across expensive granite. Empty bottles litter the counters
— vodka, whiskey, wine— some still uncorked, others shattered on the
floor. The stench of spilled alcohol mingles with something else, something
sour and desperate that makes my stomach clench.
This isn’t like them at all. My parents are meticulous, organized, the
kind of people who never leave dishes in the sink overnight. Dad drinks
wine with dinner, maybe a vodka after a particularly difficult day at the
practice. But this… this looks like the aftermath of a bender that would
make fraternity boys blush.
My hands shake as I pick up an empty bottle of Grey Goose,
checking the label like it might explain everything. The glass is sticky with
residue, fingerprints smeared across the surface in patterns that suggest
desperation rather than celebration.
“Mom?” I call again, my voice cracking with rising panic. “Dad?”
I find her in the living room.
Mom lies crumpled on the cream sofa like a broken doll, her usually
immaculate hair tangled around her face in greasy strands. Her silk blouse
is stained with what looks like vomit, and the smell of alcohol radiates from
her unconscious form in waves that make me gag.
 This isn’t my mother. My mother doesn’t drink beyond an occasional
glass of wine at dinner. My mother doesn’t pass out on furniture or leave
the house in chaos. My mother is elegant, controlled, the perfect doctor’s
wife who hosts charity luncheons and volunteers at the hospital auxiliary.
“Mom!” I drop to my knees beside the sofa, shaking her shoulders
with trembling hands. “Oh my God, Mom, are you okay?”
Her eyes flutter open, unfocused and bloodshot. For a moment, she
doesn’t seem to recognize me, staring through me like I’m a ghost. When
recognition finally dawns, her face crumples with grief so raw it steals my
breath.
“Ilona?” Her voice is a broken whisper, thick with alcohol and
something darker. “You’re here.”
“What happened? Mom, what’s wrong? Where’s Dad?”
The question seems to shatter whatever composure she has left. Tears
stream down her cheeks as she tries to sit up, failing twice before I help her
upright. Her hands shake as she reaches for me, gripping my arms with
surprising strength.
“Your father…” The words come out as barely more than a whisper.
“He’s dead.”
I stare at her in disbelief. The words don’t make sense, can’t make
sense. Dad, dead? Impossible. I just saw him a few days ago. He was fine,
healthy, concerned about my health issues but otherwise perfectly normal.
“What?” The word tears from my throat like broken glass. “What did
you say?”
“He’s dead, baby.” Mom’s voice breaks completely. “Your father is
dead.”
The living room spins around me, expensive furniture and family
photos blurring into meaningless shapes. My knees buckle, and only Mom’s
grip on my arms keeps me from hitting the floor. This has to be a
nightmare. Some twisted dream brought on by stress and too many changes
in my life.
But Mom’s tears are real. The alcohol on her breath is real. The
devastation in her eyes is real.
“How?” I manage to force the word past the ice blocking my throat.
“How did he—when—”
“I don’t know.” Mom’s words slur together, confusion and grief
making her barely coherent. “Police came yesterday. Said they found him…
found him near a bridge. They said… they said…”
She dissolves into sobs that shake her entire body, and I realize she’s
not just drunk—she’s in shock. Deep, traumatic shock that’s rendered her
unable to process what’s happened.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone, dialing 911 with fingers that
feel disconnected from my body. The operator’s voice sounds like it’s
coming from underwater, professional and calm while my world crumbles
around me.
“I need an ambulance,” I hear myself saying. “My mother… alcohol
poisoning, I think. And shock. She’s in shock.”
The next ten minutes stretch like hours. I hold Mom while she
alternates between sobbing and staring into nothing, her body limp with
grief and vodka. She keeps repeating the same words—”He’s dead, baby.
Your daddy’s dead”—like a broken record stuck on the most devastating
track imaginable.
Dad is dead.
The words echo in my skull, but they feel foreign, impossible. Just
days ago, I was worried about telling him about my endometriosis. Just
days ago, he was the solid foundation of my world, the man who could fix
anything, explain anything, make everything better with his presence alone.
Now he’s… gone?
The ambulance arrives in a blur of flashing lights and professional
courtesy. Paramedics load Mom onto a gurney, checking her vitals and
inserting an IV while I follow in a daze. She reaches for me as they wheel
her away, her fingers cold and desperate against my palm.
“Don’t leave me,” she whispers. “Please don’t leave me alone.”
“I won’t,” I promise, though my voice sounds like it belongs to
someone else. “I’m right here, Mom. I’m not going anywhere.”
The ride to the hospital passes in surreal silence broken only by the
electronic beeping of medical equipment and Mom’s occasional whimpers.
I stare out the ambulance window at Boston streets that look exactly the
same as they did this morning, wondering how the world can continue
spinning when mine has just stopped completely.
At the hospital, they wheel Mom into the emergency department
while I’m relegated to a plastic chair in the waiting area. The fluorescent
lights buzz overhead, casting everything in harsh, clinical tones that make
my skin look gray and lifeless.
 I call Jason because I can’t think of anyone else who might have
answers. The phone rings twice before his familiar voice answers,
immediately shifting from casual to concerned when he hears mine.
“Ilona? What’s wrong, kiddo?”
“Jason…” My voice breaks on his name. “I need you to check
something for me. In the police database. My father… Igor Shiradze.
Something’s happened to him.”
“Give me a moment,” he says, his voice colored with concern.
Keystrokes sound in the background, then silence stretches across the
connection, and I know before he speaks that my worst fears are confirmed.
“Jesus, Ilona. I’m so sorry. There’s no easy way to say this. His case
file shows him as deceased.”
The words drive the air from my lungs. So, it’s true. Dad is really
dead. Not a mistake, not some horrible misunderstanding.
Gone.
“What happened?” I whisper, though part of me doesn’t want to
know. “How did he…?”
“It says the case is still under investigation,” Jason says carefully, his
cop voice replacing his fatherly concern. “But preliminary reports
suggest… it appears to be self-inflicted.”
Suicide.
The word he can’t bring himself to say hangs between us like a
loaded weapon. Dad killed himself.
“That’s not possible.” The denial comes automatically, fierce and
absolute. “Dad would never… he’s not… there has to be some mistake.”
“Ilona… I know this is devastating, kiddo. I know it doesn’t feel like
it makes sense right now—”
“Because it doesn’t make sense!” My voice rises, drawing looks from
other people in the waiting room. “My father was happy. Successful. He
loved his family, his work. He would never abandon us like that.”
“Sometimes people hide their pain—”
“Not Dad!” I’m shouting now, grief transforming into fury at the
suggestion that I didn’t know my own father. “You don’t understand. He
was fine. He was helping me with medical issues, worried about Mom,
planning for the future. People who are suicidal don’t do those things.”
But even as I say it, memories surface that I’ve been ignoring. The
strained conversation between my parents that I walked in on. Dad’s
evasive answers about their finances. The way he looked tired, worn, like
he was carrying weight I couldn’t see.
“Ilona,” Jason’s voice is gentle but firm. “I know this is hard to
accept. But the evidence—”
“What evidence?” I demand. “What evidence could possibly prove
that my father chose to leave us?”
“I can’t discuss details of an ongoing investigation. But if you want
answers, if you need to understand what happened, I can put you in touch
with the detective handling the case.”
I want to scream that there’s nothing to understand, that this is all
some terrible mistake that will be corrected once the right people look at the
right piece of evidence. But the words stick in my throat, choked off by the
growing certainty that my world has fundamentally changed.
Dad is gone. However it happened, whatever led to this moment, he’s
not coming back. The man who taught me to ride a bike, who walked me to
school on my first day, who bandaged my scraped knees and broken hearts
— gone.
“I have to go,” I whisper into the phone. “Mom needs me.”
“If you need anything—” Jason starts, but I’ve already hung up.
I sit in that plastic chair, surrounded by the controlled chaos of a
hospital emergency department, and let the full weight of loss crash over
me. Dad is dead, Mom is being treated for alcohol poisoning, and I’m
completely, utterly alone for the first time in my life.
The warm glow my day started with feels like a distant memory. But
the slip of paper in my jewelry box feels like a lifeline now— a connection
to someone who made me feel alive, powerful, desired. Someone who saw
me as worth touching, worth claiming, worth remembering.
I need that feeling again. Need to remember that I’m more than this
grief, more than the daughter of a dead man and a traumatized woman. I
need to feel like I matter to someone, even if that someone is a stranger
whose name I don’t know.
But first, I have to survive this. Have to figure out how to keep
breathing in a world without my father in it.
Have to find a way to live with the possibility that everything I
thought I knew about the man who raised me might have been a lie.
 Chapter Eighteen
Ilona

The antiseptic smell burns my nostrils as I watch my mother’s chest

rise and fall beneath thin hospital blankets.
I’ve been here sixteen hours straight, my body folded into this
uncomfortable chair that’s probably seen more vigils than anyone should
have to keep. The fluorescent lights overhead cast everything in harsh,
unforgiving tones that make Mom look smaller than I’ve ever seen her.
Fragile. Breakable. Human in ways I never wanted to acknowledge.
My eyes burn from exhaustion, but I can’t sleep. Can’t close them
without seeing Dad’s face the last time we spoke, the way he held me just a
beat too long when I left his house. Like he was memorizing the moment.
Like he already knew.
How did I miss it? How did I not see that he was drowning?
The machines around Mom’s bed beep with a steady rhythm,
monitoring vitals that crashed when the news hit her. When the police
called to say they’d found Igor Shiradze’s body. When suicide became the
word that shattered what was left of our family into pieces too small to ever
put back together.
Suicide.
The word tastes like bitter disbelief. Dad wouldn’t. He just wouldn’t.
Not the man who taught me that problems have solutions, that hope exists
even in the darkest moments, that family means never giving up on each
other.
But maybe I didn’t know him as well as I thought.
Mom’s eyelids flutter, consciousness swimming back to the surface
through whatever cocktail of sedatives they’ve given her. I lean forward,
my spine protesting after hours in this position, and watch her focus slowly
on my face.
“Ilona?” Her voice is sandpaper rough, cracked from crying and
screaming and the kind of grief that tears your throat raw.
“I’m here, Mom.” I reach for her hand, surprised by how cold her
fingers feel. “How are you feeling?”
 She blinks slowly, reality settling over her features like a heavy
blanket. For a moment, I see hope flicker in her eyes— the desperate wish
that this might all be a nightmare, that she’ll wake up to find Dad making
coffee in their kitchen and complaining about the morning news.
Then memory crashes back, and her face crumples.
“The police,” she whispers, each word carefully formed like she’s
afraid they might shatter if she speaks too fast. “They said… they said your
father is dead. That it looks like suicide.”
Even though I know this— even though I’ve been sitting with this
knowledge for sixteen endless hours— hearing it spoken aloud by my
mother’s broken voice hits like a physical blow. My chest constricts,
making it hard to breathe, hard to think beyond the roaring in my ears.
“I don’t believe it,” Mom continues, her grip on my hand tightening
until her nails dig into my palm. “Why would he take his own life? It
doesn’t make sense. Your father would never… he would never leave us
like this.”
The tears start again, silent this time, tracking down her cheeks like
she’s already cried herself empty but her body hasn’t gotten the message
yet. I want to comfort her, want to tell her she’s right, that there must be
some mistake. But the words stick in my throat because I heard the same
certainty in my own voice when Jason first told me, and certainty didn’t
change anything.
“Why would he commit suicide?” I whisper, voicing the question
that’s been eating me alive since yesterday. “It’s not like Dad.”
“I don’t know, darling.” Mom’s voice breaks on the endearment, the
same one Dad used to call me. “But then again... he’s been different lately.
Not like his usual self.”
Different.
The word unlocks memories I’ve been trying to ignore— Dad’s
distraction during our last conversation, the way he avoided eye contact
when I asked about their financial situation, the exhaustion that seemed to
weigh him down like he was carrying invisible stones.
“He’s been under a lot of pressure for a long time,” Mom continues.
“There were signs that not everything was okay around him. He started
having secrets. He put a huge mortgage on our house without telling me
about it.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
 “When I found out, I went crazy. We had several arguments.” Her
voice is barely audible now, like confession spoken in the dark. “But he was
being secretive about his dealings, obviously hiding things from me. I kept
asking what was wrong, but he wouldn’t explain. Just kept saying
everything would be fine, that he was handling it.”
The hospital room tilts sideways. Dad— my anchor, my hero, the
man I trusted above everyone else— had been… lying. Not just to me, but
to Mom too. Building walls of deception around problems I never even
knew existed.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Mom?” The question comes out edged with
hurt and confusion.
She winces like I’ve slapped her. “I didn’t want to burden you with
our problems, darling. You were dealing with your own health issues, that
situation with Stanley… I never thought it would lead to this.”
The guilt in her voice mirrors the guilt clawing at my own chest. We
were all protecting each other from truths that might have saved us if we’d
been brave enough to speak them aloud.
“I spoke to the bank just before your father died,” Mom says, her
voice so low I have to lean closer to catch every word. “They said your
father had secured an independent loan for twenty million dollars.”
Twenty million??
The number doesn’t compute, doesn’t fit with anything I know about
our family’s financial situation. Dad made good money as a doctor, but
twenty million dollars is generational wealth, the kind of debt that doesn’t
come from medical school loans or routine expenses.
“I will never be able to pay it off on my own,” she continues, fresh
tears spilling down her cheeks. “Maybe that’s why he killed himself,
because he couldn’t either. We will have to sell the house so I can pay off
your father’s debt.”
The house. The beautiful colonial where I grew up, where Christmas
mornings happened and birthday parties and all the mundane moments that
built a childhood. Where Dad’s study still smells like his cologne and
coffee, where Mom’s garden blooms with flowers she’s tended for twenty
years.
Gone. All of it gone because of debts we didn’t know existed,
problems Dad carried alone until they buried him.
This is too much.
 This is all too much.
“But… but… to take his own life,” I sob, the words torn from
somewhere deep in my chest. “He wouldn’t just abandon us. He wouldn’t
leave us to handle this mess alone.”
Mom nods, but her eyes are distant, lost in memories of arguments
and secrets and the slow dissolution of trust between two people who once
shared everything.
We sit in broken silence, holding hands across the space between her
hospital bed and my uncomfortable chair. Outside, Boston moves through
another ordinary day— people going to work, children walking to school,
life continuing like the world didn’t just lose one of the good ones.
After a while, the medication pulls Mom back under. Her breathing
deepens, her grip on my hand loosens, and I watch her face relax into
something resembling peace. Sleep is a mercy I can’t access, my mind too
wired with questions and grief to shut down.
When I’m sure she’s truly asleep, I carefully extract my hand from
hers and stand on legs that feel like they belong to someone else. Sixteen
hours in this chair have left me stiff and sore, but the physical discomfort is
nothing compared to the ache in my chest that seems to grow bigger with
each breath.
I gather my purse and jacket with movements that feel automatic,
disconnected from conscious thought. The hallway stretches before me like
a tunnel, fluorescent lights creating pools of harsh brightness that hurt my
exhausted eyes.
The elevator carries me down through floors of other people’s
emergencies and tragedies, other families keeping vigil beside hospital
beds. The thought should comfort me— proof that I’m not alone in this
kind of pain— but instead it just makes everything feel heavier. All this
suffering, all these broken hearts, and the world keeps turning anyway.
The automatic doors release me into afternoon sunlight that feels
obscene in its normalcy. Cars pass on the street, pedestrians walk by talking
on phones, the city pulses with energy that has nothing to do with the
destruction of my family.
I stand on the sidewalk for a moment, disoriented by the simple act
of being outside, of existing in a world that doesn’t know my father is dead.
The air tastes different somehow— sharper, less breathable. Like the
atmosphere itself has changed in response to this new reality.
 My phone buzzes in my purse, probably Jason checking on me,
maybe Stanley sending another abusive message I don’t have the emotional
bandwidth to deal with right now. But I don’t check. Can’t handle any more
information, any more complexity added to a situation that’s already
beyond my ability to process.
The walk to my car passes in a fog of numbness punctuated by sharp
stabs of memory. Dad teaching me to drive in a similar parking lot when I
was sixteen, his patient voice guiding me through three-point turns and
parallel parking. Dad at my college graduation, his face glowing with pride
as he took picture after picture. Dad just last week, being the shoulder I
needed to cry on.
How many times did he think about saying goodbye? How many
conversations did we have where he was already gone, just going through
the motions of being alive?
I slide behind the wheel and sit in silence. The grief hits in waves—
sometimes manageable, sometimes drowning. Right now, it’s the drowning
kind, filling my lungs until I can’t breathe around the weight of it.
Dad is gone. Really, truly gone in a way that can’t be fixed or
explained or reasoned away. And with him went all the answers to
questions I never thought to ask, all the conversations we’ll never have, all
the moments he’ll miss and I’ll have to navigate alone.
The woman I was yesterday— the one who complained about
endometriosis and relationship drama and medical bills— feels like a
stranger. Those problems belong to someone whose father was still alive,
whose family was still intact, whose biggest concern was whether she’d see
some masked stranger again.
This new woman, this grieving daughter, doesn’t know how to exist
in a world without Igor Shiradze. Doesn’t know how to be someone’s
daughter when that someone has chosen to stop being anyone’s father.
The world will never be the same again.
And neither will I.
 Chapter Nineteen
Ilona

The hospital parking lot stretches before me like concrete purgatory,

cars glinting under the harsh afternoon sun.
I sit behind the wheel of my Honda, engine off, keys dangling from
fingers that won’t stop trembling. The silence presses against my eardrums,
broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the rhythmic beeping of some
medical alarm filtering through the hospital windows above.
No matter how hard I try to process all of this, nothing sinks in.
Twenty million dollars in debt. Dad’s secrets. The house we’ll lose. The life
we thought we knew— all of it built on lies I never saw coming.
My father is dead.
The words echo in my skull, refusing to feel real despite Jason’s
words, despite the hours I’ve spent watching Mom fall apart.
I press the heels of my palms against my eyes until stars explode
behind my lids, but the pressure can’t stop the tears from coming. They fall
hot and fast, carrying with them all the conversations we’ll never have, all
the moments he’ll miss, all the questions I never thought to ask when there
was still time for answers.
The grief is suffocating. It fills my lungs like water, makes breathing
feel like drowning. Every inhale burns, every exhale comes out broken and
jagged. This isn’t the manageable sadness I’ve felt before— this is
something primal and devastating, the kind of loss that rewires your DNA.
I need to talk to someone. I need connection, understanding, anything
to remind me that I’m not completely alone in this wasteland of hospitals
and debt and family secrets. But who? Jason is being professional about
Dad’s case, treating me like a victim instead of someone who needs
comfort. My friends from work wouldn’t understand the magnitude of this
devastation. And Stanley…
Stanley is history. The thought should bring relief— and part of it
does— but mostly it just adds another layer of isolation to an already
unbearable situation.
TMG – The Masked Guy
The thought hits me like lightning.
 He understood pain in ways that suggested his own familiarity with
loss. Maybe…
But it’s Sunday. No masked nights. No burgundy rooms filled with
candlelight and the possibility of being seen by someone who doesn’t need
explanations.
My phone feels heavy in my trembling hands as I stare at the blank
screen. The VanishMe app. His contact information, written in strong
masculine handwriting.
I could download it. Could reach across the anonymous divide and
ask for what I need— not sex, not romance, but simple human connection
from someone who’s proven he can offer it without conditions.
The app downloads faster than my racing heart can process. Black
interface, minimal design, everything focused on messages that disappear
after sixty seconds. Perfect for secrets that shouldn’t exist, conversations
that need to stay buried.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, paralyzed by the weight of what
I’m about to do. Breaking the rules. Shattering the carefully maintained
boundaries that keep his world separate from mine.
But I’m drowning here, and he’s the only lifeline I can reach.
You know you shouldn’t be doing this, Ilona.
It’s against the rules.
The message disappears into digital ether, leaving only the crushing
weight of silence. Maybe he won’t see it. Maybe he’ll ignore it, protecting
the anonymity that makes our connection possible.
Minutes crawl by like hours.
Then: Read.
He saw it. He’s there, somewhere in the city, staring at my plea for
help. But the silence stretches, taut and unforgiving, until I’m sure I’ve
destroyed whatever magic existed between us.
Desperation overrides caution. I type before I can lose my nerve:
“I’m sorry to do this. Can I talk to you?”
Read appears again almost instantly. But still no response. No words
to bridge the gap between his world and mine, no acknowledgment that
what I’m asking for even exists.
Ten minutes pass. Ten minutes of sitting in this parking lot, watching
other people’s normal lives continue while mine disintegrates. Ten minutes
of wondering if I’ve just lost the only person who made me feel human in
months.
Then my phone buzzes:
“Meet you in an hour. Usual place.”
Relief floods through me so fast it’s nauseating. He’s willing to break
the rules. Willing to risk whatever consequences come with crossing that
line.
“No masked night today.”
I gnaw on the edge of my nail as I wait for a reply.
“I will take care of that. See you in Room Five.”
The engine turns over on the second try, my hands steadier now that I
have something to do, somewhere to go, someone to see. The drive to The
Scarlet Fox passes in a fog of traffic lights and Boston streets that all look
the same through eyes blurred with exhaustion and tears.
By the time I reach the familiar brick building, my heart is
hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. This is reckless.
Dangerous. The kind of decision grief makes seem reasonable when
nothing else in your life makes sense anymore.
Jack looks up from behind the polished bar as I enter, taking in my
disheveled appearance with professional assessment. No surprise crosses
his features— TMG must have called ahead, prepared him for this breach of
protocol.
He nods toward the hallway without a word, understanding passing
between us like shared conspiracy. Whatever rules exist here, whatever
boundaries usually govern this place, they’re being suspended for reasons I
don’t need to know.
The corridor feels different in daylight— less mysterious, more
desperate. My footsteps echo off burgundy walls as I make my way to
Room Five, each step bringing me closer to the only person who might
understand the kind of pain that makes breathing optional.
The mask feels foreign on my face without the ritual of evening
preparation, without the transformation from Ilona Shiradze into someone
else entirely. But it settles into place anyway, becoming the barrier that
makes honesty possible.
He’s already there when I open the door.
Sitting in the chair across from where I usually perch, fully clothed
this time in dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that makes his shoulders look
impossibly broad. The leather mask covers half his face, but I can see the
tension in his jaw, the way his hands rest clenched on his thighs.
Something’s wrong.
He’s different.
The easy confidence that usually radiates from him has been replaced
by something heavier, more guarded. Like he’s carrying weight that
threatens to crush him.
“I’m sorry about this,” I begin, settling into my familiar chair with
movements that feel automated. “There is no one else I can talk to.”
He nods once, a sharp jerk of his head that speaks of understanding
without judgment. The permission in that simple gesture unlocks everything
I’ve been holding back.
“My father died yesterday.” I choke the words out. “The police think
it was suicide.”
Something flickers behind his mask— a tightening around his eyes
that might be shock or recognition or simply the weight of witnessing
someone else’s devastation. But he doesn’t speak, doesn’t offer empty
platitudes or false comfort. Just listens with that complete attention that
made me trust him in the first place.
“He was everything to me,” I continue, the words pouring out of me,
my grieving heart no longer caring about rules. “My hero, my anchor, the
one person who could fix anything. He… he was a respected gynecologist,
helped so many families, saved so many lives.”
My words hang between us, and I swear I see him flinch. Like
something unspoken crosses his face. But grief makes me hypersensitive,
reading meaning into every shadow and silence.
“He taught me that problems have solutions, that hope exists even in
the darkest moments. When I was little and scraped my knee, he told me it
was brave to cry. When I failed my calculus final in college, he drove hours
to see me. He took me for… for…” my voice cracks, “for ice cream and
said, ‘it’s just one grade, darling. You’re worth so much more.’”
I choke out the memories, tears streaming down my cheeks and
disappearing behind the lace mask. “He was supposed to help me figure out
my endometriosis, supposed to be there when I finally found someone
worth marrying, supposed to walk me down the aisle and hold his
grandchildren and grow old watching me build the life he taught me I
deserved.”
 The silence stretches, filled only by my ragged breathing and the
distant hum of the city beyond these walls. TMG remains perfectly still, but
I can feel the intensity of his focus like heat against my skin.
“My mother is in the hospital now, sedated because she couldn’t
handle the news. She’s been drinking— my elegant, controlled mother who
barely touched alcohol. Yesterday I found her passed out on our sofa,
surrounded by empty bottles, completely destroyed.”
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears
that seems endless. “I don’t understand how this happened. Dad seemed
fine when I saw him last week. Tired, maybe, but not… not like someone
who was planning to leave forever. How could I have missed it? How could
I not know my own father was drowning?”
When I look up, TMG has shifted forward slightly, his entire body
radiating tension that suggests internal warfare. His hands are clenched so
tightly on his thighs that I can see the strain in his forearms, the way his
muscles fight against whatever he’s holding back.
“All I have is my mother now,” I whisper, the admission scraping my
throat raw. “My job feels meaningless, my future uncertain. I don’t know
how to exist in a world without my father in it. I don’t know how to be a
daughter without a father. I… I’m sorry to dump all this on you.”
The grief crashes over me again, fresh and devastating as the moment
I first heard the news. I double over in the chair, sobs wracking my body
with violent intensity. This is ugly crying, the kind that strips away every
pretense and leaves you raw and exposed.
When I finally lift my head, gasping for air between waves of
devastation, TMG is standing. His posture is different now— not the
controlled grace I’ve come to expect, but something heavier, more
burdened. Like invisible weight has settled on his shoulders since I started
speaking.
“Talk to me, please,” I beg, recognizing the signs of retreat in his
body language. “I need… Just say something. Are you okay?”
But he just shakes his head, a sharp negative that cuts through my
plea like a blade. He’s pulling away, emotionally and physically, the
connection between us severing.
Before he can reach the door, desperation makes me bold. “Please
don’t leave me alone here. I know it’s not fair to ask, but… I don’t have
anyone else who—”
 He stops mid-stride, his entire body going rigid. For a moment, hope
flickers in my chest— maybe he’ll stay, maybe he’ll offer the comfort I’m
desperate for.
Instead, he turns back to me with movements that seem to cost him
everything. His hand settles on my shoulder, fingers pressing through the
thin fabric of my blouse with careful pressure. The touch burns through me
like electricity, carrying weight that has nothing to do with sexual desire
and everything to do with shared understanding of pain.
In that single contact, I feel his grief mixing with mine. Whatever
burden he carries, whatever darkness he lives with, it resonates with my
own devastation in ways that make perfect sense and no sense at all.
The touch lasts only seconds, but it imprints itself on my skin like a
brand. When he pulls away, the absence feels like tearing.
Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him with finality that
echoes through the empty room. I stare at the closed door, understanding
with crystal clarity that I’ve just witnessed goodbye. Not the casual
departure of our previous encounters, but true farewell.
Something in his touch, something in the way he carried himself,
tells me I’ll never see him again. Whatever rules we broke by meeting here
today, whatever boundaries we crossed by acknowledging each other’s
existence outside these walls, have consequences that extend beyond my
understanding.
I sit alone in Room Five, surrounded by burgundy velvet and
flickering candles, and feel more isolated than I’ve ever felt in my life.
Even the stranger who saw me at my most vulnerable, who offered
connection without conditions, has been stripped away by forces I can’t
name or fight.
The mask feels heavier on my face now, less like transformation and
more like burden. I pull it off with trembling fingers, letting it fall to the
floor beside my chair. Without it, I’m just Ilona again— grieving daughter,
broken woman, someone who’s lost almost everything in the span of a
single week.
The silence stretches, filled with echoes of everything I should have
said and questions I’ll never get to ask. Both from my father and from the
mysterious man who just walked out of my life forever.
I close my eyes and let the weight of loss settle over me like a
shroud.
 Dad is gone.
TMG is gone.
The two men who made me feel seen, valued, worth protecting—
both beyond my reach now.
And I still don’t understand why.
 Chapter Twenty
Osip

Blyad.
I feel like I’ve had my skull crushed with a sledgehammer.
Igor Shiradze’s daughter. The masked woman who shared her pain
with me, who trusted me with her grief, who came apart beneath my hands
— she’s my old business partner’s daughter.
I stare at the empty vodka bottle on my coffee table, the pieces
clicking together in a way that makes my chest feel like it’s caving in. Her
father, the respected gynecologist. The timing of his death. ‘Suicide.’ The
way she described him— her hero, her anchor, the man who taught her that
problems have solutions and hope exists in darkness.
The man I murdered in a parking lot two days ago.
Chert voz’mi!
What kind of twisted cosmic joke is this?
What the fuck have I been reduced to in just a matter of days?
I killed her father. I took the one person who made her feel safe in the
world. And then she came to me— to me— seeking comfort for grief I
created. She cried before me about losing the most important person in her
life, while I sat there like the soulless mudak I am, pretending to offer
solace.
The irony tastes like blood and betrayal.
The house around me feels like a mausoleum. Galina’s clothes still
hang in our closet, her perfume still lingering on silk blouses I can’t bring
myself to pack away. The nursery door remains closed— I haven’t opened
it since that night, can’t bear to see the crib I assembled with dreams of
teaching my son to be a good man. A man unlike his father.
All of it gone. My wife, my unborn child, my chance at redemption
— erased while I was with Igor Shiradze’s daughter. A woman whose
family I destroyed before I ever knew her.
Face it, dolboyob.
You destroy everything you touch.
You’re an accident waiting to happen.
 The empty house mocks me with its silence. No Galina humming in
the kitchen, no sounds of her moving through our bedroom at night, no soft
conversations about baby names and paint colors and futures that will never
exist.
Eto pizdets.
The guilt is devouring me from the inside out. This is all fucked
beyond repair. And I— Christ, I’m the one who lit the match and watched it
all burn.
My phone buzzes with another message from Stanley— the fifth one
today, each more demanding than the last. He wants the money he thinks
Igor stole, wants explanations for partnerships that died with a knife
between the ribs. But Stanley’s threats feel like mosquito bites compared to
the cancer eating through my chest.
I lost my wife.
My son.
I killed Igor Shiradze.
And his daughter— my masked angel, the only woman who ever
made me feel alive— will never know that her grief has a name. That her
father’s murderer held her while she cried, fucked her, offered comfort with
hands still stained by blood.
The guilt should destroy me. Maybe it is already destroying me, one
shot of vodka at a time.
My brothers have been calling since Galina’s death, demanding I
leave this graveyard of a city and join them in Budapest. Melor’s dry voice
echoes in my memory: You have nothing left in Boston, bratan. Join us in
Hungary. We’ll start fresh, build something new.
He’s right. I have nothing here but ghosts and grave dirt and the kind
of guilt that ferments into madness if you let it sit too long.
Ona nikogda ne uznayot.
She’ll never know what I’ve done.
The thought should comfort me, but it doesn’t. It sits in my chest like
broken glass, cutting me from the inside every time I breathe. She’ll spend
the rest of her life missing a father I stole from her, wondering why good
men die and monsters keep breathing.
Because that’s what I am.
A soulless monster who destroys everything he touches.
 I remember the weight of her grief, the broken way she said his name
like speaking it might bring him back. The trust she placed in a stranger’s
hands, desperate for connection.
Ya ubil yego.
I killed him.
Just like I killed my wife and son.
And Shiradze’s daughter, she’ll never know that I’m the reason she
needed comfort in the first place.
The VanishMe app glows on my phone screen, our conversation
thread empty now but weighted with everything I can never tell her. She
reached out today, breaking every rule, risking exposure because she needed
me. The masked stranger who represents safety in a world gone mad.
If she knew the truth, she’d kill me herself.
And I’d let her.
My fingers shake as I navigate to the account settings. The delete
button waits, small and red, offering the only mercy I can give her—
distance from the animal who’s been masquerading as her salvation.
Prosti menya, I whisper to the empty house, to the woman who’ll
never hear it, to the ghosts that follow me everywhere now.
Forgive me.
I delete the account with one tap, severing the last connection
between us. Now she’s truly safe from me, protected by ignorance and
geography and the kind of distance that can’t be bridged by encrypted
messages.
The phone clatters onto the coffee table beside the empty bottle, and I
lean back into leather that still smells like Galina’s perfume. The silence
presses against my eardrums like deep water, threatening to drown what’s
left of my sanity.
Budapest.
A new city, new language, new opportunities to build something that
doesn’t involve trafficking orphaned babies to rich families or murdering
fathers. Melor and Radimir have been there for months, setting up
legitimate businesses, creating lives that don’t require violence to maintain.
Maybe I can learn to be something other than this. Maybe distance
and time can scab over wounds that feel fatal right now.
But I’ll never forget her. Never stop carrying the weight of what I
took from her. She’ll exist forever in my memory as she was in Room Five
— vulnerable and trusting, looking for comfort from the very man who
caused her pain.
Eto moya kara.
This is my punishment.
To yearn for someone I can never have, to crave absolution from
someone who’d destroy me if she knew the truth. To live with the
knowledge that I found my salvation in the daughter of my victim.
The cosmic joke isn’t that I fell for Igor’s daughter. The cosmic joke
is that she might have saved me, if I hadn’t killed her father first.
I pull up the family group chat on my phone, the screen blurring as
exhaustion and vodka take their toll. My brothers’ names glow at the top—
Melor, Radimir, the only family I have left in this world.
“Arriving in two days,” I type with fingers that feel disconnected
from my body. “I need a couch to crash on before I buy a house there.”
The response comes immediately from Melor: “About fucking time,
bratok. We’ll pick you up at the airport.”
Radimir follows with a string of laughing emojis and: “Welcome to
the land of goulash and fresh starts.”
Fresh starts. Like I deserve that luxury. The concept feels foreign,
laughable. How do you start fresh when blood stains your hands, when
you’re drowning in the weight of your murdered wife and son, tormented
by the ghost of a woman whose family you destroyed?
But maybe that’s the point. Maybe redemption isn’t about forgetting
your sins—maybe it’s about carrying them so completely that they
transform you into something different. Something better. Something
worthy of the trust placed in you by people who don’t know they’re
touching poison.
I close my eyes and let myself remember her one last time— the way
she moved beneath me, the sounds she made when she came, the trust in
her voice when she asked if she could see me again.
Net, milaya. You can’t see me again. Ever.
Because if you did, if you ever learned the truth, it would destroy us
both. And you’ve suffered enough damage from my hands.
I’ll carry my guilt to Budapest, to whatever new life my brothers are
building in the hills above the Danube. I’ll use it as armor against ever
hurting anyone else the way I’ve hurt her.
But I’ll never forget what happened here.
 I’ll never forget her. I’ll never stop wanting to be the man she
deserved to find in that burgundy room— someone clean, someone worthy,
someone who could offer comfort without contamination.
Do svidaniya, Boston.
Goodbye.
Time to learn how to live with the ghosts I’ve created.
One year later…
 Chapter Twenty-One
Osip

“I’m not having this conversation again,” I say, my voice cutting

through the silence of my bedroom. “Marriage is not in my plans.”
“But why, baby?” Anett purrs, her manicured fingers tracing patterns
across my chest that feel more calculated than affectionate. “I love you and
I can give you everything a woman can give you.”
Blyad.
Here we go again.
Anett Kovács— my Hungarian… what? “Girlfriend” feels too
generous. Convenient fuck sounds more accurate, though she’d probably
claw my eyes out if I said it aloud. We met in some overpriced bar in Pest
six months ago, all platinum hair and designer heels, the kind of woman
who knows exactly what effect she has on men and wields it like a weapon.
What was supposed to be a one-night stand to help me forget turned
into several nights, then regular fucking, then this— whatever the fuck this
is. She keeps showing up, keeps worming her way deeper into my life like a
parasite I can’t quite shake. And I haven’t been fed up enough to dump her,
which says more about my current state of mind than I care to analyze.
I feel empty inside. Have been that way since Boston, since
everything I had was ripped away in a single night of blood and betrayal.
Even the therapy sessions my brothers bullied me into attending can’t fill
the void where my future used to live.
The house around us is a monument to wealth without purpose—
eight bedrooms, marble floors, tall windows overlooking the Danube. Buda
Hills real estate doesn’t come cheap, but money has never been the
problem. It’s everything else that’s fucked beyond repair.
“Osip,” Anett continues, her voice taking on that wheedling tone that
makes my teeth clench. “You live in this beautiful house all alone. Don’t
you want someone to share it with?”
Share it. Like she’s offering me some grand gift instead of slowly
moving her shit into my space without permission. First it was a toothbrush,
then spare clothes, now she’s practically redecorated my guest bathroom
with enough cosmetics to stock a department store.
 “I like alone,” I say, reaching for the tumbler of vodka on my
nightstand. The burn feels familiar, comforting in ways human contact no
longer does.
After Galina died, I couldn’t stay in that house. Couldn’t even stay in
Boston. Every corner held ghosts, every room echoed with conversations
we’d never have and dreams that died with her. Melor and Radimir had
already been here in Budapest, building new lives away from all the Bratva
bullshit, and after the nightmare with Galina, their invitations had begun to
make sense.
“Come to Hungary, bratan,” They’d said. “Start fresh. Nobody
knows you here.”
They were right. In Budapest, I’m just another rich Russian
expatriate with too much money and too few questions asked about where it
came from. The kind of anonymity that money can buy, distance from
everything that defined my old life.
The therapy was Radimir’s idea— persistent little mudak wouldn’t
drop it until I agreed to see someone. Dr. Szabó, a soft-spoken Hungarian
who speaks perfect Russian and doesn’t flinch when I describe dreams that
would send normal people running for the hills.
The nightmares still come. Always the same twisted theater of
horrors— someone in a mask killing Galina with a knife while I watch,
paralyzed by invisible chains. Then the masked figure cuts my son from her
belly and disappears, leaving me alone with blood and silence. I wake up
drenched in sweat, reaching for sedatives that make the world blur around
the edges.
“You’re not listening to me,” Anett says, her voice sharper now.
She’s sitting up in bed, designer lingerie doing its job of demanding
attention I don’t want to give.
“I’m listening.” I drain the vodka and set the glass down harder than
necessary. “You want marriage, babies, the whole domestic shitshow. I told
you— not interested.”
Her face cycles through emotions like a slot machine— hurt, anger,
calculation. “You said you wanted children someday.”
Someday.
Back when I thought I understood what that meant, when the future
felt like something I could build instead of survive. Before I lost everything
that mattered and learned that hope is just delayed disappointment.
 I miss Galina’s simplicity. The way she never demanded more than I
could give, never pushed for declarations or promises I couldn’t keep. But
even more than that, I miss her— the masked woman from Room Five,
whose presence haunts me more than any ghost.
Her gentle spirit. The way she trusted me with her pain while I sat
there carrying the knowledge that I’d caused it. No woman has ever
affected me the way she did. And I’ll never see her again. Can never see her
again. The truth would destroy us.
Anett lacks both Galina’s simplicity and the mysterious woman’s
depth. She’s all surface and strategy, manipulation dressed up as affection.
And it’s starting to get on my fucking nerves.
Suka!
Her hand slides down my torso, fingers working at the waistband of
my pants. “Let me show you how much I love you,” she breathes against
my neck.
“Not tonight.” I catch her wrist, stopping her advance. “I’m not in the
mood.”
Her eyes narrow, beautiful features twisting into something uglier.
“You’re never in the mood anymore. Are you fucking someone else?”
“Yob tvoyu mat’.” The curse escapes before I can stop it. “Here we
go.”
“Don’t speak Russian when I’m talking to you!” Her voice rises, the
practiced seduction replaced by the kind of shrill anger that makes my skull
throb. “I know you’re hiding something from me, Osip. You disappear for
hours, you won’t touch me half the time, you act like I’m some kind of
burden—”
“You are a burden.” The words come out cold, but I’m past caring
about her feelings. “This was never supposed to be permanent, Anett. We
fuck, we part ways, nobody gets attached. Simple.”
She recoils like I’ve struck her, tears springing to her eyes with
suspicious speed. “How can you say that? After everything we’ve shared?”
Everything we’ve shared?
A few months of meaningless sex and one-sided conversations where
she talks about her modeling career and I drink until she becomes tolerable.
Some foundation for forever.
“Get dressed,” I say, standing and reaching for my clothes. “I’ll call
you a taxi home.”
 “A taxi?” The tears come faster now, though I suspect they’re more
manipulation than genuine hurt. “Osip, please. I gave up my flat.”
I stiffen. “You what?”
“My lease expired last month. I didn’t renew it.” She’s using that
little-girl voice now, the one that probably works on most men but just
makes me want to throw her out the window. “We’re together, aren’t we?
You live in this huge house. Why should we live separately?”
Blyad.
Glupaya suka!
She gave up her flat without telling me? Backed me into a corner
where saying no makes me the asshole? This is exactly the kind of bullshit
that makes my trigger finger itch.
“When were you planning to mention this?” My voice is deadly
quiet.
“I thought you’d be happy.” But her eyes dart away, confirming what
I already suspected— this was calculated, designed to force my hand.
“Osip,” she continues, sliding closer and pressing her lips to my neck in a
gesture that feels more like marking territory than affection. “I know how
much you want a child. I can give you one. As many as you want.”
The mention of children is a knife between my ribs. She doesn’t
know about Galina, about the son who died before drawing breath, about
the nursery that still haunts my dreams. She knows I like kids because I
mentioned it early on, back when I thought casual conversation was
harmless.
Now she’s weaponizing it, using my losses to manipulate me into a
future I never agreed to.
“I don’t want to talk about this.” I move toward the phone, fingers
already dialing for a taxi service. “I’ll get you a room at the Four Seasons.
You can figure out your housing situation tomorrow.”
“Please, baby.” She grabs my arm, nails digging into skin through the
thin fabric of my shirt. “Just let me stay tonight. I promise I won’t push
anymore. We can talk about this tomorrow when we’re both calmer.”
Fuck.
The smart move is to throw her out now, before this gets more
complicated. But she’s crying— real tears this time, I think— and there’s
something pathetic about watching her fall apart. Maybe it’s the therapy,
maybe it’s exhaustion, but I find myself nodding.
 “Guest bedroom,” I say firmly. “And tomorrow we have a
conversation about boundaries.”
A conversation about boundaries?
What fucked up bullshit is this? Szabó would come in his pants if he
heard me now. All the goddamn therapy has turned me into a fucking pussy.
Relief floods her features, followed quickly by offense. “The guest
bedroom? Osip, we’ve been together for months—”
“Guest bedroom or the street. Your choice.”
She stares at me for a long moment, probably calculating whether
another tantrum might change my mind. Whatever she sees in my
expression convinces her to back down.
“Fine.” The word comes out sharp and bitter. “The guest bedroom.”
She gathers her clothes with theatrical dignity, clearly trying to show
me what I’m missing. The door slams behind her hard enough to rattle the
windows, followed by the unmistakable sound of her throwing things
around the guest room.
Yobani urod.
Fucking pain in the ass.
I pour another shot of vodka and walk to the windows overlooking
the city. Budapest spreads below me like a circuit board of light and
shadow, beautiful and foreign and nothing like the life I thought I’d be
living by now.
In another timeline, I’d be tucking my son into bed about now.
Reading him stories in Russian, teaching him the constellations visible from
his nursery window. Galina would be in our kitchen, humming while she
prepared his bottle for the middle-of-the-night feeding.
Instead, I’m standing in an empty house with a woman who sees me
as a ticket to the life she thinks she deserves, drinking away memories of
the family that died a year ago.
The vodka burns, but not enough to erase the taste of guilt and regret
that’s become my constant companion. Tomorrow I’ll deal with Anett’s
drama, find her a new place, probably listen to more tears and manipulation
to make me change my mind.
But tonight, I’ll drink until the ghosts stop talking and the nightmares
feel manageable. Until I can close my eyes without seeing masked figures
stealing everything I care about.
 Do svidaniya, malysh, I whisper to the window, to the son who never
got to breathe, to the woman whose face I’ll never know but whose absence
defines everything I’ve become.
Tomorrow I’ll figure out how to be human again.
Tonight, I’ll just try to survive the weight of everything I’ve lost.
 Chapter Twenty-Two
Ilona

The notification on my laptop screen glows like an accusation.

Payment Overdue - Final Notice.
I stare at the words until they blur, my coffee growing cold in the
chipped mug beside me. Three days. I have three days before my landlord
kicks me out of this shoebox rental in District VII, and my bank account
balance mocks me with its pathetic double digits.
Welcome to the glamorous life of a digital nomad.
The irony tastes bitter as week-old coffee. A year ago, when I first
fled Boston with nothing but grief and a half-formed business plan, the
nomadic lifestyle felt like freedom. Travel the world, work from cafés with
stunning views, reinvent myself as Ilona Katona— Katona being my
mother’s maiden name— leaving no trace of the broken girl whose father’s
“suicide” destroyed everything she thought she knew about family.
But Instagram lies. Behind those perfectly curated posts of laptop
setups against European backdrops, there’s the reality of counting euros for
groceries, sleeping in hostels that smell like unwashed socks, and watching
your client base evaporate as AI steals the work you thought only humans
could do.
My social media business started strong— beauty brands loved my
eye for aesthetics, my ability to make their products look irresistible against
cobblestone streets and café windows. For several months, I actually made
it work. Traveled through Prague, Vienna, Warsaw, always moving, always
running from the ghost of my father and the questions that followed his
death.
Then the algorithms started to change. AI content flooded the market.
Suddenly, brands could generate perfect lifestyle shots without paying
humans to create them. My client list dwindled from a healthy roster to a
handful of loyal customers who probably hired me out of pity more than
necessity.
Now I’m here in Budapest— the city where my parents fell in love
thirty years ago, where Mom’s Hungarian roots run deep— and I’m about
to become homeless in the place that was supposed to be my sanctuary.
 My phone buzzes against the rickety table, and Mom’s face appears
on the screen. I consider letting it go to voicemail, but guilt wins.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Ilona, darling.” Her voice carries that careful tone she’s perfected
over the past year— forced brightness hiding genuine worry. “How are you,
sweetheart?”
“I’m fine.” The lie comes automatically. “Just working on a new
campaign for a skincare company.”
There is no skincare company. There hasn’t been a real client in two
weeks.
“That’s wonderful. You sound tired, though. Are you eating enough?
Getting proper sleep?”
I glance around my cramped studio— unmade bed, empty sandwich
wrappers, the general chaos of someone whose life is barely held together
by caffeine and stubbornness.
“I’m taking good care of myself, Mom. Promise.”
The silence stretches, and I know she doesn’t believe me. Since
Dad’s death, she’s become hypervigilant about my safety, convinced that
his mysterious “business associates” might come after me. I think it’s grief-
induced paranoia, but trying to argue with a traumatized woman only makes
things worse.
“I still think you should come home,” she says quietly. “Boston isn’t
the same without you. Jason asks about you every time I see him at the
grocery store.”
Jason. My former boss, the closest thing to a father figure I had after
losing Dad. He called two weeks ago just to check in, his gravelly voice
warm with concern I didn’t deserve. Good people like Jason make me feel
guilty for running away, for choosing distance over dealing with my
problems.
“I’m building something here, Mom. Budapest feels like home.”
Another lie, but this one tastes sweeter. “I can see why you and Dad fell in
love with this city.”
The mention of Dad creates another stretch of silence. We’ve gotten
better at navigating around the crater his death left in our conversations, but
the absence still echoes.
“Just… be careful, darling. I know you think I’m being paranoid, but
your father had enemies. People who might—”
 “Mom.” I keep my voice gentle but firm. “Nobody followed me to
Europe. Nobody cares about Igor Shiradze’s daughter enough to track her
down in Budapest. I’m safe.”
“I know. I just… I miss you, baby. You’re all I have left.”
The words make my heart hurt, guilt and love tangling in my chest
until breathing feels optional. She’s right— we’re each other’s only family
now, bound together by shared loss and the questions we’ll never get
answers to.
“I miss you too, Mom,” I whisper. “But I need to be here right now. I
need to figure out who I am without… without everything we lost.”
After we hang up, I sit in the silence of my tiny studio and face the
reality I’ve been avoiding. Mom’s small apartment in Boston. Her worried
phone calls. The life I left behind when I decided that running away was
easier than healing.
But right now, I need to focus on survival.
I open [Link] and scroll through job listings with growing
desperation. Retail positions that require fluent Hungarian. Office jobs that
want degrees I don’t have. Restaurant work that pays barely enough to
cover rent, let alone food.
Then I see it.
Waitress Wanted - The Scarlet Fox. Part-time/Full-time positions
available Accommodation included. Staff meal provided daily.
The name stops me cold.
The Scarlet Fox. Like the place in Boston where I used to escape
when my life became unbearable. Where I met TMG, the masked guy.
But this is Budapest, not Boston. Different continent, different world,
different life. The only connection is a name that probably means nothing
beyond coincidence.
I read the listing again, focusing on the practical details.
Accommodation included. Staff meal daily. Exactly what I need to survive
until I can rebuild my business or figure out my next move.
My finger hovers over the phone number. This could be the lifeline
I’ve been praying for, or it could be a mistake that drags me back into
memories I’m not ready to face.
But desperate times call for desperate measures.
The phone rings twice before a deep male voice answers in accented
English. “The Scarlet Fox, this is Tibor.”
 “Hi, I’m calling about the waitress position?”
“Ah, excellent! Yes, we are looking for someone reliable. Can you
come in today for an interview? Say, three o’clock?”
That’s three hours from now. I can shower, find something clean to
wear, and walk there to save bus fare. Google Maps shows it’s only two
kilometers away— manageable, even with my diminishing energy reserves.
“That works perfectly. Should I bring anything specific?”
“Just yourself and a positive attitude,” Tibor says. “Ask for me when
you arrive. Tibor Arany.”
After I hang up, I allow myself one moment of cautious optimism.
Maybe this is exactly what I need— honest work, stable housing, a chance
to rebuild without the weight of family history crushing me.
I walk to the tiny bathroom and stare at my reflection in the cracked
mirror. The girl looking back at me is thinner than she used to be, with
sharper cheekbones and eyes that have seen too much. But she’s survived a
year of grief, displacement, and financial instability.
She can survive this too.
The shower water runs lukewarm, but it washes away the staleness of
too many days spent hiding in this room. I dig through my limited wardrobe
for something that says “reliable employee” instead of “broke nomad.”
As I get dressed, I catch myself thinking about TMG once again. I
never figured out who he was, never got answers about why he disappeared
so completely.
Maybe it’s better that way. Some stories are meant to remain
mysteries, beautiful and untouchable in their incompleteness.
I check my reflection one last time, smoothing down my dark blazer
over a simple white blouse. Professional but not desperate— I hope. My
hair falls in soft waves around my shoulders, and for a moment, I see
echoes of the confident woman I used to be.
The woman before Dad died.
Before everything fell apart.
But that’s the past. Today is about survival, about taking the first step
toward rebuilding something from the ashes of everything I’ve lost.
I grab my small purse and the folder containing my hastily printed
CV. Not much to show for twenty-five years of life, but it will have to be
enough.
 Google Maps shows the walk will take about twenty-five minutes.
Perfect timing to arrive exactly at three o’clock, assuming I leave now. The
autumn air will be crisp, and the walk will help calm my nerves.
As I reach for the door handle, my phone buzzes with a text from
Mom.“Thinking of you today, sweetheart. I love you.”
Her timing is uncanny, like she always knows when I need to hear
those words. I type back quickly. “Love you too. About to head out for
something promising.”
I slip the phone into my purse and take one last look around the tiny
studio that’s been my prison and sanctuary for the past month. Tomorrow,
with any luck, I’ll be packing these few belongings and moving somewhere
new. Somewhere that comes with steady income and the promise of a fresh
start.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I head toward whatever comes
next. The name Scarlet Fox echoes in my mind— coincidence or destiny, I
don’t know. But suddenly, I feel something that might actually be hope.
Maybe this is exactly what I need. Maybe the universe is finally
throwing me a lifeline.
Time to find out.
 Chapter Twenty-Three
Ilona

The walk through Budapest’s streets feels like stepping through a

living postcard.
I leave my cramped studio in District VII and cross the Danube via
the iconic Chain Bridge, its stone lions standing guard over the glittering
water below. The Pest side of the city bustles with modern energy— trams
clanging along their tracks, tourists snapping photos, locals hurrying
between meetings with purposeful strides.
But it’s when I climb into the Buda Hills that the real magic reveals
itself.
Here, cobblestone streets wind between buildings that have witnessed
centuries of history. Gothic spires pierce the sky alongside baroque facades
painted in soft yellows and muted greens. Wrought-iron balconies overflow
with autumn flowers, their colors bright against weathered stone. The scent
of chimney smoke mingles with the aroma of fresh bread from corner
bakeries, and somewhere in the distance, a street musician plays violin with
haunting precision.
This is the Budapest my mother fell in love with thirty years ago. I
can see why she and Dad chose to build their first memories here, why she
still speaks of this city with a wistful smile that transcends the grief of
losing him.
My phone buzzes with directions as I navigate the maze of narrow
streets. Twenty-three minutes of walking, just as Google promised, but
every step feels like traveling backward in time. Past an elderly woman
hanging laundry from her window. Past a café where old men play chess
beneath gnarled trees. Past children kicking a football against ancient walls
that probably remember Turkish occupation and Soviet rule.
When I finally reach the address, I stop and stare.
Then I nearly laugh out loud.
The Scarlet Fox Budapest looks nothing— absolutely nothing— like
its Boston namesake. Where the original was sleek brick and shadowy
mystery, this building could have been transplanted directly from a
Hungarian village. Traditional whitewashed walls, red-tiled roof, wooden
shutters painted forest green. A hand-carved fox sign swings gently from
wrought-iron chains above the entrance.
It’s charming in a rustic, old-world way, but definitely not the
sophisticated underground club I remember. Just a coincidence of names,
exactly as I suspected. The universe isn’t that dramatic.
I push through the heavy wooden door and step into… emptiness.
The interior matches the exterior’s traditional vibe— rough-hewn
beams, checkered tablecloths, mismatched furniture that looks comfortable
rather than calculated. But there’s no one here. No staff, no customers, just
the faint smell of yesterday’s goulash and the distant hum of a refrigerator.
“Hello?” My voice echoes off low ceilings. “Tibor?”
Nothing.
I dial the number again, feeling slightly ridiculous standing alone in
an empty restaurant while calling someone who should be right here.
“Igen, hello?” The same voice from earlier, but muffled now.
“Hi, it’s Ilona. I’m here for the interview, but—”
“Ah, yes! Sorry, sorry. I am upstairs. Coming down now.”
Heavy footsteps thunder overhead, then down wooden stairs that
creak ominously under significant weight. Moments later, a man appears
who looks exactly like central casting’s idea of a Hungarian restaurant
owner.
Tibor Arany is probably in his fifties, with a substantial belly that
speaks of sampling too much of his own cooking. Salt-and-pepper hair is
slicked back with questionable success, and his complexion suggests a man
who enjoys his pálinka after service. He’s not unattractive exactly, but
there’s something about the way his eyes immediately travel the length of
my body that makes my skin crawl.
“Ilona!” He approaches with arms spread wide, as if we’re old
friends rather than strangers meeting for a job interview. “You are even
more beautiful than you sounded on the phone.”
I force a smile and extend my hand for a professional handshake, but
he bypasses it entirely and pulls me into a hug that lasts several seconds too
long. His hands linger on my waist, and I catch a whiff of alcohol on his
breath despite it being mid-afternoon.
“Shall we sit and talk?” I extract myself from his grip politely. A year
of nomadic life has taught me how to handle unwanted attention without
causing offense— a skill I wish I’d never needed to develop.
 “Of course, of course.” He gestures toward a corner table, his gaze
dropping to my legs as I sit down. “Can I get you something to drink?
Coffee? Something stronger?”
“Coffee would be lovely, thank you.”
He disappears behind the bar, and I use the moment to study my
surroundings more carefully. The restaurant is clean enough, though clearly
showing its age. Faded photographs of Hungarian countryside cover the
walls, and traditional folk music plays softly from hidden speakers. It’s the
kind of place that probably serves excellent comfort food to locals who’ve
been coming here for decades.
Not glamorous, but honest work. I can do this.
Tibor returns with two coffees and settles into the chair across from
me, sitting closer than necessary.
“So, Ilona Katona. Beautiful Hungarian name for a beautiful
Hungarian girl.”
“Thank you.” I open the folder containing my CV, trying to steer the
conversation toward professional territory. “I brought my resume, though I
realize restaurant experience isn’t extensive. But I’m a quick learner and—”
“Bah!” He waves away my papers without looking at them.
“Experience is nothing. What matters is…” His eyes travel over me again,
lingering on my neckline. “Personality. Charm. The ability to make
customers happy.”
The emphasis on “happy” makes my stomach turn, but I need this
job. “I enjoy working with people. Customer service has always been—”
“You have a boyfriend?” The question comes out of nowhere,
delivered with a grin that shows too many teeth.
“I… excuse me?”
“Boyfriend. Husband. These things matter for work schedule, you
understand. Young, beautiful girl like you…” He shrugs as if this line of
questioning is perfectly normal.
It’s not. It’s anything but normal. But I’m broke, homeless in three
days, and desperate. “I’m… single,” I say carefully. “I’m focused on my
career right now.”
“Good, good. Career is important.” His hand moves across the table,
fingers brushing mine where they rest beside my coffee cup. “But so is
having someone to appreciate your… talents.”
 I pull my hands back into my lap. “About the position itself— what
would my responsibilities include?”
For the next twenty minutes, Tibor outlines the job while making
increasingly inappropriate comments. I’d be serving food and drinks,
cleaning tables, handling the register. Standard restaurant work, nothing I
can’t manage. But he peppers the description with remarks about my
appearance, suggestions that “pretty girls get better tips,” and barely veiled
innuendos about “keeping customers satisfied.”
Each comment makes my skin crawl a little more, but I smile and
nod and pretend not to notice. Because I need this job. Because three days
isn’t enough time to find something better. Because sometimes survival
means swallowing your pride and enduring things that would have sent the
old Ilona running for the hills.
“The pay is not much,” he admits, naming a figure that’s barely
above minimum wage. “But with tips and the accommodation included, you
will be comfortable.”
“About the accommodation— where exactly would I be staying?”
Tibor glances at his watch, a cheap digital thing that looks like it
came from a gas station. “My shift starts soon, but I can show you now. It is
at my house.”
His house?
Shit.
Not a staff dormitory or a separate apartment— his actual house.
Where he lives. Alone, based on the lack of any mention of family.
“That’s… very generous,” I manage, though every instinct I have is
screaming warnings.
“Come, we go now. I drive you.”
Before I can protest, he’s leading me outside to a battered Škoda
that’s probably older than I am. The interior smells like cigarettes and body
odor, and something sticky has been spilled on the passenger seat that he
hastily covers with a jacket.
The drive takes less than ten minutes through residential streets lined
with similar traditional houses. When we pull up to his place, my heart
sinks further.
The house looks like a bachelor pad crossed with a hoarder’s
paradise. Overgrown garden, peeling paint, newspapers scattered across the
front porch. Through windows that haven’t been cleaned in months, I can
see the chaos inside— dirty dishes, laundry draped over furniture, the
general disorder of someone who’s given up on domestic standards.
“Is not much to look at from outside,” Tibor says with what might be
embarrassment. “But inside is comfortable.”
Comfortable isn’t exactly the word I’d use.
The living room assaults my senses immediately— stale cooking
smells, unwashed clothes, the sour scent of spilled beer that’s been left to
ferment in carpet fibers. Dirty plates tower beside a sink overflowing with
greasy water, and an unmade bed is visible through an open door. No
female touch anywhere, just the accumulated mess of a man who lives
without accountability.
“Kitchen there, bathroom upstairs, television works mostly,” he
narrates as we move through the disaster zone. “Your room is in attic. Very
private.”
The stairs groan under our combined weight as we climb to the
second floor, then up a narrower staircase to what’s essentially a converted
storage space. The “room” he shows me is barely larger than a closet, with a
slanted ceiling that forces anyone over five-six to duck. A dirty mattress lies
directly on the floor, surrounded by boxes of what looks like restaurant
supplies and personal junk.
One small window provides minimal light, and I can already tell the
space will be freezing in winter. No heating vents, no insulation visible in
the exposed rafters. The smell of mildew competes with something else I
can’t identify and don’t want to.
“Does…” I swallow hard, trying to find a tactful way to ask. “Does
your wife live here too?”
Tibor’s grin widens, and there’s something predatory in his
expression that makes me want to run. “No wife. Just me. We would be…
flatmates.”
The way he says “flatmates” makes my skin crawl. Like the word
means something entirely different in his vocabulary.
Shit.
But what choice do I have? Having accommodation included in the
package means I could survive here while rebuilding my business. Maybe
save enough to find a proper flat once I’m back on my feet. In the
meantime, I’ll just have to lock the door to my room.
 “It’s perfect,” I lie, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. “When can I
start?”
“Tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock sharp.” His hand lingers above
my lower back as he guides me toward the stairs. “I show you to your room
properly tomorrow. Tonight, you rest in your old place. Tomorrow, we
begin our… partnership.”
The word “partnership” carries the same loaded implications as
“flatmates,” and I fight down nausea as his hand hovers over my spine.
But I shake his hand and thank him for the opportunity, because this
is my lifeline right now. However uncomfortable, however wrong this feels,
it’s better than sleeping on the streets or crawling back to Boston with my
tail between my legs.
During the silent drive back to the restaurant where I can make the
trip back to my current flat, I stare out the window at Budapest’s beautiful
streets and wonder what I’ve just agreed to.
Survival, I remind myself.
This is about survival.
I can handle whatever Tibor throws at me for a few weeks or maybe
a couple of months. I’ve survived worse things than a lecherous boss and
questionable living conditions. This is temporary— just long enough to get
back on my feet and find something better.
But as the car winds through the city’s historic streets, past couples
walking hand in hand and families enjoying meals on restaurant terraces, I
can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just made a deal with the devil.
One more compromise in a year full of them. One more situation
where I swallow my pride and accept what’s offered because the alternative
is worse.
At least it’s only temporary.
It has to be.
 Chapter Twenty-Four
Osip

The nightmare always starts the same way.

I’m driving home through Boston streets that shimmer like black
water under streetlights. Something feels wrong— the kind of wrongness
that crawls up your spine and whispers warnings you can’t quite hear.
The house appears normal when I pull into the driveway. Colonial
elegance, manicured lawn, the life I built for Galina and our unborn son.
But the front door stands open.
She’s sleeping on the sofa, one hand over her belly, the other
dangling against the rug. Lovely. Serene. Dead.
Then I see the movement.
Something shifts beneath the fabric of her dress, pressing against the
taut skin of her abdomen with desperate, rhythmic motion. My son.
Fighting for life.
“Hold on, malysh,” I whisper, reaching for her belly. “Papa’s here.”
But before I can touch her, he appears.
The masked figure materializes from shadow like smoke given form.
Black leather covers his face, but his hands move quickly as he produces a
blade that gleams in the light. I try to move, try to scream, but invisible
chains hold me paralyzed while he cuts.
The incision is perfect, clinical. No wasted motion as he reaches
inside and pulls out—
My son. Tiny, perfect, alive.
“Net!” The word tears from my throat like broken glass. “Don’t take
him!”
But the masked figure is already moving, cradling my child against
his chest as he glides toward the door. I struggle against the chains that bind
me, muscles straining until tendons threaten to snap.
“Pozhaluysta!” Please! “He’s mine!”
The figure pauses at the threshold, turns back to face me. Behind the
leather mask, I see nothing— no eyes, no humanity, just void. When he
speaks, his voice sounds like Death.
“You don’t deserve to keep what you love.”
 Then he’s gone, vanishing into darkness with my son’s cries echoing
in the night. I’m left alone with Galina’s cooling corpse and the knowledge
that I failed them both.
Always the same.
Always.
I jolt awake in my king-sized bed, sweat-soaked sheets clinging to
skin that feels like it’s raw. The digital clock glows 3:47 a.m., its red
numbers burning against the darkness of my Buda Hills bedroom.
Bozhe moy.
My hands shake as I reach for the sedatives on my nightstand— little
white pills that promise oblivion. Dr. Szabó prescribed them months ago
when the nightmares started interfering with basic function.
“Sleep is when we process trauma,” he’d explained in that calm,
clinical voice. “But sometimes the mind needs help sorting reality from
fear.”
I dry-swallow two pills and lie back against Egyptian cotton that
costs more than sheets should reasonably cost. The medication takes thirty
minutes to work, thirty minutes of staring at shadows that might be
memories or might be guilt given form.
When consciousness finally fades, it takes the ghosts with it.
The next time I wake, pale morning light filters through windows
that overlook the Danube. My body feels heavy, disconnected, like I’m
wearing someone else’s skin. But my cock is hard as steel, throbbing with
need that has nothing to do with the woman currently occupying my guest
bedroom.
Instead, I think about her. The masked woman from Room Five,
whose name I’ll never know but whose presence haunts me more
effectively than any ghost.
My hand wraps around my length, stroking with movements that feel
more like punishment than pleasure. I remember her skin, porcelain pale in
candlelight. The way she looked at me when I walked through that door—
not with fear or calculation, but with hunger that matched my own.
She was everything Anett isn’t. Honest. Vulnerable. Real.
I come with a grunt while guilt and longing wage war in my chest.
The release is violent, emptying, but it doesn’t touch the ache that’s taken
up permanent residence behind my ribs.
 The shower runs ice-cold because I deserve the shock of it, deserve
the way it steals my breath and makes thinking impossible. By the time I
emerge, skin raw and lungs burning, I feel almost human.
The sound of movement drifts from the kitchen— Anett, probably
making coffee and planning whatever manipulation she’ll attempt today.
Yesterday’s conversation about marriage and children hangs between us like
a loaded weapon, and I don’t have the energy for round two.
I dress quickly in dark jeans and a charcoal sweater, grab my keys,
and slip out through the side entrance before she can corner me with tears
or accusations or whatever performance she’s rehearsed overnight.
The Buda Hills wrap around me as I drive through narrow streets that
predate my grandfather’s grandfather. This is why I chose Budapest— the
weight of history, the sense that individual tragedies matter less when
measured against centuries of survival.
The Scarlet Fox sits at the corner of two residential streets, traditional
whitewashed walls and red-tiled roof making it look like something from a
fairy tale. I’ve been coming here for weeks, drawn by the name even though
it bears no resemblance to the Boston club that changed my life.
Coincidence.
That’s all.
The interior matches the exterior’s rural charm— rough-hewn beams,
checkered tablecloths, mismatched chairs made for comfort. A middle-aged
waitress serves coffee strong enough to wake the dead while someone
clatters around the kitchen.
“Jó reggelt,” she greets me with a tired smile that speaks of too many
early mornings. “Good morning, sir.”
“Jó reggelt,” I reply, settling into my usual corner table with a view
of both entrances. Old habits.
The coffee arrives black and bitter, exactly how I prefer it. For twenty
minutes, I sit in silence and watch Budapest wake up through windows
spotted with age. Trams clang past carrying office workers to jobs that don’t
require violence. Mothers push strollers along sidewalks, cooing at their
babies.
Normal life.
The kind I used to think was for other people.
When the waitress returns to refill my cup, I notice the exhaustion in
her movements, the way she glances nervously toward the kitchen.
 “Everything alright?” I ask in Hungarian, my accent marking me as
foreign but the effort earning a grateful smile.
She hesitates, then takes in a breath, as if making a decision. “I am
worried for my job,” she says abruptly.
“Why?” I ask. “You do it well. Is there a problem?”
“The owner… he is planning to sell.” She shrugs.
“That so?” I cock my head.
She glances around, then leans closer. “You are regular customer,
yes? Good customer.” Her English is careful but clear. “Rich man.” She
glances at the Patek Philippe on my wrist and I silently curse myself for this
lapse into self-indulgence. “Maybe you interested? The owner, he is
struggling. Money troubles. Very sad.”
I stare at her for a moment. These are possibilities I hadn’t
considered. “Selling?”
“Igen. Yes. The family, they cannot keep up with costs. Modern
places taking all the business.” She shrugs with the resigned grace of
someone who’s watched dreams crumble. “Is shame. This place has
history.”
I study the space with new eyes, seeing potential instead of nostalgia.
The location is perfect— residential enough for privacy, commercial
enough for legitimacy. The building itself has character that can’t be
manufactured, charm that money can’t buy.
“Do you have the owner’s contact information?”
Her face brightens with hope. “You are serious? You buy?”
“Maybe. Worth a talk.”
She disappears into the kitchen and returns with a business card, the
kind printed on cheap stock that’s seen too many hands. “His name is
László. Very good man, just… bad timing with economy.”
I pocket the card and leave a generous tip— enough to cover her
weekly wages, probably. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t question good
fortune.
Outside, I pull out my phone and navigate to the family group chat.
This decision feels significant in ways I can’t articulate— not just business,
but transformation. A chance to build something clean from the ground up.
The video I send shows empty tables and rustic charm, traditional
architecture that speaks of permanence. My brothers’ responses come
quickly:
 Melor: “Interesting. Location?”
Radimir: “Looks like a fucking fairy tale, brat. But maybe fairy tales
can make money.”
I follow up with photos of the interior, the space that could be
converted to private dining, the potential for something special. Each image
builds the case for what this place could become.
Melor: “Kitchen would need work, but bones are solid. What’s the
asking price?”
Me: “Haven’t called yet. Just found out it’s available.”
Radimir: “Well what are you waiting for? Call the mudak.”
Melor: “Agreed. But what’s the vision? Another restaurant? Club?
Legitimate front?”
The question makes me pause. What is the vision? I stare at the
traditional facade and see something that doesn’t exist yet— elegant
without being ostentatious, exclusive without being elitist. A place where
privacy matters, where conversations can happen without fear of
surveillance or judgment.
Me: “Private club. Exclusive membership. The name stays.”
Radimir: “Scarlet Fox Budapest. Has a nice ring to it.”
Melor: “Legal business means legal taxes, legal oversight. You sure
you want that level of scrutiny?
Me: “Time to go legitimate. All the way this time.
The words feel like a promise of something new. For years, I’ve
straddled the line between criminal and civilian, using legal businesses to
wash money earned through violence. But this feels different. Clean.
Maybe it’s the therapy. Maybe it’s the ghosts that won’t let me sleep.
Maybe it’s the recognition that I can’t outrun my past by hiding in it
forever.
Melor: “If you’re serious about going legitimate, you’ll need proper
papers. Business licenses, health permits, insurance. I can handle the legal
side.”
Radimir: “And I can design security systems that aren’t overkill for a
restaurant. Keep it classy.”
Their enthusiasm surprises me. These are men who measure success
in dollars laundered and territories controlled. But they’re backing my play
without hesitation.
 I dial the number on the business card, listening to it ring while
studying the building that might become my future.
“Igen, László speaking.” The voice is tired, defeated.
“László, I’m Sidorov, Osip Sidorov. I heard your restaurant might be
for sale.”
Long pause. “Who told you this?”
“One of your staff. I’m a regular customer, interested in making an
offer.”
The conversation that follows is conducted in careful English
supplemented by hope and desperation. László has owned the place for
fifteen years, inherited from his father who built it in the seventies. But
Budapest’s dining scene has evolved, and traditional Hungarian fare can’t
compete with trendy fusion restaurants and delivery apps.
“I love this place,” he explains, his voice heavy with resignation.
“But love doesn’t pay the bills.”
The price he quotes is laughably low— pocket change for someone
with my resources. Either he’s desperate, or Hungarian real estate is cheaper
than I realized. Probably both.
“I’d like to see the full property,” I tell him. “Books, permits,
everything. When can we meet?”
“Today? Now?” The eagerness in his voice makes my chest tighten.
This man is drowning, and I might be the life preserver he’s been praying
for.
“Can you get here in an hour?”
It takes him less than that to get to the restaurant. The paperwork
László shows me tells a story of steady decline— rising costs, falling
revenues, loan payments that consume what little profit remains. He’s been
hemorrhaging money for two years, surviving on credit and false hope.
But the bones of the business are solid. Proper licenses, health
permits up to date, a lease that’s transferable. Everything I need to turn this
place into something special.
“I’ll take it,” I tell him after reviewing the final document.
His face transforms, relief and disbelief warring for control. “Just like
that? No negotiation?”
“The price is fair. You get to walk away clean, I get a chance to build
something new.” I extend my hand. “Do we have a deal?”
His grip is firm, grateful, slightly desperate. “We have a deal.”
 The transfer won’t be official for days— lawyers need to verify titles,
banks need to process payments, bureaucrats need to stamp forms. But
morally, spiritually, the place is mine now.
After László leaves— heading home to tell his wife they can finally
pay off their debts— I sit alone in my new acquisition.
The silence feels different now. Like the building itself is waiting to
see what I’ll make of this opportunity.
I pull out my phone and dial Melor.
“Congratulations, brat,” he answers before I can speak. “You’re
officially a restaurateur.”
“Private club,” I correct. “Restaurant is just the cover.”
“Ah. Gangsters hangout.” He chuckles.
The suggestion sets my teeth on edge. This will be different. This
will be clean.
“I want it done right,” I tell my brother. “Legal in every way that
matters. If someone investigates, they should find exactly what they expect
to find— successful businessman running exclusive club for discerning
clientele.”
“Understood. What about staffing? You can’t run this alone.”
The question hadn’t occurred to me, but it’s crucial. The people I hire
will shape the atmosphere, make sure this doesn’t become an expensive
mistake.
“I’ll handle recruitment personally,” I decide. “Start small, build
carefully.”
I look around the empty restaurant, trying to imagine it filled with the
right kind of people. Not petty criminals or sycophants, but individuals who
appreciate quality, discretion, authenticity. People who understand that the
best things in life require patience and respect.
“You know,” I tell Melor, a slow smile forming, “this might actually
work.”
After I hang up, I stay for another hour, mentally cataloging
everything that needs to change. The kitchen requires modernization. The
upstairs space needs complete renovation. The garden out back could
become something spectacular with proper landscaping.
But underneath the practical considerations runs something more
important— anticipation. For the first time since Galina died, I’m building
toward something instead of running from something.
 When I finally lock up and head back to my house in the hills, I’m
already planning my next move. Because legitimate businesses need
legitimate employees, and I’ll need to start interviewing soon.
Maybe building something clean will help wash away the blood on
my hands.
Maybe this is exactly what I need to finally leave the past buried
where it belongs.
 Chapter Twenty-Five
Ilona

The attic room doesn’t feel like home yet, but it doesn’t feel like a
prison anymore either.
After three days of scrubbing every surface with bleach and
arranging my few belongings, I’ve managed to transform the space into
something almost cozy. The smell of mildew has been replaced by lavender
air freshener, and the single window now has actual curtains instead of the
moldy sheet that was hanging there before.
More importantly, Tibor has been away on some business trip,
leaving me blissfully alone in the house. The silence has been a gift— no
heavy footsteps, no leering glances, no comments about my appearance
disguised as workplace conversation. Just me, my laptop, and the endless
cycle of social media campaigns that might, if I’m lucky, bring in enough
clients to get me out of this financial hole.
I check my phone as I walk down the narrow staircase, careful to
avoid the step that creaks loud enough to wake the dead. 11:47 a.m. Perfect
timing for my twelve-to-eight shift. The morning hours have become sacred
— my only opportunity to focus on rebuilding my business without
interruption.
Today’s promotional campaign targeted beauty brands looking for
authentic lifestyle content, emphasizing my Hungarian location and
European aesthetic. The engagement has been decent, but likes and
comments don’t pay rent. I need actual contracts, actual clients willing to
pay actual money for content creation.
The bus trip to The Scarlet Fox takes less than five minutes from
Tibor’s house, winding through residential streets where elderly neighbors
tend postage-stamp gardens and children play football. It’s peaceful in a
way that Boston never was— quieter, more human-scaled. If my
circumstances were different, I might actually enjoy living here.
But circumstances are what they are. I’m a broke digital nomad
working as a waitress in a run-down restaurant, sleeping in an attic room
that belongs to a man who totally creeps me out. Not exactly the European
adventure I’d imagined when I left Boston.
 The restaurant looks busier than usual as I approach, voices and
laughter spilling through windows that need cleaning. Strange— lunch
crowds are typically modest, mostly local workers grabbing quick meals
between shifts. But today feels different, charged with an energy that makes
me quicken my pace.
I slip through the employee entrance and change quickly into my
uniform— black pants, white blouse, apron that’s seen better days. The
fabric smells like industrial detergent, but it’s clean and respectable. Pride is
a luxury I can’t afford right now.
The moment I push through the kitchen doors, chaos greets me.
Every table is occupied, and several parties wait by the entrance with
the patient resignation of people who know good food takes time. The air
thrums with conversation in multiple languages— Hungarian, German,
English, something that might be Italian. Orders pile up on the pass while
Nora, our cook, works with the focused intensity of a surgeon.
Tibor spots me immediately, his usual proprietary gaze sweeping
over my appearance before he gestures urgently. “Kata’s not here today, so
you’ll have to take care of her section too,” he calls over the din of sizzling
pans and clinking plates.
Double section. Wonderful. I nod and grab an order pad, mentally
calculating the tip potential. If I can keep up with the pace, this might
actually be a decent money day.
“What happened to Kata?” I ask as I pass Nora at the grill, but she
just shakes her head and keeps working.
The next few hours blur together. Orders taken, plates delivered,
tables cleared, repeat. The smell of cooking oil and grilled meat permeates
everything, clinging to my hair and clothes like an invisible film that no
amount of washing completely removes. My feet ache in shoes that were
never designed for eight hours of constant movement, and my smile feels
painted on by the time the rush finally begins to ebb.
It’s during a brief lull that Nora finally has a chance to talk. She leans
against the pass, wiping sweat from her forehead with a dish towel, and
catches my eye with a knowing look.
“Kata called in sick,” she says quietly, glancing around to make sure
Tibor is out of earshot. “But between you and me, I think she’s just fed up.
We’re crazy busy and understaffed, and Tibor’s been…” She makes a face
that speaks volumes.
 I don’t need her to elaborate. I’ve seen how Tibor operates— the
lingering touches, the inappropriate comments, the way he treats female
staff like they owe him something beyond professional service. If Kata
finally reached her breaking point, good for her.
“Think she’s coming back?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Doubtful. Which means more work for the rest of us.” Nora returns
to her prep work, chopping vegetables with efficient precision. “Speaking
of which, see what I told you? This place is a madhouse. It has been bought
by a new owner and the transition period is about to get even crazier.”
The words stop me mid-step. “A new owner?”
“Haven’t met them yet,” Nora continues, her knife creating a steady
rhythm against the cutting board. “All we know is that it’s some Russian
guy and he must be loaded. Tibor said he just walked in, liked the place,
and bought it straight away.”
Russian. The word sends an unexpected chill down my spine, though
I can’t explain why. Maybe it’s the memory of Dad’s accent when he spoke
his native language, or the way certain Russian phrases still make me think
of childhood bedtime stories. But more likely it’s just the uncertainty— new
ownership always means changes, and changes usually aren’t good for
employees at the bottom of the hierarchy.
“Did Tibor say when the transition happens?”
“Soon, I think. Maybe that’s why we’re so busy lately— word’s
getting out that something’s changing.” Nora shrugs with the philosophical
acceptance of someone who’s survived multiple restaurant ownership
changes. “Could be good, could be bad. At least it can’t get much worse.”
The afternoon shift continues at a relentless pace. My feet throb, my
lower back aches from bending over tables, and the smile I wear for
customers feels increasingly fragile. But the tips are better than usual—
apparently busy restaurants make people more generous, or maybe it’s the
anticipation of change that’s putting everyone in a good mood.
By six o’clock, the last lunch stragglers have cleared out and the
dinner crowd hasn’t yet arrived. It’s the golden hour when restaurant staff
can finally breathe, restock supplies, and prepare for the evening rush. I use
the break to count my tips— enough to cover groceries for the week, with a
little left over. Not great, but survivable.
That’s when I make the decision that’s been brewing all afternoon.
 I need more money. More stability. More hours to build a cushion
that might let me eventually move out of Tibor’s attic and into a place
where I don’t have to worry about midnight visits or inappropriate
comments disguised as workplace conversation.
When the restaurant finally quiets, I approach the counter where
Tibor is reviewing receipts. He looks up as I approach, and something in his
expression makes me want to retreat to the safety of the kitchen. But I need
this job. Need the money. Need to swallow my pride and ask for what I
require to survive.
“What do you want now, Ilona?” His tone carries the familiar edge of
irritation mixed with something else I don’t want to identify; probably
annoyance that I won’t let him get his hands on me. “If it’s time off you’re
asking for, forget about it. We’re struggling with staff already.”
“That’s not why I’m here.” I force confidence into my voice,
standing straighter despite the exhaustion weighing down my shoulders.
“It’s the opposite. I’d like to pick up extra shifts.”
His eyebrows climb toward his hairline, surprise replacing irritation.
He studies my face for a moment that stretches uncomfortably long, as if
trying to read motivations I’m not sure I want him to understand.
“Extra shifts,” he repeats slowly. “How many extra shifts?”
“Whatever you can give me. Mornings, late nights, weekends. I need
the money.”
The admission costs me something— another small piece of the pride
I used to carry like armor. But pride doesn’t pay rent or put food on the
table, and I’ve learned that survival sometimes requires sacrificing the
person you used to be for the person you need to become.
“Let’s talk about it,” Tibor says finally, his gaze sliding over me. I
resist the urge to cringe. “Come to my office at the end of your shift.”
The words should sound businesslike, professional. Instead, they
carry undertones that make every survival instinct I have start screaming
warnings. But I nod anyway, because I don’t have the luxury of choice right
now.
“Of course. Thank you.”
I turn away with my head high— tired, worn, but still standing. Still
fighting. I may bear little resemblance to the confident social media
manager who left Boston a year ago, but I’m stronger in some ways.
Harder. More willing to do what it takes to survive.
 Tonight, I’ll sit in Tibor’s office and negotiate for more hours, more
money, more stability. I’ll smile and nod and ignore whatever shitty
comments he makes, because this job is my lifeline.
But someday— someday soon— I’ll build something better.
Something that’s mine, that doesn’t require compromising pieces of myself
for the privilege of basic survival.
Until then, I’ll take what I can get and keep planning my escape.
Even if that escape feels impossibly far away right now.
 Chapter Twenty-Six
Ilona

“So Ilona, why do you want the extra work?” Tibor asks as I enter his
cramped office.
The space feels smaller than it did during my interview— cluttered
desk, filing cabinets that probably haven’t been organized since the Soviet
era, and a single chair positioned uncomfortably close to his. The
fluorescent light overhead flickers intermittently, casting everything in
harsh, unflattering tones that make my exhaustion feel more pronounced.
I settle into the chair and force myself to meet his gaze, though
something in his expression makes my stomach clench with unease.
“I need the money. I could do three extra shifts a week.”
“Ah. I see.” His eyes begin a slow, deliberate journey down my body
— lingering on my chest, my legs, places that have nothing to do with work
schedules or restaurant operations. The inspection makes me want to cross
my arms over myself, but I force my posture to remain professional. “We
can do that.”
Relief floods through me for exactly three seconds before he stands
up and moves closer. Too close. Close enough that I can smell the lingering
traces of alcohol on his breath and the musty scent of his unwashed shirt.
“On one condition.”
Shit.
Of course there’s a condition.
I shift in my seat, trying to create distance without being obvious
about it.
“What condition?”
His hand descends onto my shoulder with possessive familiarity,
fingers stroking along my collarbone with the back of his knuckles. The
touch burns through the thin fabric of my uniform, making every nerve
ending scream in protest.
“A little bit of this and that,” he says, his voice dropping to what he
probably thinks is seductive but sounds more like a threat wrapped in fake
charm.
 The office walls seem to close in around me as understanding takes
hold. He’s not talking about extra cleaning duties or staying late to help
with inventory. He’s talking about me. My body. Payment in a currency that
has nothing to do with money and everything to do with power.
Asshole!
Before I can formulate a response— before I can figure out how to
refuse without losing everything— his phone erupts in sharp, insistent rings
that slice through the tension.
“Bazdmeg,” he curses in Hungarian, glancing at the screen with
obvious annoyance. The call gets declined with more force than necessary,
his thick fingers jabbing at the screen like he’s trying to kill something.
But the interruption gives him ideas instead of deterring him.
“Where were we?” His hand returns to my shoulder, but this time it’s
joined by the other one. Both palms settle on me with claiming weight,
thumbs stroking along my neck in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Ah
yes, our little arrangement.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say carefully, though we both know
I understand exactly what he’s suggesting. My voice sounds steady, calm—
a miracle considering my heart is beating against my chest like it’s looking
for an escape hatch.
“Come now, Ilona.” His grip tightens slightly, not enough to bruise
but enough to remind me how much stronger he is. “You’re a beautiful girl,
alone in a foreign country. I’m a man with needs. We can help each other.”
The euphemisms make it worse somehow. Like he’s trying to dress
up sexual coercion in polite language, make it sound like a business
transaction instead of what it really is.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding—” I start, but he cuts me off
by moving even closer.
Now he’s standing directly beside my chair, his body heat radiating
against my side like a furnace. One hand slides from my shoulder to my
back, fingers pressing through my uniform in a way that’s unmistakably
possessive.
“No misunderstanding,” he says, voice thick with certainty. “You
need extra money. I need… companionship. Very simple arrangement.”
This is the last thing I need.
My thoughts careen between panic and calculation. If I refuse him
outright, what happens next? He’s my boss. My landlord. The man who
controls both my income and my housing. One word from him and I’m on
the streets with nothing but a suitcase and a rapidly dwindling bank
account.
But if I find a way around this, what’s to stop him from taking what
he wants anyway? I live in his house. Sleep in a room directly above his
living area. He has keys to every door, knows my schedule, knows I have
nowhere else to go.
The scenario plays out in my mind with horrifying clarity: waking up
in the middle of the night to find him in my attic room. No one to hear me
scream. No one who would believe me over a local business owner with
ties to the community.
“I think we should keep things professional,” I say, trying to inject
authority into my voice while my hands shake in my lap. “The extra shifts
would be great, but I’m not interested in… anything else.”
His laugh is low, dismissive, the sound men make when they think
women’s boundaries are suggestions rather than requirements.
“Professional,” he repeats, like the word amuses him. “Is it
professional to live in my house for nothing? Is it professional that I feed
you meals every day? That I gave you a job when you had no experience?”
Each question lands like a slap, intended to make me feel grateful
instead of violated. Like his generosity comes with terms and conditions I
never agreed to, like kindness can be retroactively transformed into debt.
“Accommodation is part of my pay,” I say quietly. “I work my shifts.
I haven’t asked for anything I’m not willing to earn through honest work.”
“Honest work.” His hand slides lower on my back, fingers tracing the
line of my spine through my blouse. “This could be honest work too. Many
girls would be grateful for such an opportunity.”
The implication hangs between us like poison gas— other girls,
previous employees, women who maybe said yes to keep their jobs or
maybe said no and disappeared like Kata. The thought makes nausea rise in
my throat.
“Tibor, please—”
But he’s moving again, positioning himself directly in front of my
chair so I can’t avoid looking at him. His hands find my shoulders once
more, thumbs stroking along my collarbones with increasing boldness.
“You are very beautiful,” he says, as if this observation justifies
everything. “Lonely, I think. Far from family. It doesn’t have to be like
that.”
I squirm in the chair, trying to create space without being obvious
about it.
“I’m not lonely,” I lie. “And I’m not looking for… that kind of
relationship.”
“Not relationship,” he corrects, leaning closer until I can feel his
breath against my face. “Just… friendship. With benefits. You scratch my
back, I scratch yours.”
The crudeness of it makes my stomach turn. He’s not even
pretending this is about attraction or connection— just transactional sex
disguised as mutual benefit.
I’m going to throw up.
“I need to think about it,” I manage, though thinking is the last thing
I want to do. Thinking means acknowledging that my options are limited,
that refusing him might cost me everything I’ve worked to rebuild.
“Nothing to think about,” he says, and suddenly he’s pressing closer,
his hips moving forward until his crotch brushes against my shoulder.
The contact sends panic shooting through my nervous system like
electricity. This is happening. He’s actually doing this, touching me without
permission, using his position to corner me in a space where no one can
hear what’s happening.
No!
What the fuck do I do now?
The question tears through my mind as his body heat surrounds me,
as his hands grow bolder, as the walls of his dingy office seem to shrink
until there’s no air left to breathe. I could scream, but who would come? I
could run, but where would I go?
I’m trapped. Financially, geographically, practically trapped by
circumstances that seemed manageable this morning but feel impossible
now.
“Just relax,” Tibor murmurs, his voice taking on the coaxing tone
men use when they’re about to take something that doesn’t belong to them.
“Let me show you how good I can be to you.”
Shit!
This can’t be happening!
“No! Leave me alone!” My voice is strident.
 His hips press forward again, more deliberately this time, and I feel
the unmistakable hardness of his dick through his pants. The sensation
makes me want to vomit, to claw my way out of this chair and run until my
lungs burst.
“Stop it!” I all but scream as he unzips his pants. But there’s nowhere
to run. Nowhere that’s safe, nowhere that doesn’t require money I don’t
have or connections I’ve lost.
That’s when the door crashes open without warning.
“What the fuck is going on?”
 Chapter Twenty-Seven
Osip

The drive through Budapest’s narrow streets feels different today.

Not the usual mindless navigation between therapy sessions and
empty houses, but purposeful. I have business to handle— legitimate
business, for once in my goddamn life.
The Scarlet Fox sits exactly as I left it three days ago when I signed
the papers. Whitewashed walls, red roof, the fox sign swaying gently in the
evening breeze. My restaurant now. My chance at something clean.
I check my Patek Philippe— 6:25 p.m. Tibor Arany should be
waiting in his office. We’d arranged this meeting two days ago, time to
discuss operations, staffing, the transition from his old boss to me. But
when I called twenty minutes ago, the mudak declined my call. Now he’s
not answering at all.
Sloppy. Unprofessional.
Red flags that make my jaw clench with familiar irritation.
I push through the front entrance, noting how the dinner crowd has
thinned to a handful of tables. The interior still carries that rustic charm that
sold me on the place— the kind of authenticity money can’t manufacture.
But right now, I’m more interested in finding the manager who thinks
declining the new owner’s calls is acceptable behavior.
The office is in the back, past the kitchen where someone clatters
pans with efficient rhythm. A cheap nameplate reads “Tibor Arany -
Manager” in faded lettering that’s seen better days. I’m about to knock
when voices filter through the thin wood— muffled, tense, wrong.
A woman’s voice, strained with something between fear and
desperation: “No! Leave me alone!”
What the fuck?
My hand freezes inches from the door as more sounds leak through—
scuffling, heavy breathing, a man’s voice saying something in Hungarian
that doesn’t sound like workplace conversation. The woman again, sharper
this time: “No! Stop it!”
I don’t knock.
 The door flings wide as I slam it open, revealing a scene that makes
violence roar through my veins. Tibor Arany— the chubby, rustic manager I
thought I could work with— has a young woman pressed against his desk.
His pants are unzipped, his fat cock hanging out. She’s pushing against his
chest with both hands, her face twisted with revulsion and terror.
Staff uniform. She works here. For me now.
And this suka thinks he can assault my employees.
“What the fuck is going on?” I roar. Tibor jerks away from the
woman so fast he nearly falls, his face cycling from shock to guilt to
desperate calculation. His hands fumble with his pants, trying to stuff
himself back inside while manufacturing explanations.
“Mr. Sidorov! This isn’t— I mean, we were just—”
“Just what?” I step into the office, my presence filling the small
space with the kind of controlled menace that should make the fucker turn
and run for his life. “Just sexually assaulting your coworker?”
“No, no, you don’t understand.” Tibor’s voice climbs toward panic as
he finally manages to button his pants. “Ilona and I, we have an
arrangement. She wanted extra shifts, and—”
“An arrangement.” I spit the words out. I’ve heard this bullshit before
— powerful men explaining away their crimes with euphemisms and
victim-blaming. “That why she was telling you to stop?”
The woman— Ilona— hasn’t moved from where she’s pressed
against the desk. Her chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, tears
tracking down pale cheeks. But there’s something about her voice,
something familiar that tugs at memories I can’t quite reach.
“She’s emotional,” Tibor continues, desperation making him look
stupid. “Women, you know how they are. They say one thing but mean
another—”
My fist connects with his jaw before conscious thought intervenes.
The impact sends him sprawling across his cluttered desk, scattering papers
and knocking over a coffee mug that shatters against the floor.
“You’re fired.” I lean over him, voice dropping to the tone that’s
preceded executions. “Pack your shit and get out. Now.”
“Fired? You can’t fire me! I built this place, I know every customer,
every supplier—”
“I own this place.” I emphasize each word. “Which means I own your
employment contract. Which I’m terminating. Immediately.”
 Tibor struggles to his feet, holding his jaw where my knuckles split
his lip. Blood trickles down his chin, but his eyes burn with the kind of
entitled rage men feel when consequences finally catch up with them.
“This is insane! Over some little waitress who—”
The second punch drops him completely. He hits the floor hard, his
head bouncing off cheap linoleum with a sound that brings back memories
of Moscow alleys and men who learned respect the hard way.
“You have ten minutes to clear out.” I straighten my jacket, flexing
fingers that ache pleasantly from impact. “Or I handle this my way.”
The threat hangs in the air, the meaning painfully clear. Tibor’s eyes
go wide with the kind of recognition that says he’s heard stories about
Russians who buy restaurants with cash and don’t flinch from violence.
Smart pizda.
Finally understanding the situation.
He scrambles to his feet, blood still flowing from his busted lip, and
begins shoving papers into a briefcase with shaking hands. “This isn’t
over,” he mutters, but there’s no conviction behind the words. Just the
empty bluster of a coward who’s finally met someone more dangerous than
the women he preys on.
“Yes, it is.” I check my watch. “Nine minutes.”
Tibor flees like the rat he is, clutching his briefcase and his wounded
pride. The office door slams behind him hard enough to rattle the windows,
leaving me alone with the woman he was assaulting.
She’s still pressed against the desk, arms wrapped around herself like
armor. Her dark hair falls in waves around a face that’s beautiful despite the
tear tracks and terror. Something about her features tugs at my memory—
delicate bone structure, pale skin, the kind of ethereal quality that belongs
in art museums rather than restaurant back offices.
“Are you alright?” I keep my voice gentle, though every instinct
screams to hunt down Tibor and finish what I started.
She nods without speaking, but her hands are shaking.
“Did he hurt you?”
Another nod, then a shake of her head. “Not… not physically. But he
was going to…” Her voice breaks on the words she can’t finish.
Rage builds in my chest like a nuclear reactor approaching critical
mass. If I’d arrived five minutes later, if I hadn’t heard her voice through
that door…
 “Let me give you a ride home,” I offer, forcing calm into my tone.
Violence solved the immediate problem, but this woman needs safety, not
more intimidation.
“No, thank you.” The refusal comes quickly, automatic.
I step closer, noting how she flinches despite my careful movements.
“Hey. Look at me.”
When her eyes finally meet mine, recognition hits like lightning to
the spine. Not specific memory, but familiarity so profound it stops my
breath. I know this woman. Know her voice, her mannerisms, something
fundamental about the way she carries herself.
But from where?
“Let me take you home,” I repeat, gentling my voice further.
“I don’t think I can go home.” The words come out broken, defeated.
“Why not?”
Her eyes are wet again— silent tears that speak of exhaustion beyond
anything physical. “I’m staying in a room in Tibor’s house. Or… was.”
Blyad.
Of course she was living with that predator. Of course firing him just
created another problem for this woman who’s clearly already struggling.
“What’s your name?”
“Ilona… Ilona Katona.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her
hand, trying to compose herself.
Katona. Hungarian surname, but her accent is pure American. East
Coast, maybe Boston. The familiarity grows stronger, like trying to
remember a dream that’s slipping away.
“I’m Sidorov,” I tell her. “I’m the new owner. Do you work here?”
“Yes.” The word comes out husky. “I’m a waitress.”
So she’s my employee now. My responsibility. Which means
protecting her from situations like this falls under my authority.
“Listen, Ilona.” I lean against the doorframe, trying to appear less
threatening. “I can give you a room for a few nights until you figure out
where to move. It’s in my house, but I promise— no one will touch you.
You’ll be safe.”
She stares at me like I’ve spoken in ancient Greek. “Why would you
do that?”
“Because you work for me now. Because what just happened is
unacceptable. Because—” I stop myself before saying something that
reveals too much about my past, about the women I failed to protect when it
mattered. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”
“I don’t even know you.”
“Fair point. But you know Tibor, and look how that worked out.” The
comparison is harsh but necessary. “Sometimes strangers are safer than
familiar monsters.”
She considers this with the careful calculation of someone who’s
learned not to trust easily. Finally, reluctantly, she nods.
“Just for a night.”
“Until you find something permanent,” I agree.
Relief floods her features, followed immediately by exhaustion so
profound she looks ready to collapse. Whatever brought her to this situation
— working for Tibor, living in his house, accepting his “arrangements”—
it’s been grinding her down for longer than just tonight.
“Can you get your things from his place?”
“I… yes. But not alone.” Fear flickers in her eyes. “He has keys to
everything. He could be waiting.”
“I’ll go with you.” The offer comes automatically, protective instincts
overriding common sense. “He won’t touch you again.”
For the first time since I opened that door, she almost smiles. “Thank
you. Really. You didn’t have to—”
“Yes, I did.” The words carry more weight than a simple rescue
mission should bear. “Some things can’t be ignored.”
As we leave the office together— her gathering her purse, me
mentally itemizing everything that needs to change about this place— I
can’t shake the feeling that this moment matters. Not just because I stopped
an assault or offered shelter to an employee in need.
Because I know this woman from somewhere.
And whatever buried memory is trying to surface feels significant in
ways I’m not ready to understand.
But first things first. Get her somewhere safe. Deal with the familiar
ghosts later.
The restaurant feels different as we walk through it— less like a
business opportunity and more like a responsibility. These people, this
place, they’re mine to protect now. Starting with the dark-haired waitress
whose voice carries echoes of a half-forgotten dream.
A dream I thought I’d left buried in Boston.
 Chapter Twenty-Eight
Osip

The drive to my house in the Buda Hills passes in silence.

Ilona sits in the passenger seat of my BMW, staring out the window
at Budapest’s evening lights with the kind of exhaustion that seems bone-
deep. Every few minutes, she shifts in her seat, and I catch the subtle tremor
in her hands that speaks of adrenaline crash.
When we pull through the gates of my property, she straightens
slightly. The mansion looms before us, its façade a mix of modern
architectural lines and traditional Hungarian motifs, crafted to evoke history
while still feeling contemporary. Towering stone pillars frame the entrance,
offering an imposing welcome beneath an intricately tiled roof that glints in
the twilight. Money can’t buy happiness, but it sure as hell can buy security.
“This is your house?” Her voice carries wonder mixed with
uncertainty, like she’s not sure she belongs in a place this luxurious.
“Da.” I cut the engine and study her profile in the dim light. “It’s too
big for one person, but it’s secure. Safe.”
She follows me through the front entrance, and I watch her take in
the space— the crystal chandeliers, the artwork I barely notice anymore, the
kind of wealth that screams success to anyone who enters.
For some reason, seeing her impressed by what I’ve built makes
something warm uncurl in my chest. Pride, maybe. Or just the simple
pleasure of offering something beautiful to someone who’s had too much
ugliness lately.
“Tea?” I ask, leading her toward the kitchen. “Food? You look like
you haven’t eaten today.”
“Tea would be nice.” She settles onto one of the bar stools, her
movements careful and deliberate. “Thank you. For all of this. I know you
didn’t have to—”
“Stop thanking me.” I fill the kettle, grateful for the mundane task.
“I’m your boss now. That makes your safety my responsibility.”
While the water heats, I study her more closely. The familiarity keeps
gnawing at me— something about the way she holds herself, the cadence of
her voice. But the memory stays frustratingly out of reach.
 “Tell me about yourself,” I say, settling across from her with two
steaming mugs. “How did you end up working for that pizda?”
She wraps her hands around the ceramic, seeking warmth or comfort.
“It’s a long story.”
“I have time.”
Ilona’s eyes fix on the steam rising from her mug. “I built a content
writing business after everything fell apart back home. Thought I’d found
the perfect escape— laptop, passport, complete freedom.”
“And then?”
“Then AI happened.” A wry smile tugs at her lips. “Turns out clients
prefer paying five dollars to a robot instead of five hundred to a human. My
business died in just a few months.”
The kitchen’s warm lighting softens her features, but can’t hide the
shadows under her eyes. She sips her tea, fingers still trembling slightly.
“Why Budapest?” I keep my voice neutral, professional.
“My mother’s Hungarian. She used to tell me stories about growing
up here.” Her gaze drifts toward the window, where city lights sparkle
against the darkening sky. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought. That
I’d feel connected to something.”
“Did you?”
“For a few weeks. Then my savings ran out.” She laughs without
humor. “Turns out nostalgia doesn’t pay rent.”
I lean against the counter, watching her. There’s a quiet dignity in
how she recounts her failures without self-pity.
“The Scarlet Fox was supposed to be temporary. Just until I found
something better.” Her fingers trace the rim of her mug.
“But then you found Tibor.”
“Then I found Tibor.” She grimaces then takes a sip of her tea. The
more she talks, the stronger the familiarity becomes. Something about her
gestures, the way she pauses between thoughts. Like déjà vu that won’t
resolve into actual memory.
“What about your family?” I ask, though some instinct warns me the
answer might be dangerous. “Can’t they help?”
“My mother…” She pauses and I see a gleam of hesitation in her
eyes. Pain flickers across her features so quickly I almost miss it. But then
she looks up to meet my gaze, and something in my expression convinces
her it’s safe to share. “She’s in Boston. She’s not… well, and I don’t want to
burden her. My father…” She stops, swallowing hard. “He died last year.”
Boston?
“I’m sorry.” The condolence feels inadequate, but it’s all I manage.
Something at the back of my mind begins to take shape. Something dark,
something more than just mere familiarity. “Your father… He was also in
Boston?”
“Yes. He was a gynecologist. Very respected, very…” Her voice
breaks slightly. “Very loved.”
Bozhe moy.
The tea mug slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers, ceramic
shattering against marble with a sound like breaking bones. Hot liquid
spreads across expensive stone, but I barely notice because the pieces are
suddenly falling into place.
The strange feeling of familiarity.
The gynecologist who died.
Igor Shiradze.
The woman standing in front of me is fucking Igor Shiradze’s
daughter. Sitting in my fucking kitchen. Drinking my fucking tea.
The woman from Room Five.
The masked angel who trusted me with her pain while I carried the
knowledge of causing it. The daughter of the man I murdered in a parking
lot because he threatened everything I cared about.
Impossible.
The odds are astronomical, the coincidence too cruel to be real. But
the universe has always had a twisted sense of humor when it comes to my
life.
“Are you okay?” Ilona’s voice comes from very far away, muffled by
the roaring in my ears.
I force myself to focus on her face— concerned, beautiful, alive. The
woman who haunts my dreams sitting three feet away, worried about me
instead of recognizing the monster who destroyed her world.
“Fine.” My voice sounds foreign, mechanical. “Just clumsy.”
But I’m not fucking fine. I’m drowning in the weight of recognition,
in the cosmic joke that brought Igor Shiradze’s daughter to my restaurant,
my house, my protection. The same pull I felt in Room Five burns between
us now— magnetic, undeniable, wrong in every possible way.
 She doesn’t know. Can’t know. The mask protected both our
identities for several nights, kept us safely anonymous. To her, I’m just the
Russian businessman who saved her from a creep’s assault. Not the masked
stranger who made her feel alive. Not the killer who stole her father.
“I should clean this up,” I mutter, dropping to gather ceramic shards
with hands that I have to force to keep steady.
“Let me help—”
“Net.” The word comes out too sharply. “Just… sit. Please.”
She settles back onto her stool, but I feel her eyes on me as I clean.
Studying. Probably wondering why her simple mention of her father’s name
made me react this way.
When I straighten, she’s watching me with the same intensity I
remember from that burgundy room. The air between us crackles with
something I can’t acknowledge, a pull I can’t act on. I know she feels it too.
“Ilona.” For some reason, I find it hard to say her name. “I need to
ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Have we met before? You seem…” I let the sentence hang, fishing
for recognition that might destroy us both.
She tilts her head, studying my face with uncomfortable intensity. “I
don’t think so. I would remember.”
Relief and disappointment war in my chest. She doesn’t recognize
me without the mask, doesn’t connect the voice or the mannerisms. We’re
strangers again, safely anonymous.
But the pull between us hasn’t diminished. If anything, it’s stronger
now— raw attraction complicated by shared history she doesn’t remember.
I want to cross this kitchen, frame her face in my hands, taste the mouth that
confessed secrets to a masked stranger.
Instead, I stay frozen by the sink, drowning in the weight of
everything she can never know.
“The guest room is upstairs,” I manage finally. “Second door on the
right. Clean sheets, private bathroom. Take whatever time you need.”
“Thank you.” She slides off the stool, movements graceful despite
her exhaustion. “Really, Mr. Sidorov. I don’t know how to repay—”
“You don’t owe me anything.” The lie burns my throat. She owes me
everything— her father’s life, her family’s peace, the future I stole with a
knife between ribs. “Just… be safe.”
 She pauses as she moves near me, looking up with an expression I
can’t read. “Can I ask you something?”
Dread pools in my stomach like acid. “Da.”
“Why did you help me tonight? Really?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications I can’t
untangle. Why did I help her? Because she’s my employee? Because
stopping assault is basic human decency? Because some part of me
recognized the woman who made me feel alive in a room full of shadows?
All true.
None the whole truth.
“I don’t tolerate men who abuse power,” I say finally, the partial truth
easier than the whole. “Especially not against women who work for me.”
She studies my face with those sea-colored eyes that seem to cut
through pretense. We’re standing close enough that I can smell the faint
floral scent of her skin, see the pulse flickering at her throat.
“There’s more to it than that,” she says softly.
The kitchen suddenly feels too small, the air between us charged with
something dangerous. Her lips part slightly, and I remember how they felt
against mine in that darkened room in Boston, how she tasted of sweet
temptation.
My hand moves of its own accord, almost touching her cheek before
I catch myself.
She doesn’t step back. Instead, she tilts her face upward, eyes
searching mine with quiet intensity. There is something in them that’s
unmistakable, unspoken but clear in the slight parting of her lips, the
shallow rhythm of her breath.
Blyad.
I could kiss her now. Could bridge this gap and taste what I’ve been
dreaming of for a year. She would let me— might even welcome it, this
strange connection neither of us understands.
One step forward and I could have her in my arms again. One
moment of weakness to satisfy this hunger that’s been gnawing at me since
Boston.
But I see Igor’s face behind my eyelids. Hear his accusations, his
threats, the wet sound of the knife entering his body. Remember the weight
of his secrets and mine.
 I step back, putting distance between us, watching confusion flicker
across her features.
“I should show you to your room,” I say, voice rough with restraint.
“You must be tired.”
The disappointment in her eyes is a separate kind of torture. “Of
course,” she says.
I turn before I can change my mind and bend her over the kitchen
counter.
The universe really does have a fucking twisted sense of humor.
 Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ilona

As we leave the kitchen, my head is still reeling.

I could practically feel his lips, before he pulled away with iron-
willed control that left me breathless and aching.
“This way,” he says, his voice rougher than before, and I follow him
through hallways that seem to stretch forever.
The man who rescued me from Tibor’s groping hands is
devastatingly beautiful. I can’t stop stealing glances at him as we walk—
the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair falls perfectly even when he
runs his fingers through it, the broad shoulders that fill his expensive suit
like it was tailored to worship his body.
Which it probably was.
Everything about him screams wealth and power, but there’s
something else underneath. Something dangerous and magnetic that makes
my pulse skip every time his gray eyes find mine.
I’m attracted to him. Wildly, inappropriately, dangerously attracted to
the man who just saved me from Tibor’s wandering hands. He’s foreign,
mysterious and completely wrong for someone like me. But the way he
looked at Tibor, the controlled violence in his voice when he fired him…
God help me, it was so sexy that my panties are still wet.
Which makes me either incredibly shallow or completely insane.
Probably both.
God, Ilona, what the hell is wrong with you?
I shouldn’t be feeling this way. It’s ridiculous and wrong on every
possible level. He’s my boss now— my savior— and I just met him three
hours ago. But Lord help me, I’m drawn to him with an intensity that defies
logic.
But there’s something else. It’s like I’ve known him before. Like
we’ve met somewhere, shared secrets that nobody else would understand.
But that’s impossible. This is definitely the first time I’m seeing him— I
would remember a man like this. Yet the feeling persists, nagging at the
edges of my consciousness.
“Here.” He opens a door and steps aside to let me enter first.
 Holy shit!
The room takes my breath away. It’s larger than most apartments,
with a king-sized bed draped in silk, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking
the Buda Hills, and an ensuite bathroom that belongs in a luxury hotel.
Everything is cream and gold and impossibly elegant.
“This is… incredible,” I manage, turning to find him watching me
with an expression I can’t read.
“It’s yours for as long as you need it,” he says simply. “No rent, no
strings attached.”
The offer stuns me into silence. After months of cramped hostels and
Tibor’s disgusting attic, this feels like stepping into a fairy tale. But fairy
tales always have a price.
“I can’t accept this,” I say automatically, even as my body betrays me
by already imagining sinking into that massive bed.
“You can.” His voice carries quiet authority that makes arguing feel
pointless. “The Scarlet Fox is closing for renovations. Complete overhaul—
we’re turning it into an exclusive private club. The work will take months.”
I blink, processing this information. “So I’m unemployed again.”
“Not necessarily.” He moves closer, and the air between us charges
with the same electricity from the kitchen. “I have a proposition.”
The word “proposition” on his lips sends heat spiraling through my
core. My body is still humming from our almost-kiss, every nerve ending
hypersensitive to his proximity. I glance down and catch sight of my nipples
poking against the worn cotton of my shirt. I fold my arms across my chest.
“What kind of proposition?” I try to sound professional, but my voice
comes out breathless.
“Stay here. Work as my house manager while the renovations
happen.” His gray eyes never leave mine. “Full salary, private quarters,
complete autonomy. The house is large enough that we’d barely cross
paths.”
The last part stings more than it should. After the magnetic pull in the
kitchen, the suggestion that we’ll avoid each other feels like rejection.
But it’s also smart. Safe. Because the attraction between us is
dangerous— the kind that makes people do stupid things that they’ll
probably end up regretting.
But maybe it would be worth it?
Cut it out, Ilona!
 “What would my responsibilities include?” I try for professionalism
again, and still don’t nail it.
“Managing household staff, overseeing deliveries, keeping
everything running smoothly. Nothing you couldn’t handle.” He pauses,
studying my face. “Interested?”
I should ask more questions. Should demand specifics about salary
and duties and exactly what kind of “exclusive club” he’s creating. But all I
can focus on is the way his presence fills the space between us, the sensual
curve of his lips. It makes rational thought impossible.
My body wants him. Wants him with a desperation that’s both
thrilling and terrifying. I’m so wet just from standing near him that I’m
afraid he can smell my arousal, see the need written across my face.
He’s treating me with perfect respect, not pushing despite the obvious
chemistry crackling between us. But I can feel how close we both are to
losing control. How easily this professional conversation could turn into
something else entirely.
“Yes.” The word escapes before I can stop it. “I accept, Mr. Sidorov.”
Something flickers in his expression. Relief? Satisfaction? But it’s
gone in a moment and the careful mask slides back into place.
“Good. And call me Osip.” He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t break the
spell weaving around us in this beautiful room that’s now mine.
The silence stretches, heavy with possibilities. He could kiss me right
now. Could close those last few inches and claim my mouth with the same
authority he used to fire Tibor. Part of me— the reckless part that’s been
starving for real connection— wants him to.
Instead, he takes a deliberate step back. Yet again, he’s resisting the
urge. And my God, I find that sexy as hell too.
“I’ll let you get settled,” he says, but his voice carries rougher
undertones that suggest stepping away costs him something. “We will
discuss details tomorrow.”
I nod, not trusting my voice. Not trusting myself not to close the
distance he just created and discover if his lips taste as dangerous as they
look.
He reaches the doorway before turning back. “Ilona?”
“Yes?” I’m breathless again.
“Make yourself at home.”
 The words resonate deep in my chest. Home. When was the last time
anywhere felt like home?
“I will,” I say softly, swallowing a lump that’s suddenly formed in
my throat. “Good night.”
“Good night,” he replies, looking at me strangely for a moment. Then
something in his expression shifts, like a door slamming shut. He opens his
mouth as if to say something, then closes it again and gives a curt nod
before turning on his heel and leaving the room.
But as he disappears down the hallway, leaving me alone in this fairy
tale room with its silk sheets and impossible luxury, one thought echoes
through my mind:
This feels right.
I don’t know why, but accepting his offer makes me happier than I’ve
been in months. The prospect of staying close to him, of living in his space
and breathing his air, fills me with anticipation that should terrify me.
Instead, it feels like coming alive.
Like everything that’s happened— leaving Boston, wandering across
Europe, enduring Tibor’s harassment— was leading to this moment. To
him.
Which is insane. I barely know this man. But something about Osip
Sidorov calls to parts of me I didn’t know existed, makes me feel
recognized in ways that defy explanation.
Tomorrow we’ll establish professional boundaries.
Tomorrow, I’ll remember all the reasons why wanting your boss is a
catastrophically bad idea.
But tonight, in this beautiful room he’s given me, I let myself
imagine what might have happened if he hadn’t stepped away. If we’d
given in to the pull between us and discovered just how electric our
chemistry really is.
The fantasy leaves me aching and breathless, my body singing with
needs I have no business feeling.
But I feel them anyway.
And God help me, I think he does too.
 Chapter Thirty
Ilona

Morning light filters through silk curtains and warms the foot of my
bed.
I stretch between sheets so soft they feel like liquid against my skin,
momentarily disoriented by the sheer luxury surrounding me.
Then reality crashes back.
I’m living in Osip Sidorov’s house.
The memory of last night plays in fragments— the way he’d towered
over me, eyes intense, lingering on my lips until I was certain he might kiss
me. Then the sudden coolness in his voice when he said goodnight, so
different from the heated tension in the moments earlier.
I’d lain awake for hours afterward, replaying every moment,
wondering if I’d imagined the crackling electricity between us. The
roughness in his voice when he said my name.
Maybe it was all in my head.
The ensuite bathroom is marble and gleaming fixtures, larger than
my entire studio back in District VII. I spend longer than necessary under
the multiple shower heads, letting the perfectly heated water wash away my
confusion along with yesterday’s stress.
When I finally make my way downstairs, following the scent of
coffee, I find him in the kitchen. He’s standing by the windows with a cup
and his phone, already dressed in another perfectly tailored suit. The
morning sun catches the sharp line of his profile, and for a moment I just
watch him, memorizing the way he holds himself with such controlled
precision.
He looks up when I enter, and I search his face for any trace of last
night’s heat.
Nothing.
His expression is politely neutral, professionally distant.
“Good morning.” His voice carries no warmth, no recognition of
what passed between us. “Sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you.” I hover near the coffee machine, uncertain of the
protocol. “The room is beautiful.”
 “Good.” He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move closer. Just studies me with
the same detached assessment he might give a new piece of furniture. “We
should discuss your responsibilities.”
The word ‘responsibilities’ feels like a wall slamming down between
us. I pour coffee with hands that want to shake, focusing on the simple task
to avoid looking at him.
“Your primary duties will be managing the household staff,” he
continues, his tone crisp and businesslike. “Mária comes three times a week
for deep cleaning. József handles maintenance and security. There’s a
gardening service on Fridays.”
I nod, taking notes on my phone, trying to match his professional
demeanor. The coffee tastes expensive and perfect, like everything else in
this house.
“You’ll oversee deliveries, coordinate any repairs, ensure the house
runs smoothly in my absence.” He pauses, and when I glance up, his eyes
are already looking elsewhere. “I travel frequently for business. Sometimes
for weeks at a time.”
“Understood.”
“The wine cellar and my private office are off-limits. Everything else
is accessible as needed for your duties.” His phone buzzes, and he checks it
immediately, already dismissing me. “Questions?”
A thousand questions crowd my throat. Why are you acting like
we’re strangers? Did I imagine everything? What changed between
showing me upstairs and this morning?
Instead, I say, “No questions.”
“Excellent. I have meetings all day. Make yourself familiar with the
house.” He’s already moving toward the door, coffee abandoned on the
counter. “We’ll discuss specifics this evening.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me alone in the vast kitchen with the
lingering scent of his cologne and the hollow ache of disappointment.
I wander through the house like a ghost, taking inventory of rooms
that feel more like museum displays than lived-in spaces. The library smells
of leather and neglect, beautiful books arranged with mathematical
precision on shelves that reach the ceiling. Not a single volume shows signs
of being read.
The formal dining room could seat twenty, its mahogany table
reflecting crystal chandeliers that shine like they’re polished daily.
Everything gleams with the kind of perfection that comes from having staff
but no family to create the beautiful chaos of real life.
Eight bedrooms, each one perfectly appointed and completely sterile.
Guest bathrooms with towels folded into geometric sculptures. A media
room with a screen the size of my old apartment’s wall and seating that’s
never been sat in.
It’s a house built for entertaining that feels like no one has ever been
entertained here.
My suite occupies the entire east wing, separated from the main
living areas by a hallway long enough to echo my footsteps. The isolation is
deliberate— he meant what he said about barely crossing paths.
I find myself looking for family photos that don’t exist, personal
touches that aren’t there. No evidence of parents, siblings, friends. No
casual clutter or forgotten coffee cups. Even the kitchen, for all its warmth
and expensive appliances, feels untouched except for the coffee machine
and the single cup he abandoned this morning.
It’s like he exists here but doesn’t live here.
By afternoon, I’ve mapped every corner of the ground floor and most
of the second. The basement remains unexplored— something about the
heavy door at the bottom of the stairs makes me hesitate. Not locked, but
weighted with an authority that suggests I shouldn’t venture down alone.
I text him instead: “Should I familiarize myself with the basement
areas as well?”
His response comes immediately: “No. Ground floor and second
floor only.”
Professional. Curt. No hint of the man who almost kissed me last
night.
The contradiction gnaws at me as I prepare a simple lunch in his
pristine kitchen. Everything about this morning suggests I misread the
situation completely. That the attraction was one-sided, born of gratitude
and proximity rather than any real connection.
But I know what I felt. The way his breathing changed when I
stepped closer. The heat in his eyes before he pulled away. The roughness in
his voice when he said goodnight.
Unless I imagined all of it.
The possibility sits in my stomach like lead as I eat salad that tastes
like nothing. Maybe I projected desire onto kindness, mistook professional
courtesy for personal interest. God knows I’m lonely enough, desperate
enough for real connection, that my mind could have fabricated the entire
thing.
When evening comes, I’m no closer to understanding him or this
house or my place in either. I’ve arranged my belongings, familiarized
myself with every accessible room, even started a mental list of small
improvements that could make the spaces feel more lived-in.
But mostly, I’ve thought about the way he looked at me this morning.
Like I was a stranger. Like nothing had passed between us at all.
Eventually, restlessness drives me to the one corner of the house that
feels truly comfortable— a small balcony off my suite where I can watch
the sun set over Budapest’s ancient hills. The air carries the scent of jasmine
and something cooking in a neighboring house, reminders that real life
exists beyond these marble walls.
I sink into a comfortable seat and dial Mom’s number. We’ve been
talking more frequently since I left Boston, but tonight feels different.
Important. Like I’m reporting from the other side of some invisible divide.
“Darling!” Her voice is brighter than it’s been in months, carrying
energy I haven’t heard since before Dad died. “How are you? You sound
different.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. Calmer, maybe? Less frantic.” She pauses, and I can
picture her settling into her favorite chair with a cup of tea. “Where are you
calling from?”
The question I’ve been dreading. How do I explain that I’m living in
a Russian billionaire’s mansion after being sexually assaulted by my
previous landlord? How do I describe meeting a man who makes my body
sing and my survival instincts scream warnings in equal measure?
“I moved,” I say carefully. “New job opportunity came up. I’m
working as a house manager for a… businessman. The pay is good, and
accommodation is included.”
“A house manager?” Mom’s voice carries maternal suspicion refined
over twenty-five years of detecting my half-truths. “What kind of
businessman?”
“He owns restaurants. Very successful, very professional.” The
description feels inadequate, but it’s technically true. “It’s temporary, while
his new venture gets off the ground.”
 “And you’re safe? Comfortable?”
The concern in her voice makes my chest tighten with guilt. She’s
been through enough trauma without me adding to her worries.
“Very safe. Very comfortable.” Also technically true. “How are you
doing, Mom? You sound… better.”
A soft laugh carries across the Atlantic. “I am better, sweetheart.
Much better. I got a job, actually— part-time at the library downtown.
Nothing glamorous, but it gets me out of the apartment, around people
again.”
I sigh with relief. For months, I’ve carried the weight of her isolation
along with my own grief, wondering if she’d ever find her way back to the
living.
“Mom, that’s wonderful. I’m so proud of you.”
“Thank you, darling. And there’s something else.” Her voice takes on
a quality I recognize— determination mixed with something harder. “I’m
hiring a private investigator.”
I frown. “What?”
“To look into your father’s death. The police closed the case, called it
suicide, but you and I both know that’s impossible. Igor Shiradze did not
kill himself.”
The conviction in her voice mirrors my own deepest certainty, the
truth I’ve carried like a stone in my chest since that horrible day. Dad
wouldn’t abandon us. Wouldn’t choose to leave rather than fight for his
family. But still, I can’t help worrying about how this would affect her.
“Mom… are you sure? The investigation, the questions— it might
bring up painful things.”
“More painful than believing my husband chose to leave us?” Her
voice breaks slightly, but underneath the emotion runs steel. “More painful
than wondering if someone hurt him and got away with it?”
The questions ring true because I’ve asked them myself, night after
night, staring at ceilings in hostel rooms and cramped apartments across
Europe.
“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” I admit quietly. “Something
about the official story never felt right.”
“Exactly. Your father had flaws, financial troubles we’re still
uncovering, but he would never abandon his family. Never.” She takes a
shaky breath. “I need to know what really happened. We both do.”
 The seed she’s planted takes root immediately, growing into
something that feels like purpose. For a year, I’ve been running— from
grief, from questions, from the weight of a future that looked nothing like
what I’d planned. But maybe it’s time to stop running and start looking for
answers.
“What can I do to help?”
“Just knowing you support this means everything. I’ll keep you
updated.” Her voice softens with maternal concern. “But promise me you’ll
be careful, Ilona. If someone did hurt your father, if there are dangerous
people involved…”
“I’ll be careful,” I promise, though the words feel hollow given my
current situation— living with a man whose very presence suggests danger
and violence lurking beneath expensive suits.
We talk for another hour about lighter things— her new coworkers,
Budapest’s beauty, anything but the growing certainty that Dad’s death
hides secrets we’re not prepared to face. When we finally hang up, I sit in
the gathering darkness and let the implications wash over me.
Someone might have killed my father. Might have staged his death to
look like suicide, destroyed my family for reasons I can’t begin to fathom.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it brings a clarity I haven’t
felt in months. Purpose beyond mere survival.
But first, I need to handle my own circumstances. Living in close
quarters with a man who makes my body sing and my common sense
evaporate, working for someone whose carefully controlled violence
suggests depths I’m afraid to explore.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I’m seeking answers about dangerous men
who might have hurt my family while putting myself under the protection
of a different dangerous man.
One who feels familiar in ways that make no sense.
One whose presence fills spaces even when he’s not in them.
One who spent this morning acting like he’s never seen me before in
his life.
I close my eyes and let the Budapest evening air cool my heated skin,
trying to ignore the way my body responds just to thinking about him.
Professional boundaries, I remind myself.
No complications.
But even as I repeat the mantra, I know it’s already too late.
The pull between us is magnetic, undeniable, dangerous.
Even if he’s determined to pretend it doesn’t exist.
 Chapter Thirty-One
Osip

The vodka burns down my throat, but it doesn’t touch the restlessness
eating through my chest.
Melor and Radimir sprawl across my leather furniture like they own
the place, which they basically do— blood gives you that kind of privilege.
The empty bottles on my coffee table tell the story of our evening: three
brothers getting drunk enough to forget why we left Moscow in the first
place.
“Remember when you used to smile?” Radimir says, his words
slightly slurred as he refills his glass. “Back before you became this
brooding mudak who buys restaurants and pretends to be respectable.”
“I smile.” I drain my vodka and immediately pour another. “Just not
at your ugly face.”
Melor snorts with laughter, the sound echoing through my too-large
living room. “That’s not smiling, bratan. That’s grimacing.”
The banter feels familiar, comfortable in ways I’d forgotten were
possible. This is what I missed about having family around— people who
knew you before you became whoever you’re pretending to be now. People
who remember when your biggest concern was whether the neighborhood
boys would respect your claim to the best corner for selling cigarettes.
But comfort in my world has always been temporary.
The atmosphere shifts when Radimir’s expression grows serious, the
alcohol loosening his tongue in dangerous ways. “Don’t you want to find
out why Galina had to die and who did it?”
What the fuck?
The laughter dies instantly, replaced by the kind of silence that
precedes executions.
I set down my glass with deliberate care, each movement controlled
despite the rage building in my chest like nuclear fission. My brothers
watch me with the focused attention of drunk men who’ve suddenly
realized they’ve stepped into a minefield.
“No.” The word comes out flat, final.
 “Why the fuck not, Osip?” Melor asks, his voice carrying genuine
confusion. “Someone killed Galina. Someone murdered your pregnant wife
and your unborn son. And you’re just… what? Going to let them get away
with it?”
“Because I know why she died.” The admission tears from my throat.
“Because of me and my fucked-up past. Because I brought violence into our
lives and it followed me home. Which is exactly why I left that world
behind me.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Radimir says, his earlier mischief
replaced by something harder. “You think this is your fault? You think
Galina died because you deserved it?”
“I think bloodshed breeds more bloodshed until it turns into an
endless cycle.” I stand up, needing distance from their questions, their
certainty that violence can solve what violence created. “I think some doors
should stay closed.”
“Pizdets.” Melor’s voice carries disbelief. “If I hadn’t heard that with
my own ears, I wouldn’t believe you said it. This from the man who once
killed three Chechens with a broken bottle because they looked at him
wrong.”
“That man is dead,” I mutter. “He died in that house with Galina.”
It’s hard to believe I’m actually saying the words out loud. Those
first weeks after her death, I’d raged for revenge. But time has changed my
perspective. Being that man was the reason she died in the first place.
The silence that follows is heavy, carrying the weight of violence that
shaped us all. I can feel their judgment, their confusion at seeing me choose
peace over vengeance.
“Drop it,” I say finally, my voice carrying enough warning to freeze
blood.
My brothers exchange glances, some silent communication passing
between them. Finally, they drop the topic, but the tension remains in the
air.
That’s when Melor decides to shift to safer ground— or what he
thinks is safer ground.
“Speaking of moving on,” he says, his grin returning with forced
brightness, “what about this new housekeeper of yours?”
My hand tightens around the crystal tumbler. “What about her?”
 “Come on,” Radimir joins in, leaning forward with renewed interest.
“You hire some beautiful American woman, move her into your house…
sounds like more than just cleaning to me.”
“She needed a job. I needed help around the house.” I keep my voice
even, controlled. “It’s not complicated.”
“Isn’t it?” Melor’s eyes glitter with mischief. “Beautiful woman,
living in your house, probably grateful for your protection…”
“Maybe she’ll give you that kid you always wanted,” Radimir adds.
I feel myself go cold.
The vodka and grief make my control slip for just a moment. “I don’t
want that anymore.”
“Bullshit,” Melor says. “You always wanted a family, Osip. Even
when we were kids, you were the one talking about having sons to carry on
the name.”
“That part of me died with Galina.” I glare down into my glass. “I
don’t want a relationship. I don’t want kids. Not anymore.”
“What about Anett?” Radimir pushes, apparently immune to the
warning in my voice. “She could give you a kid. Hell, she’s been trying to
trap you with one for months.”
“No fucking chance. The stupid suka doesn’t know when to leave.”
“So maybe let her stick around, have a kid, then get rid of her.”
Radimir won’t let it go.
“Are you deaf, mudak?” I bark. “I said I don’t fucking want her
around!”
I’m about to stand up and kick my brothers’ asses for being pricks
when the door opens without warning.
Anett appears in the doorway like a bad omen, her face flushed with
anger and something that looks like betrayal. She’s wearing a skin-tight
dress that screams desperation, and from the way she’s swaying slightly,
she’s been drinking.
“Well, isn’t this cozy,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“The three brothers having a little family meeting. How sweet that I wasn’t
invited.”
Blyad.
How long has she been outside? How much did she hear?
“Anett,” I say keeping my tone calm, “what are you doing here?”
 “I live here, remember?” She moves into the room with calculated
precision, every step designed to draw attention. “At least, I thought I did.
But apparently, I’m not welcome at family gatherings anymore.”
The truth is, I haven’t even thought about Anett since our last
argument. Aside from the occasional slamming door or revved engine, she
may as well not have even been here. Thank fuck. I’d expected her to get on
my case about marriage again. Maybe she’s just regrouping. I can’t say I’m
unhappy about it. I haven’t missed her presence, her demands, her constant
need for attention. Since Ilona moved in, Anett has become background
noise— something I was supposed to deal with but kept putting off.
“So?” Her voice is sharp. “Aren’t you going to answer me?”
“This was last-minute,” I say, but even to my own ears, the excuse
sounds weak. Why the fuck do I even feel obligated to excuse myself?
“Last-minute.” She laughs, bitterly. “Why don’t you just admit you
just didn’t want me around.”
“Fine. I didn’t want you around,” I confirm coldly. I can’t understand
why she hasn’t figured this out yet.
My brothers tense, sensing the shift in atmosphere. Melor and
Radimir exchange glances, suddenly sober enough to recognize danger.
“I think it’s best we leave, bratok,” Melor says, standing with careful
dignity; not easy since he’s swaying on his feet. “This looks like a private
conversation.”
“Don’t leave on my account,” Anett says, moving to my liquor
cabinet and pouring herself vodka with hands that shake slightly. “I’m sure
you boys were having such an interesting discussion about what an
inconvenience I am.”
She takes a long swig directly from the bottle, and I feel my temper
beginning to fray. The alcohol, the conversation about Galina, the way she’s
trying to embarrass me in front of my brothers— it’s all adding up to an
explosion I’m not sure I can control.
“Anett, that’s enough.”
“Is it?” She turns to face me, eyes blazing with hurt and fury.
“Because I don’t think it is. I think we’re just getting started.”
My brothers haul ass out of there, grabbing their jackets and heading
for the door with the speed of men who recognize when they’re about to
witness something ugly.
 “We’ll talk tomorrow,” Radimir says as they leave, but I barely hear
him. All my attention is focused on the woman standing in my living room,
holding my vodka like a weapon.
The door closes behind them with a finality that makes my chest
tight. Now it’s just me and Anett, and the weight of everything I’ve been
avoiding for weeks.
“Where have you been?” I ask, genuinely curious, though I definitely
haven’t missed her.
“Working,” she says bitterly. “Some of us have jobs, you know.”
“You’re a model, Anett. You work maybe ten hours a week.”
“And you’re a restaurant owner who could easily afford to move me
in full time, yet you continue to fight it.”
“Fight what, Anett? I told you to find a place of your own.”
“But how can you do this?” she half wails. “We had something
special. Osip. Something that could be so much more.”
Chert voz’mi!
This woman is never going to take the hint.
She continues to argue, her voice rising with each accusation. My
patience is wearing thinner with each word. The alcohol makes everything
sharper, more volatile.
“That it! I’m done,” I say finally, my temper at breaking point.
“What the fuck do you mean, you’re done, Osip?”
“You heard me. I’m breaking up with you.”
Breaking up? What the fuck am I even saying? We never had a
relationship to begin with.
She stares at me for a long moment, her face cycling through
disbelief, hurt, and finally rage. “But why?”
Jesus Christ!
Is she seriously not getting it?
“Because this isn’t working. It never was.”
“I don’t believe you.” Tears stream down her cheeks, but underneath
the hurt burns something harder. “Is there someone else? Some other whore
sucking your dick already, is that it?”
The crudeness is meant to wound, to drag me down to her level.
Instead, it just confirms what I already knew— this was never about love. It
was about possession, control, the need to own something that couldn’t be
owned.
 I cross to the door, opening it with deliberate calm. “Goodbye,
Anett.”
She stares at me for another moment, mascara running in dark rivers
down her cheeks. Then her expression hardens into something I recognize
— the look of someone who’s about to make everyone else pay for their
pain.
“You’re going to regret this, Osip! This is not over!”
“Yes, it is. Out. Now.”
She storms past me into the night, flicking her hair over her shoulder
as if marking the end of a performance. I close the door behind her and lean
against it, suddenly feeling much older than my thirty-three years.
What a fuck up of an evening.
I’m drunk, exhausted, and surrounded by the wreckage of a
relationship I never wanted in the first place. My brothers brought up
Galina’s death, pushed me about children I’ll never have, and witnessed me
break up with a woman I should have cut loose months ago.
I climb the stairs slowly, pausing outside Ilona’s door for just a
moment. No sound from within— she’s probably asleep, dreaming
whatever dreams innocent people have. Dreams that don’t feature parking
lots and knives and the weight of necessary violence.
In my own room, I strip off my clothes and collapse onto sheets that
still smell faintly of Anett’s perfume. Tomorrow I’ll have housekeeping
wash everything, erase the last traces of a fling that should never have
started.
But tonight, I lie in the darkness and think about cosmic jokes and
impossible coincidences. About the woman from Room Five. About Igor
Shiradze’s daughter who trusts me with her safety.
About the fact that those two women are the same person, and I’m
the killer who connects them both.
The pull between us is still there— magnetic, undeniable, wrong in
every possible way. I felt it when she looked at me across the kitchen
island, the same electric current that crackled between us in that burgundy
room.
But nothing can happen.
Nothing will happen.
She’s my housekeeper, and that’s all she can ever be.
 Chapter Thirty-Two
Ilona

Yesterday feels like I imagined it all.

Osip showing me through each room of this impossible mansion, his
deep voice explaining duties and schedules while my body hummed with
awareness I couldn’t hide. The way he stood just close enough that I caught
hints of his cologne— dark, expensive, intoxicating. How his fingers
brushed mine when he handed me the master key ring, that brief contact
sending electricity shooting up my arm.
Head in the game, Ilona.
But God, the tension between us was suffocating. Every time he
looked at me, I felt stripped bare, like he could see straight through to the
part of me that wanted to press him against the nearest wall and find out if
his mouth tastes as dangerous as it looks.
I was so wet by the end of that tour I could barely walk straight.
Actually wet, not just aroused— like my body had forgotten every rule
about appropriate employer-employee boundaries. When he said goodbye,
his voice dropping to that gravelly murmur, I nearly came undone right
there in front of him.
Professional.
You’re his professional housekeeper.
Nothing more.
Today is my first real day of work, and I need to prove I can handle
this job without melting into a puddle every time he’s near me. I know he’d
said that there’s a cleaning crew, but I feel like simply overseeing
everything isn’t enough work. Besides, what better way to get to know the
place than by scrubbing it all?
I work my way through, room by room, until I finally manage to
shake most of my inappropriate thoughts away. Until I reach the end of the
upstairs hallway.
His bedroom door stands slightly ajar as I reach the master suite, and
I knock softly before pushing it open. “Mr. Sidorov… um… Osip?
Housekeeping.”
 Silence. The space beyond feels empty, charged with his absence
rather than his presence.
I step inside and immediately understand why this room commands
the entire top floor. Wall-to-wall windows frame the Danube like a living
painting, light streaming across plush gray carpet and custom furniture.
Everything is precisely arranged, meticulously clean— except for the
unmade bed that still carries the indent of his body.
The sheets are twisted, pillows scattered like he fought battles in his
sleep.
I approach the bed slowly, my eyes tracing the depression in the
Egyptian cotton where his body lay just hours ago. The covers are thrown
back carelessly, and I can almost see him there— all that controlled power
finally relaxed in sleep. His dark hair mussed against the pillow, those sharp
cheekbones softened by rest.
Would he sleep shirtless?
The thought sends heat spiraling through my core. God, I bet he
would. A man that confident in his own skin wouldn’t bother with pajamas.
I imagine the morning light playing across the broad expanse of his chest,
highlighting muscles I’ve only glimpsed beneath expensive suits. His body
would be a roadmap of controlled strength— defined abs, powerful
shoulders, maybe some interesting scars.
Stop it, Ilona.
That’s enough.
But my treacherous mind keeps painting pictures. The way his
breathing would sound in the quiet darkness. How his face might look
stripped of that careful mask he wears, vulnerable in sleep. Whether he
dreams of violence or something softer.
I force myself to move away from the bed before I do something
insane like press my face into his pillow and breathe him in. The nightstand
holds a single framed photograph that makes me pause— a pregnant
woman with gentle eyes and dark hair, her hand resting protectively over a
clearly pregnant belly.
Who is she?
Pretty, serene, clearly important enough to keep beside his bed. His
wife? Ex-wife? Where is she now, and why haven’t I seen her in this house?
The jealousy that spikes through me is immediate and irrational. I have no
claim on this man, no right to feel territorial about his past.
 Cut out the jealousy, Ilona.
You’re his housekeeper.
But the possessive ache in my chest doesn’t listen to logic.
I start with the bathroom— black marble and gleaming fixtures that
belong in a luxury hotel. The rainfall shower dominates one corner, glass-
walled and spacious enough for two people. More than two people.
The thought makes me stop in my tracks. Osip, naked under that
cascading water. Steam rising around that powerful body— I can imagine
exactly what he’d look like stripped bare and it makes me squeeze my
thighs together.
My pulse quickens as unwanted images flood my mind. Water
streaming down the carved planes of his chest, following the trail of dark
hair I’m sure leads south to… God. The man radiates raw masculinity even
fully clothed. Naked, he’d be devastating. All that controlled power on
display, tattoos I’d want to explore with my hands and mouth.
“Don’t be nuts, Ilona,” I mutter under my breath. “How do you know
he has tattoos.”
Of course he has tattoos.
I bet he’d be magnificent. The kind of man who owns every space he
enters, who commands attention without trying. In the shower, with his
guard down, would he still carry himself like a king? Or would the water
wash away some of that careful control?
Focus, you deranged woman!
I grab the cleaning supplies, desperate for distraction from the vivid
fantasies playing in my head. But even cleaning his sink, I’m hyperaware
that this is where he starts each day. Where he stands while shaving, those
gray eyes focused in the mirror. Where he brushes his teeth, runs water
through that thick, dark hair.
The medicine cabinet reveals an army of prescription bottles that
make me pause. Sedatives. Anti-anxiety medication. Sleep aids. All
prescribed to Osip Mikhailovich Sidorov.
Osip Mikhailovich. His full name rolls through my mind like
something wicked. Russian patronymic, same heritage as Dad’s family. The
coincidence feels strange, meaningful in ways I can’t articulate.
But why does a man who radiates control and power need medication
to sleep? What keeps someone like him awake at night?
More secrets.
 This house is full of them, and I’m starting to realize my employer
carries more darkness than I initially understood.
Back in the bedroom, I focus on the massive bookshelf that spans an
entire wall—leather-bound volumes in multiple languages, first editions
that probably belong in museums. I’m running the microfiber cloth along
the spines when my elbow accidentally bumps against a thick volume of
Russian poetry.
The book depresses like a button.
With a soft mechanical whir, the entire bookshelf swings inward on
hidden hinges, revealing a space beyond that makes my breath catch.
Holy crap.
I don’t think I’m supposed to find this.
But I can’t move. I’m frozen, unable to do anything but stare at what
Osip Sidorov keeps hidden behind false walls.
The secret room is small, maybe six feet deep, lined with built-in
shelving that holds an inventory of impossibilities. The first shelf stops my
heart— weapons arranged in tidy rows. Handguns, knives, something that
looks like it could level a small building. Not collector’s pieces. Working
tools.
The second shelf explains how he can afford eight-bedroom
mansions and designer everything— stacks of cash in multiple currencies,
bound with rubber bands like they’re grocery receipts instead of small
fortunes.
But it’s the third shelf that makes my knees weak.
Toys.
That kind of toys.
An entire collection of items that should make me blush and retreat,
but instead flood my body with heat that pools low and desperate.
Handcuffs lined with silk. Vibrators in shapes and sizes that suggest very
specific intentions. Restraints that whisper promises about surrender and
control.
All unopened.
Unused.
Waiting.
Images crash through my mind without permission— Osip’s hands
securing those cuffs around my wrists, his voice commanding my
submission while he explores every inch of my body with devices designed
for pleasure. The fantasy is so clear I can almost feel the cool metal against
my skin, almost hear the low rumble of his approval when I arch beneath
his touch.
For fuck’s sake, Ilona.
I’m wet again. Soaking. My body responding to imagined scenarios
with a desperation that should embarrass me. But standing here surrounded
by evidence of Osip’s hidden appetites, all I can think about is how
perfectly those handcuffs would fit, how it would feel to surrender
completely to someone who knows exactly how to take control.
“What the hell is wrong with you, girl?” I whisper to myself, but my
voice sounds breathy, affected.
I need to leave. Now. Need to close this shelf and pretend I never saw
any of it. Need to maintain the professional boundaries that are already
crumbling just from proximity to his secrets.
But my feet won’t move. My hands shake as I stare at items that
promise the kind of pleasure I’ve only dreamed about, with a man who
makes my body sing just by existing in the same space.
This is insane. I’m his housekeeper, not his… whatever kind of
woman uses items like these. But the want coursing through me doesn’t
care about logic or appropriateness or the fact that I barely know him.
I take a step backward, finally finding the strength to retreat before I
do something catastrophically stupid like touch anything in here.
That’s when a voice stops me cold.
“Find something interesting?”
 Chapter Thirty-Three
Ilona

Terror freezes my blood.

Not only have I been snooping where I absolutely shouldn’t be, but I
got caught. On my first fucking day at work. Mental images of getting fired
flash through my mind like a nightmare reel. What the hell am I going to
do? End up on the streets of Budapest? I don’t even have money to fly back
to Boston.
I spin around slowly, my heart in my throat.
Osip Sidorov stands in the doorway, filling the frame with that
predatory stillness that makes my survival instincts scream in terror. His
gray eyes are unreadable, but there’s something burning behind them that
makes my knees weak. The stone-cold expression on his face should terrify
me— and it does— but in some twisted way, it also sends liquid heat
pooling between my thighs.
What the everloving fuck, girl?
My nipples are so hard they’re practically drilling holes through my
thin top. I cross my arms instinctively, but it’s too late. His gaze has already
dropped, taking in my body’s betrayal with the precision of a man who
knows exactly what he’s seeing.
Those steel-gray eyes are possessive as they devour me, like he’s
already decided I belong to him.
“You should not be here.” His voice is deadly quiet, each word
precisely enunciated in that accent that makes everything inside me clench.
“I was just… I’m so sorry.” The words tumble out in a rush. “I didn’t
mean to— the book moved and I—”
I try to push past him, desperate to escape before I do something
catastrophically stupid. But his closeness, that dark masculine scent,
invades my senses until I can barely think straight.
When I try to slip around him, his hand snaps out like a striking
snake.
His fingers wrap around my wrist— not painful, but inescapable. The
contact sends electricity shooting up my arm, and I gasp at the intensity of
it. Our eyes meet, and in that moment, I see my own desperate hunger
reflected back at me.
There’s no mistaking what’s happening here.
The air between us sizzles with sexual tension that’s been building
since the moment we met. We both know there’s no going back from this.
“Ilona.” He murmurs my name in a way that makes me think dirty
thoughts. Very dirty thoughts.
“Osip, I—”
He moves faster than thought, backing me against the hidden room’s
doorframe. His free hand braces against the wall beside my head, caging me
in with his body. The heat radiating from him makes me dizzy with want.
“Do you know what you’ve seen?” His voice is low, dangerous.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Do you understand what this means?”
I shake my head because I’m not sure I understand anything beyond
the desperate need to feel his mouth on mine.
His thumb traces across my pulse point, and I shiver at the gentle
touch that contrasts sharply with the violent tension in his body. “You
should be afraid of me.”
“I know.” The admission whispers out. “But I’m not.”
Something fractures in his expression. “You should be running.”
“I… don’t want to.”
The words hang between us for one suspended moment.
Then his control snaps.
He crushes his mouth to mine with a hunger that steals my breath.
This isn’t gentle or romantic— it’s claiming, possessive, raw. His teeth nip
at my bottom lip until I open for him, and his tongue sweeps inside to taste
me thoroughly.
I melt against him, every rational thought dissolving under the assault
of his kiss. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer as he devours my
mouth like he’s been starving for this moment.
When he pulls back, we’re both breathing hard.
“There’s a price to be paid for going where you’re not permitted,” he
growls against my lips.
“I’m sorry,” I say, though somehow, I don’t feel sorry at all.
His hands span my waist, thumbs stroking over my ribs through the
thin fabric of my top. “I could hurt you.”
 “Please…” I say hoarsely, not sure if I’m asking him not to, or if
that’s exactly what I want.
His eyes darken to storm clouds. Without warning, he spins me
around and presses me face-first against the doorframe. My palms flatten
against the wood as his body pins me from behind.
“Is this what you want?” His breath is hot against my ear. “To be
fucked by a bad man?”
“I… I… Oh God!” The words come out as a moan when his hips
press against my ass, letting me feel exactly how much he wants this too.
His cock is so thick and hard that my eyes fly wide.
His hand tangles in my hair, tugging my head back until my neck is
exposed. “I won’t be gentle.”
“Oh!” I gasp. I find myself grinding back against him.
The growl that rumbles through his chest is purely animal. His hands
find the hem of my top, yanking it over my head in one swift motion. Cool
air hits my heated skin, making me gasp.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his palms skimming over my ribs, my
stomach, finally cupping my breasts through my bra.
When his thumbs brush over my nipples through the lace, I cry out at
the sensation. Everything feels amplified, charged. Like my body has been
waiting for his touch specifically.
“Osip, please—”
“Please what?” His fingers work the clasp of my bra, letting it fall
away. “Tell me what you want.”
“I… I don’t know,” I choke out, even though that’s a lie. Him. I want
him.
He spins me around again, his eyes devouring the sight of me half-
naked and desperate for him. Something wild and untamed flickers in his
expression.
Without warning, his hands grip my waist and lift.
The ground disappears beneath my feet. My startled shriek echoes
through the room as he hoists me up like I weigh nothing— and maybe to
him, I do. All that controlled power I’ve been fantasizing about is suddenly
focused on me, no longer restrained by propriety or distance.
“Osip!” His name tears from my throat, half protest, half plea.
But he’s already moving, carrying me away from his secret room
with purposeful strides. My hands clutch at his shoulders for balance,
feeling the solid muscle beneath his expensive shirt. The way he holds me
— effortlessly, possessively— makes my pussy clench with anticipation.
He dumps me onto his bed without ceremony.
I bounce once against the Egyptian cotton, my hair cascading around
me in honey-blonde waves. The mattress is enormous, designed for a king,
and I feel suddenly small sprawled across the twisted sheets that still smell
like him. Dark, masculine, intoxicating.
My pulse pounds as I watch him above me— sharp angles and
dangerous intent. His gray eyes burn with something that makes my thighs
tremble. This isn’t the controlled businessman anymore. This is something
wilder, hungrier.
What have I unleashed?
Before I can form another coherent thought, his hands are at my
jeans. The button pops open under his skilled fingers, the zipper sliding
down with deliberate slowness that makes me arch beneath him.
“Osip, what are you—?”
My question dies as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband and
yanks. The denim slides down my legs in one swift motion, taking my
panties with it. Cool air kisses my heated skin, and I’m suddenly,
devastatingly aware of how wet I am. How exposed.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to gravel. “Already
so ready for me.”
Heat flames across my cheeks, but I can’t deny it. Can’t pretend I’m
not lying here naked and desperately aroused by his dominance. The way
he’s looking at me— like he owns me already— should terrify me. Instead,
it makes every nerve ending sing with anticipation.
His hands grip my hips, and suddenly I’m being flipped onto my
stomach with effortless strength. The movement is so quick it steals my
breath, leaving me pressed face-down into his pillows with my ass raised
and vulnerable.
Oh God.
The position is humiliating. Exposed. Everything in me should be
screaming to escape, to cover myself, to demand explanations. But instead,
liquid heat pools between my thighs as I realize what he intends.
“You went where you shouldn’t have gone,” his voice is dark silk
above me. “Saw things you shouldn’t have seen.”
 “I’m sorry,” I whisper into his pillow, my voice muffled and
breathless.
“Sorry isn’t enough.” His palm skims over the curve of my ass, and I
shiver at the gentle touch that promises anything but gentleness. “You need
to learn there are consequences for disobeying me.”
Consequences.
The word makes me ache with shameful want.
His hand lifts away, and in the suspended moment that follows, every
nerve in my body strains with anticipation.
Then his palm connects with my ass in a sharp crack that makes me
cry out. The sting is immediate, radiating heat across my skin that somehow
transforms into pleasure before I can process it. My fingers clutch at his
sheets as the sensation settles deep inside, awakening parts of me I didn’t
know existed.
Oh fuck.
“That’s one,” he says, his voice rough with barely controlled hunger.
“You’re going to take ten for snooping where you don’t belong.”
“Osip—” His name escapes as half protest, half moan.
The second strike lands on the opposite cheek, harder this time. The
sound echoes through the room, followed by my sharp intake of breath.
Pain and pleasure blur together until I can’t tell where one ends and the
other begins.
“Count them,” he commands. “I want to hear you count each one.”
“Two,” I gasp into his pillow, my voice shaking.
His hand smooths over the heated skin where he struck me, soothing
the sting while somehow making me crave the next impact. The contrast
between pain and tenderness is devastating— each touch designed to drive
me higher.
The third strike comes without warning, making me arch off the bed
with a cry that sounds nothing like distress. Fire spreads across my skin, but
underneath it, a deeper heat blooms that has nothing to do with the spanking
and everything to do with the dark promise in his touch.
“Three!” The word tears from my throat.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and those two words send a flood of wet
down my thighs. I’ve never been anyone’s good girl. Never wanted to be.
But the approval in his voice makes me desperate to earn more praise, to
take whatever he wants to give me.
 The fourth strike lands across both cheeks, and I bite back a scream
of pleasure. My skin feels alive, hypersensitive to every breath of air, every
brush of fabric. I’m so wet I can feel it on my legs, shameful evidence of
how much I’m enjoying this.
“Four,” I choke out, pressing my face deeper into his pillow to muffle
the needy sounds escaping my throat.
His hand pauses, fingers tracing the heated skin. “Look at you, taking
your punishment so beautifully.”
The praise makes me whimper. I want to be beautiful for him, want
to be everything he needs. The realization should scare me— this desperate
desire to please a man I barely know, to submit to his will so completely.
Instead, it just makes me wetter.
The fifth strike comes harder, and I arch like a bow beneath him. The
sting is exquisite, perfect, pushing me toward something I don’t understand
but desperately need.
“Five!” My voice breaks on the word.
“Halfway there,” he says, his breathing rougher now. I can hear the
strain in his control, feel it in the way his free hand grips my hip with
bruising force. “You’re doing so well for me.”
The sixth strike makes me sob his name into the pillow. Not with
pain— never with pain— but with overwhelming sensation that threatens to
tear me apart. My skin burns deliciously, and every nerve ending screams
for more.
“Six,” I manage, my voice nearly gone.
His hand soothes over my abused flesh, and the gentle touch is
almost worse than the strikes. It makes me aware of how sensitive I’ve
become, how every caress sends sparks shooting through my system.
“Almost done,” he murmurs, but his voice carries a promise that this
is just the beginning.
The seventh strike lands with precision across the fullest part of my
ass, and I come undone. My back arches impossibly, and a sound
somewhere between a scream and a moan tears from my throat. I’m flying,
burning, desperate for something I can’t name.
“Seven!” I choke out, tears of pleasure streaming down my cheeks.
Two more powerful strikes follow in quick succession, each one
driving me higher until I’m sobbing with sensation that threatens to
overwhelm every rational thought.
 “Eight! Nine!”
The final strike lands perfectly, and my world explodes into white-
hot pleasure. I scream his name as something inside me shatters, waves of
sensation crashing over me with devastating force. My body convulses
against his sheets, and I realize with shock that I’m coming— actually
climaxing from nothing but his hand on my ass.
“Ten,” I whisper, my voice wrecked.
For a moment, neither of us move. My breathing is ragged, labored,
as aftershocks continue to ripple through my oversensitized body. Behind
me, I can hear Osip’s harsh breathing, feel the tension radiating from him in
waves.
“Krasivyy,” he murmurs, his palm smoothing over my heated skin
with infinite gentleness. “So beautiful when you surrender to me.”
The words make me shiver with renewed want. I should be mortified
that I came from a spanking, should be demanding explanations or running
for the door. Instead, all I can think about is how empty I feel, how
desperately I need him inside me.
“Please,” I whisper, not even sure what I’m begging for.
His hands grip my hips again, and I feel the bed dip as he leans over
me. His mouth brushes my ear, his breath hot against my skin.
“Please what, Ilona? Tell me what you need.”
The command in his voice makes my core pulse with desperate
hunger. I know what I need, what I’ve been craving since the moment he
kissed me. But saying it out loud feels like crossing a line I can never
uncross.
“You,” I breathe, the admission torn from somewhere deep inside me.
“I need you.”
His answering growl is pure possession. “Like this?” One finger
slides inside me slowly, so slowly I want to scream. The stretch is delicious
but not nearly enough.
“More,” I beg shamelessly. “I need more.”
He adds a second finger, but his movements remain torturously slow.
Just enough to drive me wild but not enough to push me over the edge I’m
desperately climbing toward.
“You’re so tight,” he murmurs, his free hand kneading the reddened
skin of my ass. “So wet. All for me.”
 His thumb finds my clit, applying just enough pressure to make me
cry out before retreating. The pattern continues— building me up only to
pull back when I’m on the verge of release.
“Osip, please,” I sob. “I can’t take anymore.”
“Yes, you can.” His voice is steel wrapped in velvet. “You’ll take
what I give you and be grateful for it.”
Something about his tone, the authority in his voice, sends
recognition flickering through me. Familiar in a way that makes no sense
but feels absolutely right.
“I need you,” I whisper, pushing back against him. “Please, I need
you inside me.”
Behind me, I hear the sound of his belt buckle, his zipper sliding
down. When I feel the hot length of him pressing against my entrance, I
push back eagerly.
“So impatient,” he chuckles darkly. “But I like that about you.”
He enters me in one powerful thrust that makes me see stars. The
stretch is mindnumbing, filling me until I can barely think. I freeze,
clutching the sheets as I get used to the sheer size of him.
“You feel incredible,” he breathes against my ear. “Like you were
made for me.”
Something about those words resonates deep in my chest, familiar in
a way I can’t explain. But then he starts to move, and my mind turns to
mush again.
His pace is relentless, each thrust driving me closer to another peak.
One hand grips my hip while the other tangles in my hair, pulling my head
back as he claims me thoroughly.
Hot breath tickles my ear before words in Russian pour out, low and
commanding.
“Ty moya,” he growls, punctuating each syllable with a powerful
thrust. “Tolko moya.”
I don’t understand the words, but their effect is instantaneous. My
body responds to the raw possession in his tone, clenching around him as
heat floods through me.
“What does… that mean?” I gasp, barely able to form the question as
he drives deeper.
His teeth graze my earlobe. “Ya khochu tebya vsyu,” he continues,
ignoring my question. The foreign sounds roll off his tongue like dark
honey, each word dripping with intent that makes my skin prickle with
goosebumps.
More Russian phrases follow, each one rougher than the last. The
meaning is lost on me, but the effect is undeniable— each word feels like a
physical caress, heightening every sensation.
“Ty takaya krasivaya, kogda ty pod mnoy,” he murmurs, his voice
strained with effort as his pace increases.
Something about hearing him lose control in his native tongue pushes
me closer to the edge. It’s deep, intimate— like he’s revealing a part of
himself he keeps hidden from the world.
“Osip,” I whimper, my body trembling on the precipice of release.
The angle hits something perfect inside me with every stroke, building
pressure that threatens to shatter me completely. When his hand slides
around to work my clit again, I know I won’t last much longer.
“Come, beautiful girl,” he commands. “Come all over my cock.”
The combination of his voice, his touch, and the relentless rhythm of
his body pushes me over the edge. My second orgasm is even more intense
than the first, rippling through me in waves that leave me sobbing his name.
He follows me over, his release hot and pulsing inside me as he
buries his face in my neck with a groan that sounds almost pained.
We stay like that for long moments, both breathing hard as we come
down from the high. When he finally pulls out of me, my thighs give way,
and I sag onto the bed.
“That was…” I trail off, not sure how to finish the sentence.
“A mistake,” he says quietly, but there’s no regret in his voice.
I turn to face him, drinking in the sight of his powerful body marked
with ink and scars. “Was it?”
His gray eyes meet mine, and I see something there that makes my
heart skip. “Ask me tomorrow.”
But even as he says it, his hands are already reaching for me again,
and I know this is far from over.
 Chapter Thirty-Four
Osip

I glare out through the windscreen at the morning traffic, the engine
of my BMW purring beneath me like a caged predator.
Blyad.
My mind won’t shut the fuck up— keeps replaying every second of
last night. The way Ilona looked at me with those ocean eyes when I had
her pressed against the doorframe. How she felt beneath my hands, around
me, so perfect it was like finding a missing piece of myself I didn’t know
was gone.
I broke my own fucking rule.
No attachments.
No complications.
Keep business separate from pleasure, and never let anyone close
enough to become a weakness. But one look at her in my secret room,
surrounded by weapons and cash and toys I’d never used with anyone else,
and my control shattered like cheap glass.
How the fuck did you get yourself into a shitshow like this, dolboyob?
At least Anett is out of my hair. That’s something. Breaking up with
her before touching Ilona means I didn’t technically cheat, though the
distinction feels meaningless when I’ve been wanting Shiradze’s daughter
since the moment I saw her in that room back in Boston.
The cosmic joke keeps getting more twisted.
I can already feel myself getting attached to her. Can see it in the way
my chest tightens when I think about her sleeping in my house, the way my
body responds just to the memory of her voice saying my name. She’s
wildly pulled to me too— I felt it in every arch of her spine, every
breathless moan, the way she surrendered to my touch like she’d been
waiting her whole life for someone to take her properly.
But this can only end in catastrophe.
She has no idea I’m the man from Boston. No idea that the stranger
who met her in Room Five is the same man who showed her what real
pleasure looks like in my bedroom. And what’s worse— much fucking
worse— she has no idea I murdered her father and covered it up as suicide.
 The weight of those secrets sits in my chest like swallowed lead,
growing heavier with each mile toward the construction site. How long can
I keep hiding the truth from her? How long before she starts asking
questions? Because she will ask questions, of that, I have no doubt. It’s only
a matter of time before the pieces fall into place.
The Scarlet Fox comes into view, surrounded by scaffolding and
construction equipment that transforms it from rustic charm into something
promising. My vision taking shape one beam at a time. Clean money
building something legitimate for the first time in my adult life.
Péter Bokor stands near the entrance, his hard hat catching the
morning sunlight as he discusses blueprints with one of his crew. Mid-
forties, weathered hands that speak of decades working construction, the
kind of man who takes pride in building things that last. His English carries
a thick Hungarian accent, but it’s clear enough for business.
“Jó reggelt, boss,” he calls when I approach.
“Yes, it’s a good morning.” I study the progress, noting how the
interior walls are already being reconfigured according to my
specifications. “How are we looking on timeline?”
“Good, very good. Maybe two weeks ahead of schedule if the
weather holds.” He gestures to where workers are installing new electrical
systems. “The kitchen renovation will be the tricky part, but—”
A blur of motion catches my eye. A small figure darts between the
construction barriers with the fearless confidence only children possess.
“Dénes!” Péter shouts, but there’s more affection than anger in his
voice. “Gyere ide! Come here, you little monkey.”
The boy who emerges from behind a stack of lumber makes my
breath catch. Six years old, gap-toothed grin, dark hair that sticks up despite
obvious attempts to smooth it down. He bounces toward us with energy that
seems to vibrate through his small frame.
“Sorry, boss,” Péter says, one hand settling protectively on his son’s
shoulder. “School holiday today, his mother is working, so I brought him
here. Hope that’s okay.”
“It’s fine.” But my voice sounds strange, hollow. Something about
watching this father and son together makes my chest feel like it’s caving
in.
“Dénes, this is Mr. Sidorov. He owns this place.”
 The boy looks up at me with curious eyes that hold no fear, just open
interest. “Are you Russian? Papa said you’re Russian.”
“Da. I am Russian.”
“Cool! Do you know any Russian swear words?”
“Dénes!” Péter’s face flushes red. “You don’t ask things like that.”
But I find myself almost smiling at the kid’s directness. “Maybe
when you’re older, kiddo.”
For the next hour, I try to focus on construction details— timeline
adjustments, material costs, the hundred decisions required to transform
vision into reality. But my attention keeps drifting to Dénes, who chatters
constantly while helping his father in ways that are more trouble than help.
The connection between them is obvious, unbreakable. Péter’s
patience when explaining why certain tools are dangerous. Dénes’s pride
when he successfully carries a small piece of equipment to the right
location. The easy affection that flows between them like it’s the most
natural thing in the world.
“You have kids, boss?” Péter asks during a break, wiping sweat from
his forehead while Dénes examines a level with scientific intensity.
The question hits harder than I anticipated. My chest tightens until
breathing feels optional, memories rushing back with the force of a freight
train. Galina’s hand over our child in her belly. The nursery I’d started
planning. Tiny feet kicking against my palm when I talked to my unborn
son in Russian, teaching him his first words before he was born.
“Net.” I shake my head, the word coming out gruff. “It’s not a good
idea for a man like me.”
“Oh man, it’s the best thing in the world,” Péter says, his gaze
following Dénes with unmistakable pride. “Hard work raising these little
assholes, don’t get me wrong. But it’s worth it at the end of the day.
Everything you do has more meaning when you’re doing it for them.”
The words cut deep.
Everything you do has more meaning.
I think about the empire I’ve built, the money I’ve accumulated, the
respect I’ve commanded through violence and fear. All of it feels hollow
without someone to pass it to, someone to protect, someone to love
unconditionally the way Péter loves his son.
I stay for another thirty minutes, watching this father-son dynamic
that should feel foreign but instead feels like glimpsing a life I was
supposed to have. When I finally make my excuses and head back to my
car, the weight in my chest has transformed into something sharper, more
desperate.
Sitting behind the wheel in the parking lot, I close my eyes and let
the memories crash over me.
Coming home that night. Galina on the cream sofa. The cord around
her throat, professional and neat. And then—God, then—the movement
beneath her dress. My son, still alive inside his mother’s corpse, fighting for
a life he’d never get to live.
The paramedics working frantically while hope died in my chest.
“Sir, you should stay here. There’s nothing you can do at the hospital now.”
Because they already knew. Had already pronounced her dead, had
already determined that saving my child was impossible. I should have been
holding my son right now. Should have been teaching him to walk, to say
“Papa” in Russian, to be strong but never cruel.
Instead, I’m sitting in a parking lot in Budapest, remembering the
weight of dreams that died with a cord around Galina’s throat.
But Péter’s words echo in my skull: “It’s the best thing in the world.”
The idea hits me like lightning.
I could try again. Could build the family that was stolen from me.
But with whom? Definitely not Anett— that bridge has been burned, and
even before that, she never felt like mother material. Too focused on
herself, too calculating about what children could do for her image rather
than what she could do for them.
Then, something, somewhere clicks.
A lightbulb goes off.
Ilona’s face invades my mind with sudden, overwhelming clarity.
Ilona, who talked about wanting children before her endometriosis
made it difficult. Ilona, who has the kind of gentle strength that would make
her an incredible mother. Ilona, who trusts me enough to surrender
completely.
Blyad.
The temptation is so strong it leaves me shaken.
I could give her everything— financial security, protection. Could
watch her belly grow round with my child, could hold my son or daughter,
and know they were safe from the violence that claimed their half-sibling.
What are you thinking, you idiot?
 The rational part of my brain— the part that’s kept me breathing
through wars and betrayals— screams warnings. It’s already fucked up that
she’s living in my house. Already twisted beyond repair that I killed her
father and she has no clue I’m the man from Boston. Adding a child to that
equation would be…
Insanity.
Sheer insanity.
But the seed is planted now, growing with every goddamn heartbeat.
The image of Ilona pregnant with my child, of teaching my son or daughter
to be strong and honest and everything I failed to become. Of having
something pure and clean to balance the blood on my hands.
I could make it work. Could protect them both from the truth, from
the consequences of my past. Could be the father I never got to be.
The dangerous hope spreading through my chest feels like salvation
and damnation wrapped in the same package.
Bozhe moy, what am I becoming?
But as I start the engine and head back toward the house where she’s
waiting— probably cleaned up from last night, probably trying to pretend
professional boundaries still exist between us— one truth echoes above all
others:
I want this.
The only question is whether I’m strong enough to make it happen,
or foolish enough to try.
 Chapter Thirty-Five
Osip

By evening, I’ve made my decision.

I call Ilona to my office, keeping my voice neutral when I tell her we
need to discuss her employment terms. Professional. Businesslike. The kind
of conversation that doesn’t acknowledge the way my cock gets hard just
thinking about her voice saying my name.
She appears in the doorway wearing dark jeans and a cream sweater
that makes her skin look luminous.
Blyad.
She’s fucking beautiful.
“You wanted to see me?” Her voice is carefully neutral, but I catch
the tremor underneath. She’s as affected by last night as I am.
“Sit.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk, putting furniture
between us like a barrier. Distance. Control. The illusion that I can keep this
professional when every instinct screams to drag her over that desk and
fuck her again.
She settles into the leather chair with movements that are pure
unconscious grace. The way she crosses her legs, the way her fingers curl
around the armrests… My cock strains against expensive fabric, but I force
my expression to remain stone-cold. This is business. Has to be business,
even if the business happens to be the most personal thing I’ve ever
proposed.
“I have an offer for you.”
Her eyebrows climb slightly. “What kind of offer?”
The words stick in my throat for a moment.
Blyad.
This could change everything.
But the memory of little Dénes chattering with his father pushes me
forward. Péter’s voice echoing in my skull:
Everything you do has more meaning when you’re doing it for them.
“I want you to carry my baby.”
There.
It’s out.
 The silence that follows is deafening. She stares at me like I’ve
spoken in ancient Greek, her lips parting slightly as she processes what I
just said.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ll get five hundred thousand upfront,” I continue, forcing my
voice to remain steady. Clinical. Like I’m negotiating a business contract
instead of asking her to grow my offspring inside her body. “Euros. You’ll
live in this house with the best private medical treatment money can buy.
Then another five hundred thousand once the baby is delivered.”
Her face cycles through shock, disbelief, and something that might
be hurt. “Is this a joke?”
I don’t answer. Can’t answer. Just hold her gaze with the kind of
steady intensity that’s closed deals and ended lives.
Understanding dawns in her expression like sunrise after a long
night. “You’re being serious.”
Still silence from me. The weight of the offer hangs between us like a
loaded weapon, and I watch her realize that everything just changed.
Whatever existed between us last night— the heat, the connection, the way
she surrendered to my touch— it’s been reduced to a transaction.
Her face drains of color until she looks almost translucent. “I… I am
the worst possible person for that.”
I steeple my fingers. “Why?”
She licks her lips, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “I have
endometriosis. It’s under control now with the medications I’m on, but
getting pregnant is likely impossible.”
Right.
I know that from Scarlet Fox Boston.
The words nearly escape before I catch them. She told a masked
stranger about her diagnosis, trusted him with her deepest fears about never
being able to have children. Now that same stranger— me— is offering her
exactly what she thought she’d lost.
“Nowadays almost everybody has health challenges,” I say instead,
keeping my voice carefully neutral. “There are professional treatments for
everything, and if necessary, I will cover them. Once the baby is born,
you’ll be cared for as the mother of my child. You won’t have to worry
about finances ever again.”
 She stares at me in disbelief, and I can see her mind working through
the implications. One million Euros. Financial security for life. The chance
to have the child she thought endometriosis had stolen from her.
“So you want me to be a surrogate mother to your kid.”
“Da.” The confirmation comes out flat, final. “You’ll be set up for
life. But we will never have a proper relationship. Just be the kid’s parents.”
Something flickers in her eyes— pain, maybe, or disappointment.
The reminder that last night meant more to her than business should hit like
a slap.
“What about…?” She stops, color flooding her cheeks as she forces
the words out. “Last night?”
The memory crashes over me— vivid flashes of her naked, moaning
for me. My cock throbs with the need to reach remind her exactly what last
night felt like.
“It was a mistake,” I say bluntly. “We should keep this professional.”
“I agree,” she says, almost too quickly. But I catch the way her
breathing has changed, the way her eyes drop to my mouth before darting
away. She’s lying too. Whatever burned between us last night is still there,
simmering beneath this little act we’re playing.
“But I can’t believe you’re serious about this,” she continues, her
voice carrying disbelief mixed with something that sounds dangerously like
interest. “I don’t know what to say to you.”
She’s sitting three feet away, close enough that I could be around this
desk and have her pressed against the wall in seconds. Close enough that I
can see the pulse fluttering in her throat, the way her nipples are peaked
beneath that innocent sweater.
She wants me. Still wants me despite the cold business proposition I
just dropped on her like a bomb. The knowledge makes my chest tight with
possessive satisfaction.
“You have three days to make up your mind,” I tell her, forcing
authority into my voice when what I really want is to strip her bare and
remind her why keeping things professional is impossible. “But once you
give me an answer, there’s no going back or changing your mind.”
She nods slowly, but I can see the war being fought behind her eyes.
Practical considerations versus desire. Financial security versus emotional
complications. The chance to have a child versus the knowledge that
accepting means binding herself to a man who’s trying to reduce their
connection to a contract.
“Three days,” she repeats, her voice low.
“Three days.”
She stands to leave, movements careful and controlled like she’s
afraid sudden motion might shatter whatever fragile equilibrium we’ve
established. But when she reaches the door, she pauses and looks back at
me.
“Osip?”
“Da?”
“If I say yes… would you really be able to keep this just business?
After what happened between us?”
I pause, because the honest answer is no. Absolutely fucking not.
Being near her, watching her body change with my child, seeing her every
day while pretending I don’t want to claim every inch of her— it would be
torture.
But it would also be everything I’ve wanted since Galina died. A
family. A future. Something clean and good to balance the blood on my
hands.
“I’m a disciplined man,” I tell her, which is technically true even if it
sidesteps the real question.
She studies my face for a moment longer, then nods and slips out of
my office.
I sit in the silence she leaves behind, my cock still hard and my pulse
still racing with what I just proposed. Three days until I find out if Igor
Shiradze’s daughter will carry my child. Three days until I learn whether
this impossible gamble pays off.
And I’m pretty sure the Universe is still laughing its ass off at me.
But for the first time since Galina and my son died, I have something
to hope for. Something worth the risk of letting someone close enough to
hurt me.
Even if that someone is the daughter of the man I murdered.
Even if she has no idea how deep the lies between us run.
 Chapter Thirty-Six
Ilona

I can’t sleep.
I’ve been lying here for hours, staring at the ceiling of this
impossibly luxurious guest suite while my mind churns through Osip’s
proposition like a washing machine stuck on the spin cycle.
One million Euros.
A baby.
The chance to have everything I thought endometriosis had stolen
from me.
What kind of universe does he live in?
In the normal world— the world I used to inhabit before financial
desperation led me to Osip’s home— people don’t make offers like this.
They don’t sit behind mahogany desks with the calm authority of kings and
propose business arrangements that involve growing their children inside
your body.
But Osip Sidorov doesn’t live in the normal world. That much
became crystal clear the moment I stumbled into his secret room. The
weapons, the cash, the toys that spoke of appetites I’m only beginning to
understand— all of it painted a picture of a man who operates by rules I’ve
never encountered.
Should I be scared?
Every rational brain cell I have left screams yes. This is dangerous
territory, uncharted waters that could swallow me whole without leaving a
trace.
But somehow, I’m not afraid.
Not of him, anyway.
Maybe that makes me insane. Maybe the endorphins from last night’s
earth-shattering sex have scrambled my brain beyond repair. But when I
think about Osip Sidorov— really think about him— all I feel is this strange
certainty that I can trust him. That beneath all that controlled violence and
wealth and secrecy, there’s something solid. Something that would never
hurt me.
God, Ilona.
 Listen to yourself.
The thought of having sex with him regularly— even if it’s just a
“baby-making operation,” as my brain keeps cynically labeling it— has my
girl parts doing a happy dance.
I press my palms against my eyes, but it doesn’t stop the vivid
replays. His lips, his hands, his palm on the bare flesh of my ass. His
magnificent cock— because, let’s face it, it is magnificent.
And now he wants me to carry his child.
The idea should terrify me. Should send me bolting back all the way
to Boston with my tail between my legs. Instead, it makes something deep
in my chest flutter with possibilities I don’t dare name.
Stop thinking about it!
You have three days to decide.
Use them wisely.
But my treacherous mind won’t cooperate. It keeps circling back to
the heat in his eyes when he made the offer, the careful way he watched my
reactions like they mattered more than he was letting on.
Professional, he’d said.
Just business.
Bullshit.
Nothing about the way our bodies responded to each other could ever
be classified as professional. The man makes me wet just by being in the
same room as me. How the hell would we manage months of pregnancy-
related doctor’s appointments and discussions about hormone cycles
without combusting from sexual tension?
I kick off the Egyptian cotton sheets and pad barefoot to the
windows. Budapest glitters below like scattered diamonds, all those lives
going about their normal business while I lie here contemplating surrogacy
arrangements with Russian criminals.
Alleged Russian criminals, I correct myself, though the weapons
cache pretty much settled that question.
The house around me feels alive with secrets, humming with energy I
can’t identify. Maybe it’s just the knowledge that Osip is sleeping
somewhere in this house, all that unchecked sex appeal finally at rest. The
thought of him unconscious and vulnerable does something twisted to my
insides— makes me want to see him with his guard down, discover what he
looks like when he’s not performing the role of a restrained businessman.
 Fresh air.
That’s what I need.
Something to clear my head and wash away the scent of expensive
cologne and dangerous possibilities that seems to cling to everything in this
place.
I slip into leggings and an oversized sweater, moving quietly through
hallways lined with artwork that probably belongs in museums. Every
surface gleams with the kind of wealth that insulates people from
consequences, the kind of money that makes problems disappear.
As I pass Osip’s bedroom door, sounds from within make me freeze.
“Galina… save her… our child! No!”
The words tear through the silence, raw with pain that makes my
chest tighten in sympathy. I pause with my hand on the banister, torn
between the urge to help and the knowledge that I’m already in dangerous
territory with this man.
Another anguished shout decides for me.
Nobody should suffer alone in their sleep.
The door stands slightly ajar— whether from carelessness or some
subconscious need for connection, I can’t tell. Through the gap, I can see
him thrashing against silky sheets, his powerful body contorting with the
force of whatever demons are chasing him through his dreams.
“Galina,” he cries again, and things start to make sense with
devastating clarity.
Galina.
The pregnant woman in the photograph.
Understanding crashes over me like an icy wave. This isn’t just about
wanting a child— it’s about replacing one. Someone named Galina was
pregnant with his baby, and something happened to them both. Something
that still haunts his sleep months or maybe years later.
I don’t remember making the decision to enter his room. One
moment I’m hovering in the hallway, the next I’m standing beside his bed.
The moonlight streaming through the windows illuminates the sharp planes
of his face, highlighting the tension that persists even in sleep.
“Sshh,” I whisper, my hand settling on his shoulder before I can
second-guess the impulse. “It’s okay. You’re just having a nightmare.”
His skin burns beneath my palm, fever-hot and slick with sweat. The
contact seems to reach him through whatever hell he’s experiencing— his
body relaxes slightly, the violent thrashing subsiding into restless shifting.
For a moment, his eyes flutter open. Silver-gray in the darkness,
unfocused but achingly vulnerable. He looks directly at me without really
seeing me, caught somewhere between dreaming and waking. Then his lids
drift closed again, and I realize he’s not truly conscious.
But his body knows I’m here.
Responds to my presence in ways that make my breath catch.
He tosses again, kicking off the sheet with an impatient movement
that leaves him completely exposed.
Holy shit!
The moonlight turns his skin to marble and shadow, highlighting
every sculpted muscle and intricate tattoo. He’s beautiful naked— all that
power on full display, dangerous even in vulnerability. My gaze travels over
his impossibly broad chest, down the defined ridges of his abs, to—
Oh my God.
He’s rock hard.
His cock stands proud and thick against his stomach, flushed dark
with arousal that has nothing to do with his nightmare and everything to do
with whatever’s happening in the deeper levels of his unconscious mind.
I should leave. Should flee this room before he wakes up and finds
me standing here like some creepy voyeur getting off on his pain. But then
his hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my wrist with surprising
accuracy for someone who’s asleep.
His grip is firm but not painful, warm and possessive in a way that
makes my pulse skip. I try to pull away gently, but his hold only tightens.
Like some part of him recognizes my presence and refuses to let me go.
Shit.
What the hell are you doing, girl?
But even as my rational mind screams warnings, my body betrays
me. I move closer instead of farther away, drawn by some magnetic force I
can’t name or resist. My free hand settles on his shoulder again, stroking the
heated skin with careful touches meant to soothe.
It’s arousing and comforting at the same time— this intimate glimpse
behind his armor, this moment where he needs something I can give. He’s
always so controlled, so carefully composed. Seeing him soft like this, even
in sleep, makes something fierce and protective unfurl in my chest.
 My gaze keeps drifting to his erection. I can’t help it. He’s beautiful
everywhere, but there’s something mesmerizing about the evidence of his
desire. Thick and perfectly formed, the head flushed dark with blood. A
bead of moisture glistens at the tip, catching the moonlight like a jewel.
“This is no time to think about sex,” I tell myself firmly. “The man is
having trauma nightmares, for God’s sake!”
But my body doesn’t care about appropriate timing. My pussy
clenches as I continue stroking his shoulder, his muscular arm, anything I
can reach without disturbing his grip on my wrist. The combination of his
vulnerability and his raw masculinity is intoxicating in ways I don’t want to
examine too closely.
His erection grows even harder under my attention, if that’s possible.
The sight makes my mouth water with want, makes me remember exactly
how he felt stretching me open, fucking me with a thoroughness that left me
shaking.
“Ilona.”
My name falls from his lips, soft but unmistakably clear. The sound
shoots straight to the center of me, making my inner walls tighten around
nothing. Even in sleep, even while battling demons from his past, some part
of him is thinking about me.
Holy shit.
Holy freaking shit!
This whole scene is insanely hot. Wrong on about fifteen different
levels, but hot nonetheless. My pussy is dripping just from touching his
skin, from hearing him say my name in that voice rough with sleep and
dreams.
He doesn’t wake up, though part of me wants him to. Wants those
silvery eyes to focus on me with full awareness, wants to see what would
happen if he found me here like this. But I also don’t want him to wake up.
It would complicate everything, force conversations I’m not ready to have
about boundaries we’ve already obliterated.
So I stay. Stroke his skin until the tension finally bleeds out of his
huge frame, until his breathing evens out into the deeper rhythms of
peaceful sleep. His grip on my wrist relaxes gradually, though he doesn’t
release me entirely.
The erection takes longer to fade. I watch, mesmerized, as his cock
gradually softens against his stomach. Even semi-hard, he’s impressive. The
kind of man who would fill you completely, stretch you to your limits,
make you forget your own name.
Focus, Ilona.
When I’m certain he’s settled into deeper sleep, I carefully work my
wrist free of his loosened grip. He makes a small sound of protest but
doesn’t wake, just shifts onto his side with one hand reaching toward the
space where I was standing.
Looking for me, even unconscious.
My chest fills with emotions I can’t name.
I force myself to back away from the bed, from the temptation to
crawl in beside him and offer comfort I have no right to give. At the
doorway, I pause for one last look at the man who’s turned my world upside
down in less than twenty-four hours.
Moonlight and shadow paint him in shades of silver and darkness,
highlighting the softness he’d never let me see while awake.
This is what loss looks like, I realize.
This is what it means to carry ghosts.
Once outside his room, I lean against the hallway wall and try to
remember how to breathe. My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying
to escape, and the dampness between my thighs reminds me exactly how
affected I am by what just happened.
I wanted to jump his bones so badly it physically hurt. Wanted to
climb into that bed and wake him up with my mouth on his cock, wanted to
feel him come alive beneath my hands and forget whatever nightmares were
chasing him.
The intensity of my need should scare me. Instead, it clarifies
something I’ve been trying to ignore since he made his impossible offer.
I don’t want his money. Don’t want a business arrangement or a
professional relationship or whatever clinical terms he used to describe
growing his child.
I want him.
All of him.
The dangerous parts and the gentle parts and everything in between.
And all of that is just plain nuts.
“Fresh air,” I remind myself. “That’s why you got up in the first
place.”
 But as I make my way downstairs and toward the garden doors, I
can’t shake the image of Osip naked in moonlight, saying my name like I
might be the answer to prayers he’s afraid to voice.
Three days to decide.
Suddenly, that feels like both forever and nowhere near enough time.
 Chapter Thirty-Seven
Ilona

The morning sun filters through the garden’s carefully manicured

trees as I sit on a stone bench, cradling a cup of chamomile tea between my
palms.
The warmth seeps through the ceramic, but it does nothing to calm
the storm of thoughts churning in my mind. I keep replaying last night—
Osip’s tortured cries, the way his body convulsed with torment in sleep.
Galina… save her… our child!
The anguish in his voice was so raw it made my heart hurt.
What could have happened to cause such vivid nightmares? I’m
certain he doesn’t remember— he was too deep in sleep, lost in whatever
hell his subconscious dragged him through. But the woman’s name haunts
me.
Galina.
I’m almost positive it’s the pregnant woman from the photograph
beside his bed. The serene beauty with her hand protectively over her belly.
Where is she now? And more importantly— where is their child?
The jealousy that spikes through me is irrational and unwelcome. I
have no claim on Osip, no right to feel territorial about women from his
past. But the emotion claws at my insides anyway, sharp and possessive in
ways that should scare me.
If Galina is still in his life, why did he ask me to be a surrogate? Me,
of all people— a broke waitress with reproductive issues that make
pregnancy complicated. He could have anyone. Literally anyone. Why pick
someone whose body might betray the very thing he’s paying for?
Maybe it’s the visceral pull between us. The undeniable attraction
between us, the way my body responds to his presence like it recognizes
something essential. Maybe he feels it too, this magnetic force that defies
logic and self-preservation.
My head is still reeling from his offer. One million Euros. The chance
to carry his child. Financial security for life.
I must admit, as strange as it is, it’s tempting. More than tempting—
it’s a lifeline thrown to a drowning woman.
 It would solve all my financial problems in one stroke. No more
counting euros for groceries, no more sleepless nights wondering how I’ll
make enough for rent. And I would get to have sex with him— regularly,
intimately, with purpose beyond mere pleasure. The thought sends heat
spiraling through me despite the morning chill.
If he pays for fertility treatments, I could become a mother.
Something I’d given up hope on after the endometriosis diagnosis,
something that felt like a dream crushed before it could fully form. I could
never afford the procedures on my own— the medications, the monitoring,
the specialized care required to give my damaged reproductive system a
fighting chance. And that’s if I ever even found a man willing to put up
with all of that in the first place.
And then there’s Mom. Her financial struggles, the weight of Dad’s
mysterious debts crushing her spirit day by day. I could help her. Could hire
that private investigator she mentioned, finally get answers about what
really happened to him.
This might be my only chance to become a mother.
I realize it with startling clarity.
But the flip side gnaws at me. What happens after the baby is born?
Do I just accept his financial support and coast for the rest of my life?
Somehow, that feels wrong— like selling pieces of myself for security.
Why does he need me anyway, when he could choose from hundreds of
women who would leap at this opportunity?
It’s not your business, Ilona.
Treat it for what it is.
A business offer.
But let’s face it— I’m desperate. This proposition, insane as it
sounds, might be the answer to prayers I was afraid to voice.
Taking a deep breath, I pull out my phone and type a message that
will change everything.
“Offer accepted.”
I hit send before I can second-guess myself, before rational thought
can interfere with what feels like the first real choice I’ve made in months.
The reply comes within a minute.
“Good. I’ll get the documents ready.”
Documents? Yup, he’s all business.
Get the romance part out of your head, Ilona!
 I’m about to finish my tea and head inside to find Osip’s office when
an ice-cold female voice cuts through the morning air behind me.
“Who the fuck are you?”
I spin around, tea sloshing dangerously close to the rim of my cup.
Standing at the garden entrance is a woman who looks like she stepped off a
magazine cover— a picture of platinum blonde perfection and predatory
beauty. She’s tall, probably five-ten in the designer heels that I would never
be brave enough to wear. Her hair falls in perfect waves past her shoulders,
catching the sunlight like spun gold, and her face is a masterpiece of high
cheekbones and full lips painted blood red.
But it’s her eyes that stop my breath— ice-blue and filled with the
kind of venom that could kill at twenty paces. She’s dressed in a form-
fitting white dress that’s clearly couture, every inch of her screaming wealth
and entitlement. Diamond earrings catch the light as she moves closer, her
beautiful features twisted into an expression of pure hatred.
“I… um… I…” I stutter, trying to find my voice. “I’m the new house
manager—”
“Manager?” She laughs without humor— just bitter mockery that
makes my skin crawl. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”
I stare at her, my cheeks flaming. “I… excuse me?”
She stalks closer. Up close, she’s even more stunning— the kind of
flawless beauty that makes other women feel inadequate just by existing.
But there’s something cold about her perfection, like looking at a beautiful
statue carved from ice.
“Don’t think I’m an idiot. I know what you are. And you have no
place here, you little slut!” The words come out in a hiss, dripping with so
much hate I actually take a step backward. “Osip is mine, and if I ever see
your pathetic face around here again, I’ll tear every strand of hair from your
worthless head!”
I blink at the force of the threat, surprised at how violently this total
stranger is reacting to me.
“Look,” I try to keep my voice steady, “I don’t know who you are,
but you’re making a mistake.”
“A mistake?” she scoffs. “You’re the one making the mistake, bitch.”
She moves even closer, invading my personal space with the confidence of
someone who’s never had to worry about consequences. Her perfume—
something expensive and cloying— makes my nose burn. “Stay away from
him,” she continues, her voice dropping to a whisper that’s somehow more
terrifying than shouting. “Whatever little fantasy you have playing house
here, it ends now. Osip will get bored of you soon enough, and when he
does, I’ll be waiting.”
With that parting shot, she spins on her designer heels and storms
away, leaving me standing in the garden like an idiot. I sink back onto the
stone bench, my hands shaking so badly I have to set down my tea before I
drop it.
What the hell just happened?
And who the hell was that?
But more importantly— what is she to Osip?
The jealousy that floods through me is immediate and intense,
burning through my chest like acid.
Does Osip have a girlfriend?
The thought makes me feel physically sick. Here I am, agreeing to
carry his child, and there’s some gorgeous blonde with a prior claim to his
affections? But if that’s true, why didn’t he mention her? Why make this
offer at all if he’s already involved with someone?
Because it’s business, my rational mind whispers.
Just like he said. Personal relationships have nothing to do with
surrogacy arrangements.
Except nothing about what happened between us felt like business.
The way he touched me, the heat in his eyes— none of that was
professional or detached.
I sit in the garden for another ten minutes, trying to process what just
happened and failing miserably. Questions multiply in my head like cancer
cells, each one more troubling than the last. Who is she? How long have
they been together? Does she know about his offer to me?
And why do I care so much?
Because you’re already attached, the honest part of my brain admits.
It occurs to me that somewhere between discovering his secret room
and watching him fall apart in his sleep, I started wanting more than just a
business arrangement.
The realization should terrify me. Instead, it just makes me more
determined to understand what I’ve gotten myself into.
One thing is clear— I need to talk to Osip. Need to know exactly
what I’m agreeing to, and whether his personal life is going to complicate
an already impossible situation.
But first, I need to stop my hands from shaking and find a way to
wash the taste of that woman’s venom from my mouth.
Welcome to your new life, Ilona, I think grimly. Population: you, a
dangerous Russian businessman, and apparently his psychotic ex-girlfriend.
This is going to be interesting.
 Chapter Thirty-Eight
Osip

My coffee is growing cold as I review construction contracts for the

club renovations.
Numbers and timelines should occupy my thoughts, but my mind
keeps drifting to last night. For the first time in months, I slept through the
night without pills, without nightmares clawing me back to consciousness,
drenched in sweat and guilt.
Instead, I dreamed of soft hands on my skin, gentle whispers in the
darkness. Dreamed of Ilona curled beside me in my bed, her warmth
chasing away the ghosts that usually hunt me through sleep. The dream felt
so real I woke harder than steel, my body aching for something I can’t
allow myself to want.
Blyad.
The woman is already under my skin, and she hasn’t even started
carrying my child yet.
My phone buzzes with a message that makes my lips curl up with
satisfaction.
“Offer accepted.”
Two words that change everything. Ilona will carry my baby. Give
me the family that was stolen from me, the future I thought died with
Galina. It will give her the opportunity to have a child too, a child she
would not be able to have without medical treatment and close monitoring.
The relief flooding through me is so intense it’s almost painful.
“Tonight,” I decide. “Tonight I’ll go to her room and we’ll start this
properly.”
That’s when my office door explodes open without warning.
“Who the hell is this ‘new house manager’ of yours and why is she in
the garden sipping tea instead of working? Is that why you pay her?”
Anett storms into my space like a hurricane of platinum hair and
misplaced rage, her eyes blazing with the kind of fury that makes smart
men reach for weapons. She’s dressed to kill in some designer creation that
I probably paid for somehow, but all that expensive beauty can’t hide the
desperation radiating from her like heat from a nuclear reactor.
 I lean back in my leather chair, keeping my expression stone-cold
while violence builds in my chest like pressure in a boiler.
“Good morning to you too. May I ask what the fuck you’re doing
here?”
The security team is getting their asses fired. Anett shouldn’t be
anywhere near this property, let alone walking into my private office like
she owns the place.
“Don’t think I don’t know about your little girlfriend!” She advances
on my desk, manicured nails digging into expensive mahogany as she leans
forward with predatory intensity.
I furrow my brow, genuinely confused by her accusation. “My who?”
“That mousey bitch sitting in your garden like she belongs there! Are
you fucking her? Huh? Is that what you’ve been doing?” Her voice climbs
toward hysteria, each word dripping with the kind of acid that could strip
paint.
“That’s none of your business.” I stand slowly, letting my full height
and the violence in my posture speak for themselves. “In case you forgot,
we’re done. You shouldn’t even be here.”
But her words trigger something unexpected— a memory of the
dream that felt more real than waking. Ilona’s hands on my skin, her voice
whispering comfort in the darkness. The way peace settled into my bones
for the first time in far too long.
“Earth to Osip!” Anett’s shriek snaps me back to the present. “Are
you daydreaming about that little bitch of yours?”
Pizda!
The rage that floods my system is immediate and violent. Nobody—
nobody— talks about Ilona that way. The urge to wrap my hands around
Anett’s throat and squeeze until she understands respect is overwhelming.
“I won’t say it again, Anett.” My voice drops to a deadly tone.
“We’re done.”
“No!” The word comes out as a wail, her carefully constructed mask
finally cracking to reveal the frantic woman underneath. “You can’t just
throw me away like garbage! After everything I’ve given you, everything
we’ve shared—”
“What exactly have you given me?” I move around the desk,
towering over her. “Sex? Company when I was drunk enough to tolerate
your presence? You think that constitutes a relationship?”
 Her face crumples, tears streaming down cheeks that probably see
more maintenance than most people’s cars. “I love you, Osip. I’ve loved
you since the beginning, and you’re throwing it all away for some nobody!”
“You love what I can give you. The house, the money, the status, the
clothes.” I’m close enough now to see the calculation behind her tears, the
way she performs grief instead of feeling it. “You’ve never loved me, suka.
You don’t even know me.”
“That’s not true!” She lunges forward, pressing her body against
mine with desperate hunger. Her hands fist in my shirt, trying to pull me
down for a kiss that would taste like lies and manipulation. “Let me show
you how much I love you. Let me remind you what we have together.”
I catch her wrists before she can make contact, holding her at arm’s
length while disgust rolls through me in waves. The woman I once found
tolerable— barely— now repulses me on a molecular level.
“Nyet.” The refusal comes out flat, final. “Whatever we had is over.
Has been over since the moment you started making demands instead of
accepting what I was willing to give.”
“This is about her, isn’t it?” Anett’s voice turns venomous, all
pretense of love evaporating. “Your precious little housekeeper who’s got
you wrapped around her finger already. Do you think she actually cares
about you, or is she just grateful for the paycheck?”
The accusation hits too close to home, echoing doubts I don’t want to
acknowledge. But the memory of Ilona’s surrender burns away Anett’s
poison.
“Get out.” I release her wrists with enough force to send her
stumbling backward. “Security will take you to your car. If you ever set foot
on my property again, you’ll leave in a body bag.”
“You’re going to regret this!” Her beautiful face twists into
something ugly, all that expensive surgery unable to hide the rottenness
underneath. “When that little whore shows her true colors, when she takes
your money and disappears, you’ll come crawling back to me!”
“The only thing I regret is wasting months pretending you were
anything more than a convenient fuck.”
For a moment, she just stands there, mascara running in dark rivers
down her cheeks. Then her expression hardens into something I recognize
— the look of someone planning revenge.
 “This isn’t over, Osip.” Her voice is deadly quiet now, more
dangerous than her screaming. “You think you can just discard me like
trash? You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
“You have no idea what I’ve done to people who threaten me.” I
move to my desk, pressing the security button that will flood this room with
armed men. “Touch her, and I’ll make sure they never find your body.”
Anett stares at me for one more moment, probably weighing whether
her wounded pride is worth dying for. Whatever she sees in my expression
convinces her to back down.
“Stinking Russian pig! You were a lousy fuck, anyway,” she hisses,
then spins and storms toward the door.
She slams it with enough force to rattle the windows, the sound
echoing through my office. Her footsteps disappear down the hallway,
followed by the murmur of security voices as they escort her from the
premises.
I pour vodka with hands that are steadier than they have any right to
be, downing it in one burning gulp that does nothing to wash away the bitter
taste of confrontation. But underneath the frustration runs something else—
relief so profound it leaves me feeling lighter.
She’s out. Anett is finally out of my life, hopefully for good this time,
which means nothing stands between me and the future I’m building. No
complications, no jealous ex-girlfriends causing drama, no ghosts from
failed relationships.
Just me and the woman who’s going to carry my child.
The thought sends heat spiraling through my chest, anticipation
mixed with something deeper. Tonight, I’ll go to her room. Tonight, we’ll
start the process that will give us both what we want— her, the financial
security and chance at motherhood she’s been denied; me, the family I
thought I’d lost forever.
But first, I need to make sure security understands that Anett Kovács
is persona non grata. Permanently.
I reach for my phone, already planning the conversation that will
ensure today’s drama never repeats itself. Because if Anett thinks she can
interfere with what I’m building, she’s about to learn why crossing a
Sidorov is the last mistake she’ll ever make.
The baby project is moving forward. And nothing— not jealous ex-
lovers, not guilt from the past, not the weight of secrets I can never share—
will stop me from claiming the future I deserve.
Tonight, everything changes.
Tonight, I take the first step toward redemption wrapped in Ilona’s
willing surrender.
As for the dark secrets I’m keeping… I’ll have to live with them for
the rest of my life.
Because there are some things she can never find out about.
 Chapter Thirty-Nine
Ilona

The clock reads 9:17 p.m., and the house has settled into the kind of
quiet that feels almost sacred.
I’m curled up in my bed wearing my softest pajamas— gray cotton
shorts and a matching tank top that suddenly feels inadequate against the
evening chill. The book in my hands is supposed to be a distraction, some
romance novel I picked up months ago, but the words blur together on the
page.
My mind won’t stop churning.
That woman in the garden. Her eyes filled with rage, the way she
spat the word “slut” like it physically burned her tongue. The possessive
fury radiating from every inch of her designer-clad frame as she claimed
ownership over Osip.
Osip is mine.
Another wave of jealousy surges. Which is ridiculous. I have no
claim on him. This is business, nothing more. A surrogacy contract that will
solve my financial problems and give him the child he wants.
But then why does the thought of that platinum blonde beauty having
prior claim to his affections make me want to throw things?
I flip another page without reading it, my thoughts spiraling toward
the pregnant woman in the photograph. Galina. The serene expression, the
swell of her belly. Where is she now? Why does Osip keep her picture
beside his bed if he’s making surrogacy arrangements with me?
Everything about this situation feels complicated in ways I didn’t
anticipate when I sent that two-word text this morning.
Offer accepted.
Two words that seemed so simple, so clear-cut. Now doubt creeps
through me, making me question whether I’ve made a catastrophic mistake.
Maybe I should have demanded more information before agreeing.
Maybe I should have asked about ex-girlfriends and the ghosts that haunt
his sleep and why a man who clearly has a type— stunning, sophisticated
women— would choose someone like me for this arrangement.
The knock on my door stops my spiraling thoughts cold.
 Three sharp raps that sound more like a summon than a request. My
pulse jumps as I set the book aside, already knowing who’s on the other
side. There’s something about the way Osip knocks— authoritative,
impatient— that’s like a signature move.
I pad barefoot across the thick rug, hyperaware that I’m wearing next
to nothing. The pajamas felt modest enough when I put them on, but now
they seem almost indecent. The shorts barely cover my ass, and the tank top
clings to curves I’m suddenly self-conscious about.
When I open the door, my breath catches.
He looms over me, all broad shoulders and animal magneticism
wrapped in dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that hugs his torso in ways
that should be illegal. His hair is slightly mussed, like he’s been running his
fingers through it, and the shadow of stubble along his jaw makes him look
dangerous and sophisticated all at once.
But it’s his eyes that steal my breath— those steel-gray depths that
seem to pin me in place. They rake over my barely clothed form with an
intensity that makes my skin flush hot despite the evening chill.
“I think we must start putting things into action.” He gets straight to
the point, his voice low and husky with something that might be restraint.
He holds up a manila folder thick with papers. “Here’s the paperwork.”
Without waiting for permission, he steps into my room and moves to
the nightstand, setting the folder down with a deliberate motion. The casual
invasion of my space should annoy me— should trigger every boundary
I’ve tried to maintain since agreeing to this arrangement.
Instead, it makes me horny, because clearly I’m out of my mind.
Yup, all business again.
Not even a hint of romance.
The clinical way he’s handling this should be exactly what I want.
Businesslike distance, clear expectations, no messy emotions to complicate
an already impossible situation. But standing here in my pajamas, watching
him own my space with that quiet authority, all I can think about is how he
looked naked in moonlight, saying my name in his sleep.
“You can’t just walk into my room unannounced,” I start to protest,
but the words die in my throat as he turns to face me fully.
The air between us seems to heat. My body responds to his proximity
like it’s been programmed specifically for his frequency— nipples
tightening beneath thin cotton, pulse racing, every nerve ending suddenly
alive and hypersensitive.
He moves closer, slow and deliberate. The space between us shrinks
to inches, then less than inches, until I can feel the warmth of him against
my bare skin. The scent of him makes my head spin with want.
The tension stretches between us like a live wire, magnetic and
undeniable. His gray eyes drop to my lips, then back to my eyes, asking a
question I’m desperate to answer.
“Stop.” The word tears from my throat, taking every ounce of
willpower I possess to voice it. “We need to talk.”
He freezes, those sharp eyes searching my face for something I’m not
sure I want him to find. The disappointment that flickers across his features
is so brief I almost miss it, replaced quickly by careful neutrality.
“What about?” His voice is rougher now, affected despite his attempt
at control.
“The woman in the garden today.” I take a step back, needing
distance to think clearly. “The blonde who threatened to tear my hair out if
she ever sees me again.”
Something dangerous flickers in his expression— a flash of violence
so quick and deadly I’m reminded that this man is probably capable of
things I can’t even begin to imagine.
“You don’t need to worry about her anymore.”
The dismissive tone makes frustration spike through my chest.
“What do you mean? She called me a slut! She acted like she had
some kind of claim on you.”
“She doesn’t.” The words come out flat, final.
“But she used to?” I press, crossing my arms over my chest and
immediately regretting it when his gaze drops to follow the movement.
“Who is she, Osip?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and I can see the internal struggle
playing out behind his eyes. This man who radiates confidence in every
situation, looks genuinely uncomfortable with this conversation.
“Anett is my ex,” he says finally, the words seeming to cost him
something. “We broke up. She’s having trouble accepting that.”
“How long were you together?”
“A few months. It wasn’t serious.”
 “Serious enough that she thinks she can storm into your garden and
threaten your housekeeper.” I study his face, noting the way his jaw tightens
at the reminder. “Serious enough that she has access to the property.”
“Had access.” His voice carries an edge of steel that makes me
shiver. “Security has been… updated.”
The implication hangs between us— that whatever access Anett once
had has been permanently revoked. I should feel relieved, but instead I find
myself wondering what other women have had keys to this fortress of a
house.
“What about Galina?”
The question stops him cold. Every muscle in his powerful frame
goes rigid, and something raw and devastating flickers behind his carefully
constructed mask. The change is so dramatic it’s like watching a different
person emerge— one carrying wounds that haven’t begun to heal.
“What about her?” His voice is suddenly hoarse.
“The pregnant woman in the photograph beside your bed.” I force
myself to hold his gaze even though the pain in his eyes makes my chest
ache. “Where is she now?”
The silence stretches so long I start to think he won’t answer. When
he finally speaks, his voice is hollow, scraped raw.
“They’re gone.”
I pull in a sharp breath. “You mean…?”
I can’t finish the sentence because the look in his eyes tells me
everything I need to know. There’s a world of pain there, grief so profound
it seems to have carved permanent shadows beneath those sharp
cheekbones.
Oh my God.
Galina is dead.
And so is their baby.
“Oh God, Osip.” The words escape as a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
He doesn’t respond, just stands there like a statue carved from marble
and pain. But I can see the cracks in his armor now, the places where loss
has worn him down to something almost human.
Without thinking, I reach for him. My fingers find his hand, larger
and warmer than mine, scarred in places that tell of violence I don’t want to
imagine. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t move closer either. Just lets
me hold onto him like an anchor in whatever storm is raging inside his
head.
“That’s why you want a baby,” I say quietly, understanding flooding
through me. “You’re trying to replace what you lost.”
“Da.” The admission is soft, broken.
My heart breaks for him. For the man who carries this kind of grief
like a stone in his chest, who’s so desperate for family that he’d make
business arrangements with strangers rather than risk his heart again.
I step closer, bringing our joined hands up to rest against my chest.
“Osip, look at me.”
When those gray eyes finally meet mine, I see past the careful control
to the raw wound underneath. This isn’t just about wanting a child— it’s
about redemption, about building something clean from the ashes of
whatever destroyed his previous attempt at family.
“I’m not her,” I tell him gently. “I can’t replace what you lost.”
“I know.” His voice is rough, honest. “I don’t want you to be her.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications that go far
beyond surrogacy contracts and business arrangements. He stares at me for
a long moment, and I can see him wrestling with words he doesn’t know
how to voice.
“I want…” He stops, jaw working as he fights some internal battle. “I
want to try again. To build something that lasts. Something clean.”
The honesty in his voice breaks something open in my chest. This
man who projects such control, such calculated power, is asking for
something as simple and impossible as hope.
Without conscious thought, I rise up on my toes and press my lips to
his— soft, gentle, nothing like the passionate claiming from before. This
kiss tastes like comfort and promise, like understanding that doesn’t require
words.
He responds immediately, his free hand coming up to cup my face
with surprising tenderness. When we break apart, we’re both breathing
harder.
“The contract can wait,” I whisper against his lips.
“Can it?” There’s hunger in his voice now, desire that has nothing to
do with business arrangements and everything to do with this insane
attraction between us.
 “Tomorrow,” I tell him, meaning it. “Tonight, just be here with me.”
Something shifts in his expression— relief mixed with want so
intense it makes my knees weak. When he kisses me again, it’s with the
desperation of a man who’s been drowning and just found air.
And I kiss him back like I might be the one to save him.
 Chapter Forty
Osip

I’m a fucking idiot.

I can’t believe I told her about my family. About Galina. About the
baby we lost before he even had a chance to breathe. I’ve barely told
anything to my brothers— Melor knows the basics, Radimir suspects more
than he lets on, but the details? The sight of them wheeling her cooling
body away while my child died inside her?
Nyet.
Those wounds I keep buried deep, where they can’t destroy what’s
left of my sanity.
But with Ilona, it’s like I wanted to tell her everything. It was all I
could do to stop myself from telling her how Galina used to sing lullabies to
her belly, how we’d already picked out names, how I’d started building a
crib with my own hands because I wanted something pure in our child’s
life.
Something untainted by blood and violence.
What the fuck did I expect? I hired her as my housekeeper. I let her
into my room, my space, the sanctuary where I keep my ghosts. Of course
she saw the photo with a pregnant Galina. Of course she asked questions.
And now she knows. She knows I’m capable of care, of tenderness,
of dreams that extend beyond the next deal or the next kill. She knows I’m
not just a monster wearing a man’s face.
The thought should terrify me. In my world, vulnerability is death.
Showing weakness is like painting a target on your back and handing your
enemies the gun. But with Ilona…
Bozhe moy, with Ilona, I’m pulled to her so viscerally that I barely
recognize myself. It’s like some strange force has rewired my brain,
overriding every survival instinct I’ve spent years honing. I look at her and
logic leaves me. Reason becomes a foreign concept.
Perhaps it’s that pull that’s making me act so fucking reckless.
Despite any sense or reason, I keep drawing her closer when I should be
pushing her away. Keep sharing pieces of my soul when I should be
keeping her at arm’s length.
 And there’s something about the fact that I know she’s the girl from
Boston. Igor Shiradze’s daughter. The irony of it should make me laugh—
or reach for my gun. Instead, it feels like fate. Like some twisted god
decided that the daughter of the man I killed should be the one to resurrect
the parts of me I thought died a year ago.
She stands in front of me now, her lips red and swollen from the wild
kiss we shared moments ago. My mouth can still taste her— sweet honey
and desperate desire, innocence wrapped in awakening passion. Her
pajamas are thin cotton that clings to every curve, and I can see her erect
nipples pressing against the fabric, begging for my attention.
Fuck, she’s a goddamn vision. All golden hair and wide blue eyes,
looking at me like some kind of fucking angel.
I’m done for.
Completely, utterly done for.
The battle of wills I’ve been fighting since the moment I realized
she’s the Boston Scarlet Fox girl? I lost it the second she didn’t run when I
told her about Galina. When she looked at my pain and offered comfort
instead of judgment.
She doesn’t know the full truth and she never can— that I’m the one
who made her an orphan. But right now, in this moment, she’s looking at
me like I hung the fucking moon.
“Osip,” she whispers, and I feel myself weaken a little more.
I close the distance between us slowly, giving her time to change her
mind, to come to her senses and run like she should have weeks ago. But
she doesn’t move. If anything, she sways toward me.
“Milaya,” I murmur, framing her face with hands that have done
terrible things but somehow know how to be gentle with her. “You sure
about this?”
Her answer is to rise on her tiptoes and press her lips to mine, soft
and seeking. It’s different from our earlier kiss— less desperate, more
deliberate. Like she’s choosing me with full knowledge of what I am.
I deepen the kiss gradually, savoring the way she melts against me.
Her hands fist in my shirt, holding me close as I explore her mouth with
infinite care. This isn’t about conquest or possession. This is about
connection— something I thought I’d lost the capacity for.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Her eyes are dark
with desire, pupils dilated with want, and I’ve never seen anything more
beautiful in my life.
“I want you,” she says simply. No games, no coy seduction. Just
honest need that matches my own.
“Then you have me,” I tell her, meaning it in ways that terrify me.
“All of me, milaya.”
I lift her easily, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her to
the bed. But instead of the rough urgency that marked our encounters
before, I set her down gently, my hands skimming over her body like she’s
made of spun glass.
“It’s okay,” she says softly, her fingers tracing the tattoos on my
chest. “You won’t hurt me.” Her smile is soft, understanding.
But she’s wrong— I will hurt her, inevitably.
But I don’t say that. Instead, I kiss her again, pouring everything I
can’t say into the contact. My hands find the hem of her shirt, lifting it
slowly over her head and discarding it on the floor. She’s naked underneath,
pale skin and gentle curves, and I have to close my eyes for a moment to
steady myself.
When I open my eyes, she’s watching me with an expression I can’t
quite read. It’s so intense it makes me uncomfortable, so I turn my attention
back to the reason I came here.
I lay her back on the bed, taking my time to kiss every inch of
exposed skin. Her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, the flat plane of her
stomach. She arches beneath me, little sounds of pleasure escaping her lips,
and each one goes straight to my cock.
“I want to taste you,” I say as I take one nipple into my mouth,
sucking gently while my thumb circles the other. She gasps, her back
bowing off the bed, and I file away every response for future reference. Her
skin tastes like vanilla and something sweet and addictive.
“Osip, please,” she breathes, her hands threading through my hair.
“Patience, milaya,” I murmur against her breast. “I want to savor
this.”
My mouth continues its journey south, placing open-mouthed kisses
along her ribs, her hip bones, everywhere except where she needs me most.
She’s trembling with want, her breath coming in short pants, and I can smell
her arousal— heady and intoxicating.
When I finally settle between her thighs, she’s already wet for me,
glistening with desire. I place a gentle kiss on her inner thigh, then another,
working my way closer to her center with deliberate slowness.
“Ty prekrasna,” I whisper, my breath ghosting over her most
sensitive flesh. “So fucking beautiful.”
With my thumbs, I spread the slick lips of her pussy wide, baring her
to me completely. The first touch of my tongue against her entrance makes
her cry out, her hips lifting off the bed. I hold her steady, licking and
sucking with careful attention to her responses. She tastes like honey and
salt, like coming home, and I could spend hours just here, just this.
Her fingers tighten in my hair as I find the rhythm that makes her
writhe. I slide two fingers inside her, curling them to hit her G-spot while
my tongue works her clit. She’s tight and hot around my fingers, her body
already starting to flutter with the approach of her orgasm.
“That’s it,” I encourage, my voice rough with desire. “Let me drink
you in.”
Her orgasm hits her like a tidal wave, her back lifting from the bed as
she cries out my name. I work her through it, gentling my touch as the
waves subside, pressing soft kisses to her thighs as she comes down.
When she can speak again, she reaches for me, her eyes dark with
renewed desire. “I need you inside me,” she whispers. “Please, Osip.”
I tug my sweater over my head, then shed my remaining clothes
quickly, my cock hard and aching from watching her fall apart under my
mouth. From the taste of her still coating my face. But when I settle
between her thighs, I go slow, entering her inch by careful inch, watching
her face.
She’s perfect— tight and wet, like a warm haven around my cock.
When I’m fully seated inside her, I stop, just breathing her in.
“Nebesa. You feel like heaven,” I tell her, meaning every word.
Her answer is to lift her hips, taking me deeper, and I groan at the
sensation. I start to move slowly, each thrust deliberate and deep, our eyes
locked together. This isn’t fucking— it’s something more. Something that
scares me. Something I don’t want to put a name to.
She wraps her legs around my waist, her hands frame my face,
thumbs stroking over my cheekbones as I move inside her.
“Good… that’s so good,” she says quietly, her breath catching as I
roll my hips and touch all those spots inside her.
Our rhythm builds slowly, a dance as old as time but somehow brand
new between us. She meets me thrust for thrust, her body moving in perfect
harmony with mine. The room fills with the sounds of our breathing, our
whispered endearments, the slick slide of skin against skin.
When the walls of her pussy start to tighten and squeeze around me, I
know she’s close. I reach between us, circling her clit with my thumb as I
maintain the steady rhythm that’s driving us both toward the edge.
“Come with me,” I murmur against her lips. “Come with me,
milaya.”
Her second orgasm triggers my own, and I empty myself inside her
with a groan that rips from my chest. We cling to each other as the waves
crash over us, holding tight like we’re afraid the other might disappear. I’ve
spilled my seed inside her before, but now, with all that’s at stake, the urge
to fill her with every last drop feels like some kind of primal need. I don’t
pull out until my balls feel wrung out. Until every last pulse of my shaft
slowly subsides.
Afterward, I gather her against my chest, her head pillowed on my
shoulder as our breathing slowly returns to normal. Her fingers splay across
my chest, and I press a kiss to the top of her head.
“No regrets?” I ask quietly.
She tilts her head to look at me, her eyes soft with satisfaction and
something deeper. “None. You?”
“None,” I lie, because the only regret I have is that this perfect
moment exists on borrowed time.
But for now, she’s here in my arms, warm and trusting and mine.
For now, that’s enough.
It has to be.
 Chapter Forty-One
Ilona

I wake up in a golden haze that feels almost dreamlike.

I’m still wrapped in the soft sheets, my body humming with a
satisfaction so deep it feels like it’s rewired my nervous system. Every
nerve ending is still singing from last night— from Osip’s hands, his mouth,
the way he consumed me like I was his last meal.
God, what did he do to me?
I stretch, feeling the delicious ache between my thighs, the tender
spots where his fingers gripped my flesh, where his teeth marked my
shoulder. My skin still carries the phantom heat of his touch, and I can’t
stop the smile that curves my lips. Best sex of my life doesn’t even begin to
cover what happened last night.
But then reality comes crashing back.
The contract.
The papers I signed with a trembling hand while my body was still
buzzing from orgasm after orgasm. Five hundred thousand. For six months
of… this. Of being his. But not his.
What the fuck did I just do?
I sit up abruptly. The weight of what I’ve agreed to settles on my
chest like a stone. I sold myself. There’s no pretty way to dress it up, no
romantic spin that makes it anything other than what it is. I’m a kept
woman now. His kept woman.
The butterflies in my stomach feel more like ravens now, dark and
ominous.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, cutting through my spiraling
thoughts. Mom’s name flashes on the screen, and I almost let it go to
voicemail. Almost. But guilt wins out— it always does with her.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Ilona, sweetheart.” Her voice carries that forced cheerfulness that
means she’s been crying. “I have news about your father.”
My stomach plummets. “What kind of news?”
“I spoke to a private investigator yesterday. A really good one—
acclaimed, with connections everywhere in the world. He thinks he can help
us find out what really happened to your father.”
The hope in her voice is like a knife twisting in my chest. “That’s…
that’s wonderful, Mom. What did he say?”
“Well, he needs a retainer. Twenty-five thousand to start, and then
more, depending on what he finds.” Her voice cracks slightly. “I know it’s a
lot of money. Even with my new job, I can’t… I just can’t afford it right
now.”
Twenty-five thousand?
The irony is almost laughable. I have access to more money than I’ve
ever dreamed of, sitting in an account that will be mine tomorrow. Money
I’ve traded my soul for.
The urge to tell her everything— about the contract, about Osip,
about the fact that I can solve this problem with a single phone call—
suddenly burns in my throat. But I can’t. Won’t. She’d think I’m some kind
of high-end escort, selling my body for money. And maybe… maybe she
wouldn’t be entirely wrong.
“Please, Mom,” I manage, my voice surprisingly steady. “Leave it to
me. I’ll take care of everything.”
“But honey, how can you possibly—?”
“I said I’ll handle it.” The sharpness in my tone makes me wince. “I
have some savings, and I can figure out the rest. This is important. Dad
deserves the truth.”
There’s a long pause on the other end. When Mom speaks again, her
voice is smaller, more fragile.
“Ilona, you know I never believed it was suicide. Not for a second.”
My throat tightens. “I know, Mom.” It’s not the first time we’ve had
this conversation. She can’t let it go. I can’t either.
“Your father was… he was struggling with something near the end.
Something he couldn’t tell me about. But suicide?” She lets out a bitter
laugh. “The man who used to lecture me about wearing my seatbelt, who
made me promise to never walk alone after dark? He would never have
done that. Never.”
The pain in her voice mirrors the ache in my chest, but I don’t say
anything. I’d just be repeating what we’ve both said a thousand times.
“The police barely investigated,” Mom continues, her voice gaining
strength as anger overtakes grief. “Ruled it suicide within forty-eight hours.
Case closed. But there were too many things that didn’t add up. We’d been
talking about taking a walk through Blue Hills that weekend. He’d made
plans for the following week— bought tickets to that medical conference in
Philadelphia, already paid for the hotel. Why would he do that if he didn’t
intend to be around? Why, Ilona?”
I rub the ache that’s forming in the center of my forehead. We’ve
been over this ground a thousand times, but hearing it again only reinforces
what we both know: none of this makes sense.
“This investigator,” I say, my voice thick with unshed tears. “He
really thinks he can find something?”
“He has contacts in Moscow, in the Russian medical community. He
thinks Dad might have been involved in something… something that got
him killed.”
Involved in something…
The words are heavy with implication. What could my father—
gentle, healing hands that brought babies into the world— have possibly
been involved in that would get him murdered?
“Ilona, I’m worried about you. You sound different. Are you okay? Is
everything alright in Budapest?”
The sudden change of subject takes me a moment to process.
“I… uh… Everything’s fine, Mom. I just… I have to go. I’ll call you
soon, okay?”
“Wait, honey—”
“I love you, Mom. We’re going to find out what happened to him. I
promise.”
I hang up before she can protest, my hands shaking as I set the phone
down, avoiding questions I can’t answer. Questions that would lead to more
questions, and more lies, until the web becomes so tangled I can’t find my
way out.
Twenty-five thousand dollars to find my father’s killer.
The thought sits in my mind like a poisonous seed, growing roots. I
have the money now— or I will, as soon as the contract is fully executed.
But then another thought strikes me: Jason. My former boss Jason
Mulholland. He’d been my anchor during those terrible weeks after Dad’s
death, the one person who’d looked me in the eye and said what everyone
else was too polite to voice: this stinks to high heaven.
My fingers are already dialing his number before I’ve fully made the
decision.
 “Ilona.” His voice is warm with genuine pleasure, that familiar
gravelly tone that used to calm me down when cases got too heated. “How
are you holding up, kiddo?”
The nickname gives me a sudden rush of comfort. Like maybe I’m
doing the right thing.
“I’m…” I pause, trying to figure out how to explain without
explaining. “I’m surviving. But Jason, I need to ask you something. About
Dad.”
The warmth in his voice shifts, becoming more focused. More
professional. “What about him?”
“I want to hire a private investigator. Someone good. Someone who
can dig into what really happened.”
There’s a long pause, and I can picture him in his office— probably
leaning back in his chair, running his hand through his silver hair while he
processes. He’d stepped down as captain shortly after I left, but I know he’s
still involved in investigations, and I doubt he’d ever be able to slide totally
into retirement.
“Ilona, we’ve been over this. The Boston PD—”
“Did a terrible job.” The words come out sharply. “They asked a few
questions, got the official suicide ruling, and called it a day. You know it, I
know it, and anyone with half a brain who looked at that case file knows it.”
Another pause. When Jason speaks again, his voice has that edge I
remember from when he was interrogating suspects who weren’t being
entirely truthful.
“What’s brought this on? It’s been a year since your father died. Why
now?”
“I can afford it now,” I say. “I’ve been saving, and I finally have
enough to do this properly.”
“Ilona.” His voice softens, taking on that paternal tone that used to
make me feel like everything was going to be okay. “I know you loved your
father. I know you need answers. But you also need to be careful about
opening old wounds. Sometimes the truth is worse than not knowing.”
“I can handle the truth.”
“Can you? Because from where I’m sitting, you sound like someone
who’s been through enough already. When you left Boston…” He trails off,
and I know he’s thinking about Stanley.
 “That’s exactly why I need this,” I say, surprised by the steadiness in
my own voice. “I need to know that someone who mattered to me didn’t
just give up. And if someone did this to him, I need to know that they won’t
just get away with it.”
The silence stretches between us.
“Alright,” he says finally. “But not some stranger with fancy
credentials who’s going to take your money and feed you false hope.”
My heart jumps. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I’ll do it myself.”
I feel a flood of gratitude that’s probably unreasonable. “Jason, you
can’t—”
“Why can’t I? I’m semi-retired, not dead. Still got my license, still
got connections throughout the department. And more importantly, I knew
your father. I liked him. He deserved better than what he got.”
Tears threaten, and I have to swallow hard before I can speak. “You’d
really do that?”
“Already decided to, kiddo. Soon as you started asking questions.
Been thinking about your father’s case for months now, actually. Something
about it never sat right with me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the whole investigation was rushed. Sloppy. Your father’s
death gets called in, and within hours they’re already talking suicide. No
real examination of the scene, no follow-up on his recent activities.” Jason’s
voice turns grim. “Hell, they barely interviewed you and your mother.
That’s not how we handle suspicious deaths.”
My breath catches. “You think someone influenced the
investigation?”
“I think someone wanted that case closed fast and clean. No
questions asked, no loose ends to tie up.”
Rage burns through me, hot and clean. “You’re saying the police
were bought off?”
“I’m saying there were pressures I didn’t understand at the time.
Phone calls from downtown. Orders to wrap things up quickly and move on
to other cases.” His voice hardens. “Your father was involved in something
before he died, Ilona. Something that may have gotten him killed.”
I close my eyes, feeling tears threaten. “Thank you. God, Jason,
thank you.”
 “Don’t thank me yet. This kind of thing… when corruption goes that
deep, when people with real power want something buried…” His voice
trails off. “Are you prepared for what we might find? And are you prepared
for the possibility that whoever killed your father might not want us digging
around?”
Am I?
“Yes,” I lie before I could second-guess myself. “I need to know the
truth.”
“Alright then. We’ll find it. But Ilona?” His voice turns serious again.
“I want you to promise me something. If I find anything that suggests you
might be in danger— if your father’s enemies are still out there— you’ll let
me protect you. No arguments, no heroics. You’ll trust me to keep you
safe.”
The promise sits heavy on my tongue. “I promise.”
“Good girl. Now, I need you to send me everything you have— death
certificates, police reports, anything your mother might have kept. I’m
going to start by reviewing the original case file, see what details got
conveniently overlooked.”
After we hang up, I sit in silence, staring at my phone. In less than
twenty-four hours, I’ve signed away nine months of my life to a man who
might be more dangerous than I can imagine, and now I’m about to use his
money to expose some potentially dangerous secrets.
The butterflies in my stomach have definitely turned into ravens now,
circling carrion.
But there’s no going back. The contract is signed, the money will
transfer, and Jason will start digging into my father’s death.
What the hell have you gotten myself into, Ilona?
Are you ready to find what’s at the end of this?
To be completely honest, I don’t think I am.
But it’s too late to back out now.
 Chapter Forty-Two
Ilona

Three weeks.
It’s been three weeks of living in this gilded cage, and I’m starting to
lose track of where the contract ends and something else begins.
This morning finds me sprawled across Osip’s Egyptian cotton
sheets, my body humming with bliss and soreness in equal measure. The
man is insatiable— and apparently, so am I. What started as clinical
encounters “for the baby” has morphed into something that feels
dangerously close to addiction.
The kitchen counter. The marble-tiled shower. The antique bathtub
with the gold fixtures. We’ve christened every surface in this house, and
each time I tell myself it’s just biology, just hormones, just the contract we
signed. But the way he looks at me afterward— like he’s seeing something
that surprises him— suggests we’re both lying to ourselves.
Neither of us has addressed what’s happening between us. The shift
from transactional to… whatever this is. Maybe we’re both too afraid to
name it.
The money appeared in my account exactly when he promised it
would. Five hundred thousand euros, sitting there like proof of what I’ve
become. I’ve already sent Jason the retainer for Dad’s investigation, and the
relief in Mom’s voice when I called to tell her we could afford the best help
available almost made the shame worth it.
Almost.
Dr. Varga— the gynecologist Osip has arranged for— has also been a
godsend. He’s discreet, professional, thorough. His team of specialists
examined every aspect of my health, they’re monitoring my endometriosis,
adjusting medications, ensuring my body is ready for pregnancy. Osip treats
me like I’m a porcelain doll, which is both comforting and slightly
suffocating.
But this morning, for the third day in a row, my happy sex buzz
morphs into a familiar clench in my stomach.
The nausea hits before I’m fully conscious— a rolling, acidic wave
that sends me lurching toward the bathroom. I barely make it to the toilet
before my body rebels, retching up nothing but bitter yellow liquid since I
haven’t eaten anything since yesterday evening.
My knees hit the bathroom floor hard, hands braced against the tiles
as my stomach contracts again and again. Each heave sends fire up my
throat, and by the time it’s over, I’m shaking and sweating despite the cool
morning air.
This is the third morning.
Three days of waking up like I’ve been poisoned.
I slump back against the marble wall, pressing my palms against my
temples. It can’t be pregnancy— too early for that, even with how…
dedicated Osip and I have been to fulfilling the contract. My endometriosis
has never caused this kind of violent nausea before, but maybe the stress of
everything— the contract, the money, the investigation, living in this
strange limbo— is making it worse.
Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe it’s just my body rejecting
this life I’ve stumbled into. Maybe it’s guilt, manifesting physically.
I rinse my mouth at the sink, brushing my teeth and pushing lank hair
out of my face. I feel like absolute shit.
At least I have the appointment with Dr. Varga later today. He’ll run
tests, adjust my medications, maybe give me something for the nausea.
He’ll fix this like he’s been fixing everything else— quietly, efficiently,
without judgment.
I head back to bed carefully, not wanting to wake Osip. He’s been
working longer hours lately, taking calls at all hours in rapid-fire Russian
that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Whatever business
he’s conducting, it’s not the kind that gets discussed over morning coffee.
I manage to sleep fitfully, exhausted enough that I don’t notice when
Osip gets up and leaves the bedroom. It’s always like that; the nights filled
with untold pleasure before we lapse back into that strange emotional void
during the day.
An hour later, I’m dressed and ready to head into the city. I need to
pick up a few things before my appointment— more comfortable clothes in
anticipation of when my body might start changing, some vitamins Dr.
Varga recommended, maybe something to settle my stomach. These
shopping trips have become my small rebellion against the golden cage, my
chance to feel normal for a few hours.
 Osip is still locked away in his office when I walk by, voice raised in
what sounds like an argument. I can hear fragments through the heavy door
— something about schedules and security and someone being “sloppy.” I
don’t knock. Some conversations are clearly not meant for me.
The car he bought me sits gleaming in the driveway— a sleek Jaguar
that’s more luxurious than anything I ever thought I’d drive. I run my
fingers along the hood before getting in, still not quite believing it’s mine.
Everything about my new life feels like borrowed clothes that don’t quite
fit.
The engine purrs to life, smooth and responsive. I adjust the mirrors,
buckle my seatbelt, and pull out of the circular driveway with the cautious
precision of someone who’s still afraid of scratching something worth more
than a small house.
For the first few minutes of the drive, everything feels normal. The
car glides over the smooth roads of Buda Hills like it’s floating, the steering
responsive to the slightest touch. I’m getting used to this— the luxury, the
effortless power under the hood, the way other drivers give me more space
when they see the Jaguar emblem.
Then I feel it.
A subtle tug to the left, so slight I almost dismiss it as my
imagination. But then it happens again— the steering wheel pulling gently
in my hands like something is drawing the car off course. I tighten my grip,
correcting automatically, but the pulling sensation persists.
My heart starts beating faster.
The vibration comes next— a faint tremor through the steering wheel
that travels up my arms. It’s rhythmic, matching the rotation of the wheels,
and it’s getting stronger. The car that was gliding smoothly moments ago
now feels like it’s fighting against itself.
I ease off the accelerator, hands sweating as I grip the wheel tighter.
The pull to the left becomes more insistent, and I have to actively steer right
just to keep the car going straight. The vibration intensifies until my whole
body is trembling with it.
Something is very, very wrong.
The engine sounds fine— still purring with that expensive
smoothness— but the car feels like it’s coming apart underneath me. Every
instinct I have is screaming at me to get off the road before whatever’s
happening gets worse.
 I spot a small parking area beside a café and signal carefully, fighting
the Jaguar’s violent tendency to veer left as I maneuver into a space. My
hands are shaking so badly I have trouble turning off the engine.
The sudden silence feels ominous. No more purring engine, no more
vibration— just the rapid sound of my own breathing and the distant hum of
traffic on the main road.
I climb out on unsteady legs and walk around to the front of the car.
I’m no mechanic— can barely check my own oil— but even I can see that
something is wrong with the left front wheel. It’s sitting at an angle that
doesn’t match the right side, like the whole assembly has shifted somehow.
My phone is in my hand before I fully decide to call him.
“Ilona.” Osip’s voice is clipped, distracted. I can hear him typing in
the background.
“Something’s wrong with the car. I think there’s a problem with the
front wheel.”
The typing stops. “Where are you?”
“About three kilometers from the house, near that little café on Váci
Road.”
“Don’t move. Don’t get back in the car. I’m sending someone.”
The line goes dead, leaving me standing alone beside the vehicle,
suddenly feeling very small and very exposed.
Twenty minutes later, a tow truck rumbles into the parking area,
followed by a compact white van. A man climbs out of the van— broad-
shouldered and weathered, with oil-stained hands and the kind of face that’s
seen every automotive problem imaginable.
He nods to me briefly before crouching beside the front wheel, his
movements deliberate and professional. I watch from what feels like a safe
distance as he runs his hands along the tire, then peers underneath the car
with a small flashlight.
His expression grows increasingly grim.
“You hit something today?” he asks, straightening up and wiping his
hands on a rag. His English is heavily accented but clear. “Big pothole,
maybe? Curb?”
“No, nothing like that.” My voice sounds thin, nervous. “I was just
driving normally and it started pulling to one side.”
He crouches down again, this time focusing on something I can’t see
underneath the car. When he emerges, his face is troubled.
 “Come here,” he says, gesturing for me to join him. “I show you
something.”
I approach reluctantly, not sure I want to see whatever he’s found.
He points to a series of bolts near the wheel assembly. “These should
be tight. Very tight. But look—” He touches one with his finger, and I can
see it move slightly. “These don’t come loose by themselves. Someone
loosened these. Not all the way, but enough.”
My mouth goes dry. “Loosened them?”
“Yes. Is not accident.” He shakes his head, expression serious.
“These bolts, they don’t come loose by themselves,” he repeats. “Someone
used wrench on them. Made them just loose enough that driving would
make them worse.”
He stands up, brushing dirt off his knees. “You drive maybe ten,
fifteen more kilometers? At highway speed?” He makes a gesture with his
hands— something breaking apart, scattering. “Wheel come off. Very
dangerous.”
The parking lot seems to spin around me. “You’re saying someone
did this on purpose?”
“Is what I’m saying, yes.” He looks troubled, like this isn’t the kind
of problem he usually encounters. “I fix for now, but I report to Mr.
Sidorov. He needs to know someone tampered with his car.”
His car.
Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? It’s not really mine— nothing in
this new life is really mine. I’m just borrowing everything until the contract
expires.
Or until someone kills me, apparently.
The mechanic works efficiently, tightening the bolts with a torque
wrench and checking every other component he can reach. I stand there
feeling exposed and vulnerable, scanning the café and the street beyond
for… what? Someone watching? Someone waiting to see if their sabotage
worked?
“Is good now,” he says finally, loading his tools back into the van.
“But you be careful, yes? Someone who does this…” He shakes his head.
“They try again.”
The mechanic drives away, leaving me standing in the parking lot
with a car that’s been sabotaged and a mind that won’t stop racing.
Someone just tried to kill me.
 The words echo in my head, surreal and terrifying. Three weeks ago,
I was a broke digital nomad whose biggest issue was paying the rent. Now
I’m standing beside a luxury car that someone has deliberately sabotaged,
in a country where I barely speak the language, funded by money that came
from… what exactly? While planning to have the baby of a Russian
“businessman” of dubious background.
How the hell did I get here?
I check my watch. Ten-thirty. I have an hour and a half before my
appointment with Dr. Varga, but the thought of sitting in some café,
pretending to be normal while my hands shake around a coffee cup, feels
impossible.
I climb back into the Jaguar still shaken, hyperaware of every sound
the engine makes as I start it. The mechanic said it was safe now, but how
can I trust that? How can I trust anything?
The drive toward the city center becomes an exercise in paranoia. I
check the mirrors obsessively, noting every car that seems to maintain the
same distance behind me. A black sedan stays three cars back for several
blocks before turning off, and my heart races until it’s gone. A motorcycle
passes me on the left, and I tense until the rider disappears around a curve.
Is this what Dad felt like in those final weeks? This constant looking
over his shoulder, this sense of invisible enemies closing in?
Jason’s warning feels more urgent now.
Are you prepared for the possibility that whoever killed your father
might not want us digging around?
But which daughter are they after? The one who’s funding an
investigation into her father’s death? Or the one who’s sharing a bed with a
man whose business dealings are conducted in whispered Russian behind
closed doors? Which role would put a target on my back?
Maybe both.
I think about the money sitting in my account— five hundred
thousand Euros that appeared with suspicious efficiency. Money that’s
already flowing to Jason, funding his investigation into a death that
powerful people wanted buried. What if those same people are watching
me, tracking every transaction, every phone call, every move I make?
I park outside a small boutique in downtown Pest, but I don’t get out
immediately. Instead, I sit there scanning the street, looking for anything
that seems out of place. A man in a dark coat reading a newspaper at a café
table. A woman with sunglasses despite the cloudy sky. A van parked with
its engine running.
Everything looks normal.
Everything looks suspicious.
I force myself to get out of the car and walk into the boutique, but my
skin crawls with the feeling of being watched. The saleswoman greets me
with a smile, and I manage to browse through racks of maternity clothes,
but my attention keeps drifting to the window, to the street beyond, to
shadows that might hide threats.
I buy a few things without really looking at them, almost dropping
Osip’s credit card as I hand it over. The saleswoman doesn’t seem to notice
my distress, chattering pleasantly in Hungarian-accented English about the
lovely weather and how exciting it must be to be expecting.
Expecting.
I’m sure it’s too early for that but how will it feel when that becomes
a reality?
Back on the street, every face in the crowd seems potentially
dangerous. That man in the business suit— is he walking too close? The
teenager on the bicycle— is she circling back around the block? The elderly
woman feeding pigeons— is she watching me from the corner of her eye?
I duck into a pharmacy and buy vitamins I don’t read the labels of,
antacids I’m not sure will help, anything to keep moving, to avoid standing
still long enough for someone to get a clear shot or plant another device or
do whatever it is that people who sabotage cars do next.
I’m not cut out for this cloak and dagger shit, dammit.
My phone buzzes with a text from Dr. Varga’s office, confirming my
appointment. The normalcy of it— the professional courtesy, the routine
medical care— feels surreal against the backdrop of my paranoia.
I check my watch again. Still forty-five minutes until I can sit in Dr.
Varga’s office and pretend that my biggest concern is unexplained nausea
and endometriosis medication.
But what if whoever tried to kill me knows about the appointment?
What if they’re waiting for me there, in the parking garage or the elevator
or the sterile hallway outside his office?
What if nowhere is safe anymore?
 Chapter Forty-Three
Ilona

By eleven-thirty, I’ve given up on shopping entirely.

My hands won’t stop shaking, and every stranger on the street feels
like a potential threat. The boutique bags sit in my car— evidence of a
normal afternoon that turned into something from a nightmare.
But I still have thirty minutes before my appointment with Dr. Varga,
and the thought of sitting in the car, watching shadows and jumping at
every sound, feels unbearable. There’s a café across from his clinic— one
of those sleek, expensive places with tall windows and baristas who treat
coffee like an art form.
Zsolnay Café. The kind of place where Budapest’s elite come to see
and be seen. And it seems like a highly unlikely place for anyone planning
an assassination.
I order a cappuccino and find a table near the back, positioning
myself so I can see both the entrance and the street beyond. The coffee is
perfect— rich and smooth with that bitter edge that makes everything else
seem more manageable.
For a few minutes, I almost feel normal. The café buzzes with quiet
conversation in Hungarian and a smattering of German, punctuated by the
gentle hiss of the espresso machine. A businessman reads his paper over a
cup of coffee. Two women laugh over shared pastries, their designer
handbags positioned in just the right place to be seen.
This is what money buys— the illusion of safety, of normalcy, of
belonging somewhere beautiful.
Then I see him.
A man at the counter, waiting for an order. Dark blond hair, broad
shoulders, the kind of athletic build that comes from expensive gym
memberships and personal trainers. He’s facing away from me, but
something about the way he holds himself, the particular set of his
shoulders…
My blood turns to ice.
Stanley?
 The coffee cup freezes halfway to my lips. It can’t be him. It’s
impossible. I’m in Budapest, thousands of miles from Boston, living a life
he knows nothing about. Why would Stanley Morrison be in a café across
from my doctor’s office?
The man turns slightly, and I catch a glimpse of his profile. The sharp
jawline, the perfect symmetry of features that used to make my heart race
and later made my skin crawl.
It is him.
Or is it?
My mind feels foggy, unreliable. Maybe the stress and paranoia are
making me see threats that don’t exist. Maybe every blond man with a gym
body looks like my ex-boyfriend when I’m this terrified.
The man collects his coffee and heads toward the exit without turning
fully around. I strain to see his face clearly, but he’s moving too quickly,
and the early afternoon light streaming through the windows creates
shadows that obscure his features.
By the time I think to follow him, he’s gone.
I sit there staring at the empty doorway, my cappuccino growing cold
in front of me. Stanley Morrison. The man who controlled almost every
aspect of my life for eighteen months. Who cheated on me, then somehow
made it my fault. Who made me doubt myself whenever I asked for
empathy.
But that’s impossible. Stanley is part of my past— a toxic chapter I
closed when I got out of Boston. He has no reason to be in Budapest, no
way of knowing where I am or what I’m doing.
Unless…
What if the car sabotage wasn’t random? What if it wasn’t connected
to Osip’s world or my father’s investigation? What if Stanley found me,
followed me across an ocean, and decided that if he couldn’t have me, no
one could?
But how? How would he even know where to look?
And why would he go to such lengths?
You’re just nuts, Ilona!
There’s no way my narcissistic ex-boyfriend would travel all this
way just to get back at me.
I force myself to finish the coffee, my hands trembling around the
delicate porcelain cup. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t have been. I’m letting
paranoia put crazy thoughts in my head, that’s all.
Besides, I have bigger things to worry about. Like whatever Dr.
Varga is going to tell me about the nausea that’s been plaguing me for three
days straight. I empty my cup, get the check and head across the road to the
medical suites.
Dr. Varga’s office is everything a private medical practice should be
— pristine white walls, expensive equipment that gleams under soft
lighting, the kind of furniture that whispers discretion and competence. He
greets me with his usual warm professionalism, though I catch him studying
my face with concern.
“You look tired, Ilona. Are you sleeping well?”
“Not particularly.” I settle into the examination chair, trying to push
thoughts of Stanley and sabotaged cars to the back of my mind. “I’ve been
having some… stomach issues. Nausea, mostly. Three mornings in a row
now.”
His expression shifts subtly— not concern, exactly, but heightened
attention. “I see. And when was your last menstrual period?”
The question catches me off guard. I have to think, counting back
through weeks that feel like months. Between the contract signing, the
constant physical encounters with Osip, and the stress of my new life, my
body’s rhythms have become background noise.
“About… five weeks ago? Maybe six?” The realization hits me as I
say it. “But that’s not unusual for me. The endometriosis makes everything
irregular.”
Dr. Varga nods, making notes in his tablet. “Of course. But given the
circumstances of your… arrangement… I think we should run a few tests.
Just to be thorough.”
The blood draw is routine, professional. Dr. Varga chatters pleasantly
about the weather, about Budapest’s beautiful autumn, about anything
except what we’re both thinking. I stare at the ceiling and try not to wonder
if the man in the café was really Stanley or just a stranger who happened to
share his particular brand of arrogant confidence.
“I’ll have results in just a few minutes,” Dr. Varga says, pressing a
cotton ball to the needle site. “Modern technology is quite remarkable.”
Those few minutes stretch like hours. I sit in the examination room,
listening to the muffled sounds of the clinic beyond the door, trying to
prepare myself for whatever news is coming. More medication for my
endometriosis. A different approach to managing the nausea. Maybe a
recommendation for stress management, given everything that’s happened
today.
When Dr. Varga returns, his expression is carefully neutral— the
practiced face of someone who’s delivered shocking news before.
“Well, Ilona,” he says, settling into his chair with deliberate calm. “I
have your results.”
Something in his tone makes my heart skip. “And?”
“You’re pregnant. Almost four weeks along.”
The world stops.
Actually stops, like someone hit a cosmic pause button and
everything— my heartbeat, my breathing, the distant hum of traffic outside
— freezes in place.
“Pregnant?” The word feels foreign in my mouth, impossible. “Are
you sure?”
“Quite sure. Your hormone levels are consistent with early
pregnancy, and given the timing…” He smiles, the professional mask
slipping to reveal genuine warmth. “Congratulations. Everything looks
perfectly healthy.”
Pregnant.
I’m pregnant.
The words echo in my head, bouncing around like pinballs, refusing
to settle into anything resembling coherent thought. This is what we wanted
— what the contract was for, what all the planning and medical
examinations and careful timing was meant to achieve.
But somehow, I never really believed it would happen. Not to me.
Not to someone whose body has spent years fighting against conception,
whose health issues have made pregnancy feel like a distant impossibility.
“Ilona? Are you alright?”
Dr. Varga’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. I realize
I’m crying— silent tears streaming down my cheeks without any conscious
decision to cry.
“I’m…” I wipe my face with trembling hands. “I’m fine. Just…
overwhelmed.”
“That’s perfectly normal. This is life-changing news.”
Life-changing.
He has no idea.
 I stumble through the rest of the consultation on autopilot. Dr. Varga
prescribes prenatal vitamins, schedules follow-up appointments, gives me
pamphlets about early pregnancy care that I clutch tightly. He talks about
nutrition and exercise and avoiding alcohol, his voice a steady anchor in the
storm of my thoughts.
“The nausea should improve in a few weeks,” he says as I prepare to
leave. “Morning sickness is quite common, especially in the first trimester.
It’s actually a good sign— indicates healthy hormone levels.”
Morning sickness. The phrase takes on new meaning now. Not a
symptom of stress or endometriosis or guilt, but evidence of the tiny life
growing inside me.
A baby.
My baby.
I make it to the parking garage before the full weight of it hits me. I
sink into the driver’s seat of the Jaguar— the car that someone tried to turn
into my coffin just hours ago— and let the reality wash over me.
I’m pregnant.
After convincing myself it might never happen, after all the
medications and treatments and desperate hope, it’s happened. And if I’m
already nearly four weeks along, that must mean I conceived practically the
first time we… did it.
There’s a flutter of pure joy in my chest, bright and fierce and
unexpected. A tiny cluster of cells that’s somehow already the most
important thing in my world. I press my hand to my still-flat stomach and
feel something shift inside me— not physically, but emotionally.
Protectively.
This baby is mine. Whatever the contract says, whatever
arrangements have been made, this life growing inside me belongs to me.
And then reality hits.
Surrogate mother.
That’s what I am. That’s what I signed up for. This baby— my baby
— isn’t really mine at all. He or she belongs to Osip Sidorov, to fulfill some
need I don’t fully understand, part of a business arrangement I entered into
out of desperation. This isn’t some great love affair. We are not going to be
a family.
Forget about romance, Ilona.
It’s just business.
 But the flutter in my chest says otherwise. The way my hand
instinctively curves protectively over my stomach says otherwise. The
sudden, fierce need to keep this baby safe says otherwise, too.
I sit in the parking garage, surrounded by concrete and the echoes of
car engines, and try to figure out how to reconcile the contract I signed with
the love that’s already blooming inside me.
How do you give away a piece of your soul? How do you carry a life
for nine months and then hand it over like a business transaction?
And what happens if you realize you can’t?
 Chapter Forty-Four
Osip

The mechanic’s words have been gnawing at me since his call an

hour ago.
“Someone loosened the wheel nuts, boss. All four. Another few miles
and they would’ve come clean off.”
Suka pizdets!
Someone tried to kill my woman.
Not your woman, mudak.
It’s business.
But business transaction or not, the fury builds in my chest, white-hot
and razor-sharp. Whoever did this wanted Ilona dead— or wanted to send
me a message written in her blood. Either way, they picked the wrong
fucking target.
“Professional job,” the mechanic had said. “Knew exactly how to
make it look like normal wear until the right moment. Your lady’s lucky she
wasn’t on the highway when…”
He didn’t need to finish.
I can picture it now— Ilona’s car rolling at high speed, wheels
separating, metal screaming as it flips across asphalt. Blood and glass and
twisted wreckage. Another woman destroyed because someone wanted to
hurt me.
Nyet.
Not happening.
Not ever fucking again.
My phone buzzes against the dashboard. Unknown number. I let it
ring out— nothing good comes from calls like that. Not when someone’s
already tried to put Ilona in a coffin.
Mudaki.
All of them.
Whoever thinks they can reach me through her is about to learn what
happens when you threaten a Sidorov’s family.
She’s not fucking family, you fool!
Think straight, dolboyob!
 The reminder tastes bitter. Contract wives don’t get the same value as
blood ties. But every fiber of my being rebels against that logic. Family
isn’t just DNA— it’s who you’d burn the world down to protect. And I’d
turn this entire city to ash before letting anyone hurt Ilona. I know it in my
bones.
The construction site sprawls before me, a picture of scaffolding and
raw potential. Clean money building something that’ll outlast the violence I
left behind. Péter Bokor stands near the entrance, weathered face serious as
he points at blueprints, explaining something to his men.
The crew moves around the skeletal frame of what will become
Budapest’s most exclusive private club. My brothers handled the permits,
the connections, the complex web of legitimacy that transforms dirty money
into clean investments.
Before I can reach Péter, something small and enthusiastic crashes
into my legs.
“Mister Osip!” Dénes grins up at me, hard hat slightly crooked on his
dark hair. Péter’s boy has his father’s sharp eyes but none of the world’s
cynicism yet. “You’re here! Papa said you might come today.”
The kid’s smile hits different today— pure and unguarded in a way
that reminds me how much innocence still exists in the world. His small
hands press against my legs like he’s anchoring himself, completely
trusting.
Despite the black mood eating at me, I find myself crouching down
to the kid’s level.
“Privet, little man. How’s the construction going? You keeping your
father working hard?”
Dénes laughs, bright and uncomplicated. “Papa says I ask too many
questions, but I want to know everything. Like, why do you need those
thick walls in the basement? And what are all those special rooms for?”
Clever boy.
Too clever, maybe.
“The basement will store wine and supplies,” I tell him, which isn’t a
complete lie. “The special rooms are for private business meetings.
Important people need quiet places to discuss serious matters.”
“Business must be very serious if it needs soundproof walls.”
Yob tvoyu mat.
This kid sees everything.
 “Very important,” I agree, ruffling his hair. The gesture feels foreign
but natural, like muscle memory from a life I never got to live. “Your father
taught you well about construction.”
“Mmhmm.” He nods. “Papa knows everything about building. He
says you’re building something great. That it’s going to last forever.”
Forever.
The word carries a weight I wasn’t expecting. Most things in my life
have expiration dates— alliances, enemies, partners, even businesses blown
apart when they outlive their usefulness.
But this kid makes me feel like all of that could change.
“What do you want to be when you grow up, Dénes?” I ask.
“An architect! I want to design buildings that make people happy.
Papa says the best buildings feel like home, even to strangers.”
“That’s a solid dream,” I tell him. “Work hard, and you’ll build
whatever you want.”
My phone rings, pulling me from the moment. Dr. Varga’s name
flashes on the screen. Every muscle goes rigid. He doesn’t call unless
there’s a problem.
“Excuse me, little man.” I’m already moving toward the BMW.
“Important call.”
Dénes waves as I slide into the car, but my focus locks onto the
phone. Each ring feels like a countdown to disaster. Dr. Varga cuts straight
to business.
“Are you sitting?” he asks. No pleasantries. No bullshit.
Blyad.
Doctors only ask that when the news will knock you off your feet.
“What is it, Varga? Something wrong with Ilona?”
“I suppose I should let her do the honours, but given the medical
risks, I am going to go ahead and tell you: Ilona is pregnant.”
The phone almost slips from my grip.
Beremenna.
Pregnant.
“Mr. Sidorov? Are you there?”
“Da.” My voice comes out rough, scraped raw. “I’m here.”
But I’m not really here. I’m a year in the past, watching paramedics
wheeling Galina’s body away. I’m in the present, feeling impossible hope
mixed with familiar terror. I’m in a future where I actually get to hold my
child, teach them to walk, keep them safe.
Bozhe moy!
Dr. Varga continues, professional but not cold. “Because of her
endometriosis, the risk of miscarriage is much higher than usual. She needs
close medical supervision and bedrest. And sex is prohibited until she
reaches week twelve.”
Miscarriage. The chances of losing another baby.
Not this time. Never fucking again.
“What else?” My voice comes out hoarse. “Best doctors? Specialists?
Money’s no object.”
“She needs rest and minimal stress. Which means you need to keep
her calm and safe. Can you do that?”
“Da. Absolutely.”
Safe. Right. Someone just tried to murder her with loose wheel nuts,
and now she’s carrying my child. Time to make some calls. Arrange
protection. Send a message that touching my family means death.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of
creating stress, of being the source of fear that keeps enemies awake at
night. Now I need to become the opposite— shelter instead of storm,
protection instead of threat.
The call ends. I sit in the car, staring at nothing, processing
everything. A child. My blood, my legacy. And some mudak thinks they
can use her to get to me.
Construction sounds filter through the windows— hammering,
machinery, men shouting instructions. The building continues to rise despite
everything else threatening to fall apart. Maybe that’s what I need to
remember. How to keep building even when the world tries to tear
everything down.
My child will never know hunger or fear or the sound of gunfire in
the night. They’ll grow up in houses with gardens, not safe houses with
escape routes. They’ll worry about homework and soccer practice, not
whether daddy’s coming home or whether the cops finally caught up with
him.
Whoever’s hunting me picked the wrong fucking moment to surface.
I’ve got more to protect now than just my own worthless hide. I’ve got a
family to defend.
 I drive home like the devil’s chasing me, mind spinning between pure
fucking joy and cold calculation. Need to call Melor, get him to arrange
better security.
The Budapest streets blur past, familiar now after months of building
a legitimate life here. Traffic moves with typical European precision,
orderly and predictable in a way that still amazes me after years of Russian
chaos. These people follow rules because they trust the system to work.
They don’t carry guns or check their cars for bombs or sleep with one eye
open.
That kind of innocence died in me long ago, but maybe it doesn’t
have to die in my child.
The house materializes through the trees— home. The word still feels
foreign applied to anywhere I live, but Ilona’s presence has changed things.
Flowers in vases. Cooking smells from the kitchen. The sound of her
laughter echoing off walls that used to hold nothing but silence.
Now those walls are going to hear children’s voices.
Footsteps running up stairs.
The house feels charged when I walk through the front door— like
the air before a lightning strike. Ilona stands in the living room, arms
wrapped around herself, eyes wide and uncertain.
She’s changed clothes since this morning— traded the jeans and
sweater for a soft dress that flows around her like water. The afternoon light
catches the honey tones in her hair, and for a moment I forget about wheel
nuts and death threats and the weight of secrets between us.
She’s here.
And she’s carrying my child.
“So you know the news,” she says quietly. My face must give
everything away.
Her voice carries that particular tremor of someone delivering
information that changes everything.
Instead of words, I cross the room and lift her off her feet, careful as
handling nitroglycerine. She melts against me, arms sliding around my
neck, and everything becomes about this— her warmth, her scent, the
impossible miracle growing between us.
Her body fits against mine like we were designed for each other. I
can feel her heartbeat against my chest, rapid but steady, keeping time with
the life we’ve created together.
 “Ilona.” I inhale as I speak, drawing her scent deeper into my lungs,
storing it somewhere permanent.
The name carries more weight now. She’s the mother of my child.
The second chance I never expected to receive.
Heat builds between us despite everything. Despite the doctor’s
warnings, despite the danger circling outside, despite the secrets that could
tear us apart. My body wants what it wants, and what it wants is to claim
her so thoroughly that the rest of the world disappears.
But that hunger carries new complexity now. It’s not just about
possession anymore— it’s about protection.
I force my grip to gentle, taking in the room around us with fresh
eyes.
The living room suddenly feels too exposed. Too many entry points,
too many sight lines from the street. Anyone with a rifle and decent training
could take her out from the tree line.
“We need to talk about security,” I murmur against her temple, hating
how practical concerns intrude on this moment.
Her body goes rigid in my arms. “The car…”
“It was a professional job.” I pull back enough to meet her eyes. “I
don’t want to scare you, but you need to know what we’re dealing with.”
“Osip… who would do that?” Her voice stays steady, but I can feel
the tremor in her hands as they grip my shoulders. “Why would someone
want to hurt me?”
Blyad.
Because you’re mine. Because hurting you hurts me. Because in the
world I come from, everything you love becomes a weapon someone else
can use against you.
What the fuck do I say to that? How much of what I am can I share
with her?
“I’m not sure yet,” I lie. “Could be related to the club, to business
competitors. Could be someone… from my past looking for leverage.”
The half-truth sits uneasily between us. She deserves better—
honesty about who I really am, about what I’ve done, about the blood on
my hands that reaches all the way to her father’s murder. But not today. Not
when she’s just learned she’s pregnant with a child medical science said
was practically impossible.
 “We’re going to be fine,” I murmur against her temple, already
planning how to eliminate whoever thinks they can touch my family. “All
three of us. I promise you that.”
 Chapter Forty-Five
Ilona

I’m curled into the plush armchair by the window, my hands

instinctively resting on my stomach where new life grows.
The revelation still feels surreal— I’m going to be a mother.
And Osip…
God, the way his face transformed when he looked at me. For a
moment, his carefully constructed mask slipped completely, revealing
something raw and vulnerable underneath. The joy in his eyes wasn’t
calculated or measured— it was pure, unguarded happiness. He’d actually
smiled, a real smile that reached his eyes and softened the harsh lines
around them. When he kissed me afterward, it felt different. Like I was
precious instead of just useful.
Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but what if this changes
everything? What if the baby growing inside me becomes the bridge
between the cold contractual arrangement we started with and something
real? Something that could grow into love, into a family that’s more than
just genetics and legal documents. The way he touched my face, whispered
“thank you” like I’d given him salvation itself—
That’s enough, Ilona.
Stop fooling yourself.
The harsh whisper of my inner voice cuts through the romantic
fantasy. This is still a transaction, still a carefully orchestrated plan to fulfill
his need for an heir. The tenderness I thought I saw could just as easily be
relief that his investment is paying off. Men like Osip don’t fall in love with
their surrogates— they protect their assets.
Whatever the case, my pregnancy comes with complications I hadn’t
anticipated. Close medical supervision, he’d said. Regular check-ups with
specialists he trusts. And after the tire incident today Osip’s protective
instincts have shifted into overdrive.
The sharp trill of my phone cuts through my brooding thoughts,
Jason’s name flashing on the screen like a channel to my old world. I take a
steadying breath before answering.
“Hey, Jason.”
 “Ilona! How are you holding up, kiddo?” His familiar gravelly voice
makes me smile, even though I’m anxious about what he may have to say.
“Are you doing okay? Budapest treating you well?”
“I’m… managing. It’s different here, but good different.” The lie
comes easily now. I can’t exactly tell him I’m living in Buda Hills with a
Russian crime boss and carrying his child. “How are Mary and the kids?”
“Mary’s good— finally got that promotion at the hospital. Tommy
just started high school, can you believe it? Seems like yesterday he was
learning to ride a bike.” Jason’s chuckle fades, his tone shifting to the
serious register I remember from our police station days. “Listen, kiddo,
I’ve been digging into your father’s case like I promised.”
My pulse quickens, and I grip the phone tighter. “And?”
“Well, there’s only so much I can do off the record. It’s a closed case
after all, so my reach is limited.” There’s a pause, and I can picture him in
his cluttered office, surrounded by case files and cold coffee. “But… your
daddy’s mortgage papers raised some red flags. Twenty million dollars—
that’s not an amount a bank would normally lend.”
I sit up straighter, my free hand unconsciously pressing against my
abdomen. “What do you mean?”
“The loan came through a number of shell companies. I’m trying to
trace the sources, but one thing’s for sure— this is no regular mortgage.”
His voice takes on that careful cop tone I remember from when he was
delivering bad news. “Your father’s practice stats were… unusual too.
Extremely high success rates— almost questionably high.”
My throat constricts, and I have to swallow hard before I can speak.
The defensive words leap out before I can stop them. “He was good at his
job. Maybe his diagnosis methods were more precise than those of his
colleagues.” But even as I say it, doubt creeps in, spreading through my
memories of Dad’s final months.
“Well… too good, Ilona. What the numbers don’t show is that most
of his successful cases ended in adoptions, not births. All through the same
channels. I’ve got someone looking into the adoption records now.”
My free hand moves instinctively, protecting my abdomen where
Osip’s child grows. The irony isn’t lost on me— here I am, pregnant for
money, while my father apparently helped other couples find children
through suspicious means.
 “You think my father was involved in something illegal? Like, illegal
adoptions or something like that?” My voice comes out thin and strained.
“Look, I don’t know. I’ll see if I can find out more, but…” Jason’s
voice carries that careful weight I remember from his detective days, when
he was trying to break bad news gently.
“But what?” The words scrape past my dry throat.
“It’s possible that your father was connected with some… people you
don’t want to mess with.”
“What? Like who?”
“Look, it’s too early to say anything, but… I need you to be careful,
okay? I’ll see if I can find out more.”
Shit.
People you don’t want to mess with?
He needs me to be careful?
What does that even mean?
“Jason, I’m in Budapest.” I work to keep my voice steady. “Even if
my father had enemies, there’s no way anyone can find me here. Besides,
why would anyone want to mess with me of all people? My father died over
a year ago and whatever he’s done died with him.”
The words sound hollow, especially when unwelcome thoughts about
today’s tire incident creep into my mind. My hands are shaking so badly
now that I have to grip the phone with both hands to keep from dropping it.
Was Dad really involved in something shady? If so, could my tire incident
be linked to my father somehow?
Maybe… my dad was not the man I thought him to be?
After we hang up, I stare at my phone, the device suddenly feeling
foreign against my palm. My entire body feels cold despite the warm
evening air, and I can’t seem to stop myself from shaking. My father— the
gentle man with healing hands who brought babies into the world—
potentially involved in something illegal? It doesn’t make sense.
But then fragments of memory surface: how secretive he became just
before his death, that massive unexplained mortgage Mom mentioned, the
tension between my parents that I’d chosen to ignore.
I press both hands against my stomach, where nausea rolls in waves.
The baby inside me seems to flutter, as if responding to my distress, and the
sensation makes me want to cry. It hurts to think that my father may not
have been the angel I thought him to be.
 But Jason’s words echo in my mind, refusing to be silenced: “These
aren’t people you want to mess with.”
My breath comes in short, shallow pants, and I force myself to take
deeper breaths before the panic can fully take hold.
What the hell has Dad done that I don’t know of?
And… what if his past has followed me here?
 Chapter Forty-Six
Osip

I settle deeper into the leather chair, watching my brothers make

themselves at home in my living room.
Melor’s sprawled across the couch like he owns the place, his feet
propped up on my coffee table— expensive Italian leather boots leaving
scuff marks I’ll hear about from Ilona tomorrow. Radimir sits rigid in the
opposite chair, nursing his vodka like it’s communion wine, still wound
tight from our last conversation.
“So we’re good, da?” I ask, trying not to sound too gruff. The
reconciliation after our blowout feels fragile.
Melor raises his glass in mock salute. “Good as gold, bratishka.
Unless you plan on being a dickhead again.”
“Me?” I bark out a laugh. “You two were the ones acting like
svolochi. I told you both— pull that shit again, and you’re out on your
asses. I don’t care if we share blood.”
Radimir’s mouth quirks up at the corner. “Threatening to kick out
your own brothers. How very pakhan of you.”
“Someone has to keep you durakhi in line.”
The familiar rhythm of our banter settles over us like an old coat.
This is how it’s always been— we tear each other apart just to build each
other back up again. Three brothers forged in the same fire, shaped by the
same violence. We know exactly where to hit to make it hurt, and exactly
how to patch up the wounds after.
Three drinks in, the vodka loosens something in my chest. Four
drinks, and the words start forming before I can stop them.
“I have news,” I say, swirling the liquid in my glass.
Melor raises an eyebrow. “Good news or ‘hide the bodies’ news?”
“I’m going to be a father.”
The silence that follows is so complete I can hear the ice melting in
our glasses. Both my brothers stare at me like I’ve just announced I’m
joining the circus. Melor’s drink hovers halfway to his lips, forgotten.
Radimir goes completely still, which for him is more unsettling than if he’d
started shouting.
 “Blyad…” Radimir finally breathes. “After… you know… I didn’t
think you’d want a child anymore.”
The reference to Galina hits like a knife between the ribs, but I keep
my expression neutral. They’re the only ones who know the whole truth
about what happened. About what I lost.
“Who’s the mother?” Melor asks, setting down his glass carefully.
“Her name is Ilona.”
“What?” Radimir’s voice shoots up an octave before he catches
himself. “Your housekeeper? How romantic.”
I want to tell him it’s not like that, but the vodka has made my tongue
heavy and my thoughts scattered. Instead, I grunt and take another drink.
“What the fuck, Osip? What’s the story?” Melor leans forward,
suddenly interested. “You finally decided to sample the help?”
“It’s not—” I start, then stop. How do I explain this without sounding
like a complete mudak? “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?” Radimir presses. “Either you’re fucking her or
you’re not. How else do you make a baby?”
The alcohol burns through my reservations. Before I can stop myself,
the truth spills out.
“Her name is Ilona Shiradze.”
Both my brothers go statue-still, their faces cycling through
confusion, recognition, and finally, horror.
“Shiradze’s daughter?” Melor chokes out. “Living in your house and
having your baby? Are you fucking insane, Osip?”
“Keep your voice down, mudak,” I snap, glancing toward the
hallway. The last thing I need is for Ilona to overhear this conversation.
Radimir leans back against the couch and lets out a long, slow breath,
staring up at the ceiling like he’s asking God for patience.
“Actually,” he says without looking at us, “it’s the perfect cover-up.
Who’d suspect you’d keep her this close?”
“That’s not why she’s here,” I growl, but even as I say it, I know how
fucked-up it sounds.
“No?” Melor stands up, all six feet four inches of barely contained
violence. “Then tell me, brother. Why is the daughter of our dead business
partner— who betrayed us, who you killed— in your house? In your bed?
Having your child?”
“Because,” I say finally, “I’m paying her to carry my baby.”
 They stare at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“What the fuck, Osip?” Melor explodes. “Are you out of your
goddamn mind? This is sheer insanity! Does she know that you killed her
father?”
“Nyet!” I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved, my chair
scraping against the floor. “And if either of you pizdy ever mention
anything about that to her, I’ll rip your fucking tongues out and shove them
up your asses!”
The threat hangs in the air between us, real and violent and final. My
brothers know I don’t make empty promises.
“I lost Galina,” I continue. “My child. I didn’t think I’d ever be a
father after that. But Ilona Shiradze will give me that gift. She’s a good
person and a perfect surrogate mother.”
Even as I say it, guilt gnaws at my insides. Deep down, I know it’s
not as simple as I’m trying to make it sound. I did kill her father. Put a knife
in his chest and watched him bleed out. And what’s worse— what makes
me want to put my fist through the wall— is that I’m starting to have
feelings for her. Real feelings. The kind that make a man weak.
She can never know the truth about how her father died. Never.
“What about Anett?” Radimir asks quietly. “Why not her?”
“Anett’s out of my life.” The words come out clipped, final.
Radimir finally looks up from his contemplation of the ceiling.
“Right. Congratulations, bratishka. You’re fucking the daughter of someone
you killed and she’s having your child. Perfect fucking storm.”
Melor pours himself another vodka, the bottle clinking against the
glass in the heavy silence. “Men’s dicks make them stupid,” he says
conversationally. “Stupid men make mistakes. Mistakes get you killed.”
“Or they save you,” I add quietly.
Blyad.
This is why I need my brothers, even when they’re being dickheads.
They’re two of the few people who aren’t afraid to challenge me, to tell me
when I’m being an idiot. Melor keeps me sane. Radimir keeps me rational.
But they’re wrong about Ilona. What they’ll never understand—
what they can’t understand— is the effect she has on me. What she means
to me.
And that terrifies me more than any bullet ever could.
 Chapter Forty-Seven
Osip

The shrill ring of my phone drags me from the few moments of peace
I’d managed to steal while watching Ilona sleep.
Her honey-blonde hair spills across my pillow, one delicate hand
curled beneath her cheek, and for just a heartbeat, I allow myself to imagine
this is normal— that she belongs here, that the life growing inside her
makes us a family.
“Sidorov.” I slip out of bed, careful not to wake her, padding to the
hallway where my voice won’t disturb her rest.
“Boss, we have a problem.” Péter’s voice carries that rough edge
when he’s rattled. In all the time I’ve known the Hungarian construction
manager, I’ve never heard him sound this nervous. “You need to come to
the site. Now.”
I go still. “What happened?”
“Someone hit us hard last night. Place is…” He pauses, searching for
words. “Fuck, boss. It’s bad. Real bad.”
I’m already moving toward my closet, grabbing dark jeans and a
black sweater. “Anyone hurt?”
“Nem, thank Christ. Night security found it this morning when they
came to do rounds. But whoever did this, they knew what they were doing.
This wasn’t some random vandalism.”
Pizdets!
First Ilona’s car, now the construction site. Someone’s sending me a
message, no doubt about it.
“On my way. Don’t let anyone else on site until I get there.”
“Already done, boss. Sent the boys home. It’s just me and the
security team.”
I end the call and finish dressing quickly, my mind racing through
possibilities. Who the hell is trying to fuck with me? Stanley Morrison still
had connections in Boston when I left— dirty cops, corrupt officials, men
who’d sell their own mothers for the right price. But reaching out to
Budapest would take resources and planning.
 Or maybe it’s someone from my more distant past, someone who
followed the breadcrumbs from the early Bratva days. The baby trafficking
operation had tentacles reaching into places I’d rather forget. Medical
facilities, legal offices, private adoption agencies. Any one of those
connections could have led back to me.
Either way, someone’s escalating. And with Ilona pregnant, the
stakes have transformed into something that makes my previous concerns
seem trivial.
I check on her one more time before leaving— she’s still sleeping
deeply, one hand unconsciously resting on her stomach. Something fierce
and protective claws at my chest. Whatever’s coming, I’ll handle it. She’ll
never need to know how close danger is circling.
The drive to the construction site takes twenty minutes through the
winding roads of Buda Hills, but it feels like hours. My BMW purrs
through the curves, but my teeth are grinding as I imagine what I’m about
to see.
Nothing prepares me for the reality.
“What the fuck happened here?” I snarl as I take in the devastation.
What should have been another day of progress toward opening The Scarlet
Fox has become a war zone.
Windows are shattered, glass glittering across the torn-up ground.
Construction equipment lies scattered and damaged— concrete mixers
overturned, scaffolding bent and twisted. Someone took a sledgehammer to
the interior walls we’d just finished, leaving gaping holes and exposed steel
framework.
But it’s the graffiti that makes my blood boil. Spray-painted across
the half-finished facade in jagged red letters: “DEAD MEN TELL NO
TALES.”
Christ.
They couldn’t be more original?
Péter approaches, his weathered face grim beneath his hard hat. “I
don’t know, Boss. We found the site like this.” His accent thickens with
stress. “Security cameras were spraypainted over. Gate was forced with
some kind of crowbar or handlebar. I think it’s professional job— they
knew exactly how to cause maximum damage in minimum time.”
I walk the perimeter slowly, forcing myself to think like the criminal
I used to be instead of the businessman I’m trying to become. The tracks in
the gravel are deep, wide-set. Not a car— something bigger.
“Judging by the tire thickness, it was a van or SUV,” I tell Péter,
crouching to examine the patterns. “Multiple vehicles, probably. This would
have taken a crew to execute this fast and quiet.”
The forced gate tells its own story. Clean work with a pry bar, no
wasted effort. The kind of breaking and entering that speaks of experience.
“They threw bricks at the windows,” Péter continues, following my
examination. “But look at the pattern— every impact is deliberate. Not
random vandalism. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they wanted to send a
message.”
Fucking right they did. And the message is crystal clear: we know
where you are, we know what matters to you, and we can reach you
anywhere.
I straighten, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. “Go home, Péter. I’ll
be in touch about cleanup and security upgrades.”
“Boss, with respect, I’ve been building things for twenty years. I’ve
seen gang hits, mafia warnings, everything in between.” His dark eyes meet
mine steadily. “This feels personal. Someone has a grudge against you
specifically.”
Smart man.
“Just do as I ask, Péter. And keep Dénes away from here until further
notice.”
He nods reluctantly, gathering his things. I wait until his truck
disappears down the hill before pulling out my phone to take photos.
I walk through the destruction more carefully, noting every detail.
The spray paint is still tacky— this happened less than eight hours ago. The
equipment damage is precise, designed to cause expensive delays without
completely halting the project.
Most telling of all: they avoided the structural supports. Someone
who knows construction, who wanted to wound but not kill the project
entirely. This is psychological warfare, not business rivalry.
I pull up my contact list and call Radimir. My younger brother
answers on the first ring, his voice sharp and alert despite the early hour.
“Brat, what’s wrong?”
“Someone sabotaged Ilona’s car, and last night they hit the
construction site. Professional job. I need you to pull all surveillance from
the surrounding area— traffic cameras, security systems, anything that
might have caught vehicles coming or going between midnight and dawn.”
“Pizdets! Are you hurt? Is Ilona—”
“We’re fine. But I need to know who did this before they make
another move.”
A pause, then the rapid clicking of keys as Radimir gets to work. “I’ll
have something within the hour. What about physical security? Want me to
call Melor?”
“Already on it. I’m doubling security at the house and posting guards
at the site around the clock. But Rad…” I pause, staring at the red graffiti
that’s already eating into my vision like acid. “Run deep background checks
on anyone who might have followed us from Boston. Stanley Morrison, his
associates, anyone from the trafficking network who might want revenge.”
“Understood. And Osip? Watch your back. They’re studying you.”
The call ends, and I dial my head of security next, a former Spetsnaz
operative named Dmitri who came recommended by some very dangerous
people.
“Dima. Double the detail at the house immediately. Nobody gets
within a hundred meters without authorization. And I want electronic
surveillance on all approaches.”
“Da, boss. What’s the threat level?”
“Assume hostile intent. Someone’s already made two attempts to
send me a message. I won’t give them a third chance.”
After ending the call, I stand in the ruined shell of what was
supposed to be my legitimate future and feel the familiar taste of violence in
the back of my mouth. I’d almost convinced myself I could leave the
darkness behind, build something clean with clean money and clean hands.
But the past never stays buried. And now it’s not just me in the
crosshairs— it’s Ilona and our unborn child.
I’ve already been down that road once before. It’s never going to
happen again.
Whoever’s coming for us picked the wrong fucking target.
 Chapter Forty-Eight
Ilona

The silence in this house is suffocating.

I shift on the velvet chaise lounge in the sitting room, pressing my
palm against my lower abdomen where a dull ache has been gnawing at me
all day. The pain I’ve associated with endometriosis is back with a
vengeance, like my body is punishing me for daring to hope. Every muscle
feels tender, every breath shallow. Even the act of sitting upright sends
waves of discomfort through my pelvis.
“Rest as much as you can.” Dr. Varga’s words echo in my mind,
accompanied by the memory of his concerned frown and the way his
fingers had drummed against his clipboard while he delivered the news. “If
we can get you to week 12, you should be fine.”
Twelve weeks feels like a lifetime away. I’m barely at five.
I glance at the antique clock on the mantle— 7 p.m. The evening
light has dimmed to amber, and now the house feels cavernous around me.
Osip won’t be back until late. Something about complications at the
construction site. I can still remember the tension in his voice when he’d
called earlier.
“Don’t overdo it, malyshka,” he’d said, his accent thick with an
oddly intense concern. “I need you safe.”
Don’t overdo it.
I don’t know how I could possibly do any less physical activity. I’ve
read three books this week. Scrolled through my phone until my eyes
burned. Binged every mindless show Netflix has to offer until the
characters’ voices blur together into meaningless noise. The boredom is
almost worse than the pain— it gives my mind too much space to wander
into dangerous territory.
Like the way my heart skipped when he called me “malyshka.” Like
how safe I feel when he’s here, even though everything about Osip Sidorov
screams danger. Like how I already love this baby with a fierce, protective
intensity that terrifies me. Sometimes I catch myself talking to it,
whispering promises about the life we’ll have together. Other times I’m
gripped by such overwhelming fear of losing it that I can barely breathe.
 Like how I’m dangerously close to falling in love with the man
whose child I’m carrying.
The thought makes my chest tighten with equal parts longing and
terror. I can’t afford to love Osip Sidorov. Not when everything about our
situation is built on quicksand.
But God help me, I can’t stop myself. His growing tenderness and
fierce protectiveness since learning about the baby is impossible to resist.
I know he’s dangerous; the cache of weapons in his secret room made
that very clear. Yet he’s so tender with me. The contradiction should
confuse me. Instead, it draws me deeper into whatever web we’re weaving
together.
Probably because I need to feel safe right now. After what happened
with the car, and the bizarre moment where I thought I saw Stanley, I’m
neurotic as hell.
Someone wanted me dead. Or hurt. If I hadn’t been driving so slowly
that day…
I push the thought away before it can take root. Here I am, trapped in
this place, safe but slowly going insane from the isolation. The mansion is a
fortress, complete with security cameras and armed guards who try to
pretend they’re gardeners. I know because I’ve tested the boundaries, tried
to take walks around the grounds only to have polite but immovable men
redirect me back toward the house.
For my safety, they say. Osip’s orders.
Part of me is grateful. The other part wants to scream at the beautiful
bars of my prison.
Another dull cramp rolls through my abdomen, making me wince.
I’ve been having them on and off all day— nothing severe, just enough to
remind me that my body is a battleground right now. Hormones and
endometriosis and pregnancy all warring for control while I sit here like a
spectator.
I close my eyes and try to focus on my breathing, the way Dr. Varga
taught me.
In for four counts, hold for four, out for four.
The meditation app on my phone has become my lifeline these past
few days, though even the soothing voice of the instructor can’t calm me
down completely.
 A sharp cramp seizes my abdomen, so sudden and vicious that I gasp
aloud. This one is different— deeper, more insistent. The pain radiates from
my pelvis up through my ribs, stealing my breath and making my vision
blur at the edges. I curl forward instinctively, pressing both hands against
my stomach as if I can will the agony away.
This doesn’t feel right. This really doesn’t feel right.
A surge of panic hits me.
The baby.
Please, God, not the baby.
The words become a mantra as I rock slightly, trying to breathe
through it. I’ve had bad endometriosis pain before, but this… this feels
different. More urgent. More dangerous. When the cramp finally subsides
after what feels like an eternity, I’m left shaky and cold despite the warmth
of the room.
I try to keep breathing slowly. Dr. Varga said stress makes everything
worse. I need to stay calm for the baby’s sake. The cramping could just be
my body adjusting to the hormonal changes. It doesn’t have to mean
anything sinister.
But the fear has already taken root, spreading through my chest.
I make my way upstairs to the master bathroom, my legs unsteady
beneath me. Each step feels precarious, like I might crumble at any
moment. The marble is cool under my bare feet as I turn on the taps, letting
the water run at a soothing temperature.
“Just calm down,” I tell myself, stroking soft circles on my belly.
“Relax.”
In for four counts, hold for four, out for four.
“We’re going to be okay,” I whisper to my reflection in the mirror
over the oversized tub. To the tiny life growing inside me. “I won’t let
anything happen to you.”
The words feel hollow in the steamy air, but I need to say them
anyway. I need to believe them.
The bath is exactly what I need. The warmth seeps into my muscles,
loosening the knots of tension that have been building all day. I sink deeper
into the water until it laps at my chin, closing my eyes and letting my mind
drift. The lavender bath oil Osip had one of his people buy for me fills the
air with its calming scent, and finally, the pain ebbs to a manageable ache.
 I let myself think about him while I soak. About the way he looks at
me in the mornings when he thinks I’m still asleep, his expression soft and
unguarded. About how his hands shake slightly when he touches my belly,
like he’s afraid his touch might somehow hurt us. About the Russian
lullabies I caught him humming under his breath yesterday when he thought
I was napping.
Osip Sidorov, singing lullabies.
The man who looks like he could topple empires humming tender
melodies for a baby that’s barely the size of a grape.
The thought charms me in a way that it shouldn’t.
By the time I climb out, toweling off with one of his ridiculously
expensive Egyptian cotton towels, I feel almost human again. The cramping
has stopped completely. My breathing is steady. The warm flush in my
cheeks makes me look healthier, more alive.
Everything is fine. I was just overreacting, letting fear get the better
of me.
See?
You’re being paranoid.
I slip into one of his shirts— a black button-down that still carries the
faint scent of his cologne, something dark and expensive that makes my
pulse quicken. The fabric is soft against my skin, and wearing his clothes
feels intimate in a way that probably should worry me. But right now,
wrapped in something that smells like safety and strength, I can’t bring
myself to care about the implications.
The sheets are cool against my overheated skin when I crawl into
bed, and exhaustion pulls at me like a tide. The combination of the bath and
the emotional strain of the day have left me totally drained. Within minutes,
I’m drifting into sleep, my hands cradling my belly.
But sleep doesn’t last.
I wake with a gasp, disoriented in the darkness. The bedside clock
glows 10:47 p.m. in accusatory red numbers. Something pulled me from my
dreams— not a sound, but a sensation. Another cramp is building, this one
worse than before, like someone is twisting a knife in my abdomen.
The pain starts as a dull ache and quickly escalates into something
that steals my breath completely. It’s different from the earlier cramping—
even deeper, more insistent, with a tearing quality that makes panic rise in
my chest. I bite back a scream, not wanting to alert the security team unless
absolutely necessary.
No, no, no.
This can’t be happening.
I press my thighs together, trying to breathe through the pain the way
I learned in yoga class, but something feels wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong.
There’s a wetness between my legs that wasn’t there before, and when my
hand slides down to investigate, my heart stops.
Sticky warmth.
Unmistakable texture.
I yank my hand back, and even in the dim light filtering through the
curtains, I can see the dark stain on my fingers.
Blood.
I’m bleeding… my body is cramping and I’m bleeding.
No!
Please, no!
I stumble out of bed on unsteady legs, fumbling as I switch on the
lamp. The evidence is there on the pristine white sheets— a small but
unmistakable crimson stain that looks like everything I’ve ever feared.
Oh God.
Oh God, please, no!
My legs give out, and I sink to my knees beside the bed, staring at the
stain like it might disappear if I just wish hard enough. But it doesn’t. If
anything, it seems to grow larger in my peripheral vision, mocking my hope
and my desperate need for this pregnancy to work out.
Terror floods my system, making my heart race so fast I’m afraid it
might burst. I grab a washcloth from the bathroom, cleaning myself
desperately, as if that would help somehow, but the bleeding doesn’t stop.
It’s not heavy, but it’s there. Real. Undeniable. Each swipe of the cloth
reveals more red, more proof that my body is betraying me again.
“Please,” I choke out. “Please don’t let this be happening. Please…”
But my head is already telling me what my heart doesn’t want to
acknowledge. The endometriosis has won. The stress, the isolation, the fear
— it’s all culminated in this moment, this loss that I can feel happening in
real time.
I’m losing the baby.
 The thought drives me to my feet with manic energy, sending me
rushing down the hallway toward Osip’s office. I don’t care that I’m
wearing nothing but his shirt, don’t care that my hair is wild and my face is
streaked with tears I don’t remember crying. I don’t care about dignity or
composure or the fact that I might be overreacting.
I’m not overreacting!
I need him. I need him right now, and the desperation of that need
should scare me, but I’m already too terrified to care about anything else.
He’ll know what to do. He always knows what to do.
The office door is closed, but I can see light bleeding out from under
it. He’s home.
Thank God, he’s home.
I don’t knock. I don’t hesitate. I burst through the door like my life
depends on it.
Because maybe it does.
I just pray it’s not too late for my baby.
 Chapter Forty-Nine
Osip

“I’m bleeding!”
The words rip through the hum of construction schedules and
contractor bullshit spread across my desk as the door flies open with a
crash. Every muscle in my body locks rigid as I snap my head up to find
Ilona standing in my office doorway.
Bozhe moy!
Her face is chalk-white, that beautiful porcelain skin now the color of
fresh snow. Dark circles bruise the delicate skin beneath her eyes, and she’s
swaying slightly— like someone fighting to stay conscious.
Blood.
She said bleeding.
The baby!
“Yob tvoyu mat’!” The curse tears from my throat as I launch myself
from behind the desk, papers scattering. My hands find her shoulders,
steadying her trembling frame before she can collapse. “How much blood?
How long?”
“I—” Her voice wavers, thin and frightened. “It started an hour ago.
It’s getting worse.”
Jesus. This isn’t supposed to happen. Not again. Not to another
woman carrying my child.
“We’re going to the hospital. Now.”
My voice sounds foreign— raw and desperate. But losing control is a
luxury I can’t afford when the woman carrying my child is bleeding in my
arms.
I sweep her up before she can protest, cradling her against my chest
as I stride toward the garage. She weighs nothing— fragile as a snowflake
and a million times more precious. Her head falls against my shoulder, and I
can feel the rapid flutter of her pulse through the thin fabric of my shirt
she’s wearing.
“Stay with me, malyshka,” I murmur against her hair, Russian
endearments spilling from lips that rarely speak anything soft. “I’ve got
you.”
 The BMW roars to life under my hands, cylinders screaming as I tear
out of the driveway. Budapest’s winding roads become a blur of streetlights
and speed limits that mean nothing when you’re racing death itself.
My hands shake as I speed-dial Dr. Varga, the phone cradled between
my ear and shoulder while I navigate traffic like a man possessed.
“Dr. Varga.” His voice is calm, professional— everything I’m not
right now.
“It’s Osip. Ilona’s bleeding. We’re en route to the hospital— meet us
there. Emergency.”
A pause that lasts forever. “How much bleeding?”
“I don’t know— she’s pale, weak. Bozhe, what if—?”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Drive carefully, Osip. Accidents won’t
help anyone.”
The line goes dead, leaving me alone with the engine’s roar and the
sound of Ilona’s labored breathing. I steal glances at her in the passenger
seat, watching the way her hand rests protectively over her abdomen. The
same gesture I remember from another woman, a lifetime ago.
Galina.
The memory steals my breath. The paramedics working frantically
while I stood frozen… useless.
Nyet!
Not again. Never fucking again.
“Ilona.” I reach over, covering her hand with mine. Her skin is ice-
cold, clammy with shock. “Talk to me. Stay awake.”
“I’m scared,” she whispers, and something inside my chest cracks.
“What if we lose—?”
“We won’t.” The words come out sharp with a conviction I don’t
feel. “I won’t let that happen.”
The hospital’s emergency entrance blazes with fluorescent light as I
skid to a halt in front of the doors. Orderlies appear like magic—
professional efficiency taking over where my panic threatens to consume
everything. They transfer Ilona to a gurney with smooth movements that
speak of too much experience with emergencies like this.
Dr. Varga materializes beside me, his usually calm expression etched
with concern. “Talk to me— when did the bleeding start?”
“An hour ago.” I’m walking briskly beside the gurney, my hand
wrapped around Ilona’s fingers. “She came to my office, said it was getting
worse.”
“Any cramping? Pain?”
“I don’t know.” Blyad, I should know these things. Should have been
watching her more carefully, monitoring every symptom. “Ilona?”
But she’s slipping away from us, eyelids fluttering as shock takes
hold. The orderlies push through double doors marked ‘SURGICAL UNIT
— NO ADMITTANCE’, and suddenly I’m standing in an empty hallway
with the taste of copper fear coating my tongue.
“Mr. Sidorov.” Dr. Varga’s hand settles on my shoulder. “We’ll take
good care of her. But you need to wait here.”
Wait?
Pizdets!
Waiting is what you do when you’re powerless, when all the money
and connections and carefully constructed control mean nothing against the
chaos of biology failing.
I sink into a plastic chair that’s probably seen too many moments like
this, elbows on my knees, hands buried in my hair. The hospital smells like
disinfectant and fear—the same smell that haunted my dreams after Galina
died. Sterile whiteness that can’t mask the reality of bodies breaking down,
hope bleeding out onto surgical tables.
Minutes crawl by like hours. Each tick of the wall clock echoes
marks time I’ll never get back. Time when my child might be dying inside
the woman I—
Cut it out, mudak.
The voice in my head sounds like Melor’s pragmatic tone, cutting
through emotion.
You killed her father, dolboyob.
This is all business.
You can’t get attached.
But the rules I’ve lived by all my life— the careful distance, the
emotional armor, the safety of treating everyone as temporary— crumble to
dust against the reality of Ilona’s blood on hospital sheets.
I think I might love this woman.
The admission steals breath from lungs that already burn with panic.
Love. The word I’ve forbidden myself my entire life now comes to me
without warning. Without permission.
 Ilona, with her gentle strength and beautiful eyes. Ilona, who carries
my child like she’s already claimed both of us as her own.
Ilona, whose father I put in the ground with my own hands.
Hours pass. Or maybe minutes— time becomes meaningless when
you’re suspended between hope and hell. Hospital staff move past like I
don’t exist, their faces carefully neutral in the way medical professionals
perfect when dealing with families who might shatter at the wrong
expression.
“Mr. Sidorov?”
Dr. Varga’s voice cuts through the fog of my spiraling thoughts. I
look up to find him standing in surgical scrubs that are somehow too clean
— no blood, no obvious signs of crisis. But his face…
Khrenov, his face tells me everything before he speaks.
“We had to save Ilona’s life, Osip.” He sits beside me, voice gentle
but clinical. “And she’s still not out of the woods. We had to perform an
emergency procedure to stop the hemorrhaging.”
The words hit like bullets, sharp and merciless, dropping me to my
knees before I even realize I’m bleeding.
Save her life.
Still not out of the woods.
Emergency procedure.
“And I’m afraid…” He pauses, the silence stretching until I want to
wring the words from him. “She lost the baby.”
The world goes dark around me.
The baby.
Lost.
Another child gone. Gone before I could hold them, protect them,
prove I could be better.
My vision narrows to a pinpoint of light surrounded by crushing
darkness. The hospital chair beneath me might as well be a cliff’s edge.
“Let me see her.” The words scrape out in a voice I barely recognize.
“I’m sorry, you can’t right now. Maybe in a few days.” Dr. Varga’s
voice seems to be distorted by the roaring in my ears.
“Why the fuck not?” I snarl, my hands curling into fists to stop
myself from grabbing him by the throat.
It’s not his fault.
This isn’t his fault.
 Still, I can’t help wanting to kill him.
The bearer of bad news.
That’s all he is.
Don’t shoot the messenger.
Old habits die hard.
“We’re still doing checkups,” he’s saying, his voice seeming to come
from a distance, “and she’s heavily sedated. She has a severe infection—
we need to keep her in a sterile environment. Go home and get some rest.”
Rest.
As if sleep is possible when your world has just collapsed into
rubble.
I don’t remember leaving the hospital. Don’t remember the drive
home or walking through my front door. The next thing I’m aware of is the
familiar fire of vodka down my throat— premium Russian poison that
promises numbness but delivers only deeper pain.
Half the bottle disappears before my body finally surrenders to
exhaustion. I collapse onto the living room sofa still wearing yesterday’s
clothes, my expensive suit wrinkled and stained with the sweat of panic.
The nightmare comes immediately.
I’m back in that Boston house, the one I shared with Galina before
everything went to hell. But this time the details are sharper, more vivid—
horror in high definition.
Galina lies on our cream sofa, positioned with that terrible serenity
that only comes with death. A hand over her belly, the other dangles toward
our Persian rug. Beautiful. Peaceful. Gone.
But the movement beneath her dress is stronger now, more desperate.
My son— fighting for life inside his murdered mother with the kind of
determination that tells me he’s a fighter.
“Hold on, malysh,” I whisper, reaching for her belly. “Papa’s here.
Papa’s going to save you.”
The masked figure materializes from shadow like my personal
demon, black leather covering features I’ve never seen but somehow know
by heart. His hands move quickly as he produces that gleaming blade, the
one that’s carved my sanity into ribbons night after night.
But this time when he cuts, when he reaches inside and pulls out my
child, the baby isn’t the tiny, faceless infant from months of identical
nightmares.
 This time he has features. A perfect little face with Dénes’s dark eyes
and determined jaw— Péter’s son from the construction site, the boy who
builds skyscrapers from blocks and dreams of creating things that last
forever.
“Nyet!” The scream tears from my chest. “Don’t take him! He’s
mine!”
But the masked figure is already moving, cradling my son against his
chest as he glides toward the door with that horrible, weightless motion. I
struggle against invisible chains that force me to witness every second of
this fresh hell.
“You don’t deserve to keep what you love,” the figure says. “You
never learn, Sidorov.”
Then he’s gone, vanishing into darkness with my son’s cries echoing
in the night. But this time, the echo changes— becomes the sound of Ilona
sobbing, becomes Dr. Varga’s clinical voice explaining how bodies fail and
children die.
I wake up wheezing, cold sweat turning expensive sheets clammy
against my skin. My ribs feel cracked from the inside, each heartbeat a
reminder that I’m still alive while others aren’t.
Clambering out of bed, I stumble toward the bathroom and yank
open the medicine cabinet. Dr. Szabó’s sedatives rattle in their prescription
bottle— little white pills that promise peace but deliver only temporary
numbness.
I swallow two, then another pair for good measure. But chemicals
can’t shake the mind-numbing grief.
I’ve lost two children now.
And Ilona— the woman who means more to me than she should,
more than is safe— fights for her life in a sterile hospital room while
infection threatens to take her too.
Leaning my back against the wall, I slide down until I’m sitting on
the cold tiles. This is what it’s come to. The unshakeable sense that it’s my
fault.
You destroy everything you touch.
Maybe it’s penance for a lifetime of brutality. Maybe it’s the
Universe’s idea of a joke. But what should I expect? A man like me? Every
attempt at family, every grab for something pure and lasting, turns to shit.
 Maybe that’s what I deserve. Maybe some men are too stained by
violence to deserve second chances, too broken by their choices to build
anything that lasts.
But as I sit here, wallowing in guilt and sinking into the haze of
sedatives, one thing stands out.
Why them?
Why the fuck should Ilona and our child have to pay the price for
what I am?
 Chapter Fifty
Osip

I exist in a fog these days.

Not living— existing. Going through the motions like a fucking
ghost haunting my own goddamn life.
The only thing keeping me tethered is knowing Ilona is safe. Dr.
Varga discharged her three days ago, said she’ll recover fully, but she’s still
weak. Still broken. I hired a small army of staff to make sure she has
everything she needs, but we barely speak.
What’s there to say?
She manages one conversation— tells me she can’t be a surrogate
mother anymore. That it was a dead idea from the start. Her voice is hollow
when she says it, and I watch her fold into herself like she’s protecting
whatever’s left of her spirit.
I want to tell her it doesn’t matter. That I don’t give a shit about the
contract anymore. That all I care about is her staying here, with me, in this
house that finally feels like home when she’s in it. But every time I look at
her, I see the blood. I remember holding her broken body in my arms. I
remember thinking I was going to lose her too.
You killed her father, dolboyob.
The voice in my head won’t shut up. It’s right, though. Maybe it’s
better if I let whatever this is between us die a natural death. Maybe that’s
what she deserves— freedom from the animal who destroyed her family.
So I go through my days on autopilot.
Construction site. Office. Gym. Eat. Drink. Sleep. Repeat.
Even Dénes can’t crack through the numbness when I see him at the
site. He tries, makes some joke about me looking like a zombie from some
movie he watched, but the laughter won’t come. I nod, grunt responses,
pretend I’m listening. I’m not. I’m wallowing in grief. In guilt. In emotions
that feel like too much fucking self-pity.
The blueprints spread across my desk might as well be written in
ancient Greek. Numbers blur together. Measurements mean nothing. I’m
staring at them when my phone buzzes. Radimir’s name flashes on the
screen.
 “Da?”
“Are you sitting?” His voice is strange. Tight. Different from his
usual rapid-fire delivery.
I frown. “Why?”
“Just sit the fuck down, Osip.”
Something cold sinks in my gut. Radimir doesn’t sound like this
unless the world is about to end. I lower myself into my chair, gripping the
phone tighter. The leather creaks under my weight.
“Alright. Now talk. Why did you want me to sit?”
“Because what I’m about to tell you is…” He stops. Starts again. “It
will be hard to accept. Ready?”
My jaw clenches. “Just spit it the fuck out, mudak! What is it?”
There’s a pause. I can hear him typing in the background, the rapid-
fire clicking of keys that usually accompanies his deep dives into the dark
corners of the internet.
“Story time, bratok. I recently came across a social media post from a
nurse in Boston. She was reminiscing about the most dramatic night of her
career— a pregnant murder victim whose baby survived. She didn’t
disclose names, but the date…” Another pause. “Osip, the post went online
just a few days after Galina died.”
My throat goes dry. The room spins in front of me.
“Go on.”
“I traced the nurse. Called her pretending to be from a medical
journal, interested in extraordinary cases. She was secretive at first,
removed the post, but given the extremity of the content, it had already
gone viral. She couldn’t fully erase the digital footprint. Eventually, some
cash got her talking.”
I can feel the blood draining from my face, leaving my flesh cold and
clammy.
“She told me how they managed to save the baby through emergency
C-section. There’d been some mix-up with paperwork and they never traced
any relatives, so the baby was sent to Beacon Hill Orphanage in Boston.
They have the necessary equipment and volunteers to take care of
premature infants.”
The memory comes rushing back in an instant.
The tiny feet. The movement I’d seen through Galina’s dead
stomach. The sign that my child was still alive, still fighting. The
paramedics told me there was no way the baby survived. They lied. Or they
were wrong. Or—
“Are you suggesting…?” The words stick in my throat.
“Your son is alive, Osip. His name is Slava.”
Everything stops.
The world, my breathing, my fucking heartbeat, all stop. Then it all
comes crashing back at once. I have to hold onto the desk to keep from
falling out of my chair. The tiny movements. The kicking. He was fighting.
Even then, he was fighting to live.
Bozhe moy…
My son was fighting to live while I was running away.
“Why didn’t anyone tell us?” It comes out as a pathetic wheeze.
“Why are we just now learning about this?”
I can practically hear him shrug over the line. “You know how
bureaucracy can be. And your head was so fucked up, I doubt it even
occurred to you to go charging into a hospital demanding proof that your
child had died too. You were too busy licking your wounds, remember?
And the system sucked the baby in, like it’s supposed to in a case like this.”
The guilt hits me yet again.
I abandoned him.
My son— my flesh and blood— has been alone for months because I
was too much of a fucking coward to stay and face the consequences. Too
concerned with starting over to think about what might have survived that
nightmare.
I let him down before he even knew I existed.
“Where is he?” My voice cracks. “Where is my son?”
“Still at Beacon Hill Orphanage, apparently. I’ve got the address,
contact information for the director. They’re good people, Osip. The boy’s
been well cared for.”
Well cared for by strangers. While his father played house with
another woman and pretended his past didn’t exist.
Neveroyatnyy…
I’m already standing, already reaching for my keys. Nothing else
matters. Not the business, not the construction, not anything. My son is
alive and he’s been waiting for me.
“A year,” I say hoarsely, mentally doing the math.
 “Da. Your kid’s nearly twelve months old. Survived against all odds.
The nurses called him their miracle baby.”
Twelve months. Twelve months of milestones I missed. Twelve
months of sleepless nights someone else endured. Twelve months of first
smiles and sounds that I’ll never get back.
“Send me everything you have,” I tell him. “Address, contact
information, any records you can find.”
“Already in your email. Osip…” His voice softens slightly. “The
adoption paperwork hasn’t been filed yet. He’s still available for family
placement if next of kin comes forward.”
Next of kin. That’s me. His father. The man who should have been
there from the beginning.
“Get me a flight to Boston,” I tell him.
“Now?” he says.
“No, next year,” I snap. “Of course now, mudak!”
“I’m not sure about flight schedules from Liszt Ferenc, so there
might not be any seats available until—”
“Charter something, for fuck’s sake!” I bark back. “Jesus, Radimir,
do you need me to think for you too?”
He’s still muttering something as I hang up and call Melor as I head
for the door. He answers on the first ring.
“Brat?”
“I need you to come to my house to look after Ilona. Don’t tell her
where I am or why. I’m going to Boston right away.”
“Boston? What the fuck—?”
“My son is alive, Melor. Galina’s baby survived.”
Silence. Then: “Bozhe moy, Osip. You can count on me, bratok. Go
get your boy.”
I end the call and pause at the bottom of the stairs. Ilona is up there,
probably resting, probably still healing from the nightmare I put her
through. Part of me wants to tell her. Part of me wants to bring her with me.
But this is something I need to face alone. My son. My failure. My
chance to make it right.
The staff I hired to care for Ilona bustles around quietly, ensuring she
has everything she needs. A nurse checks on her regularly. A cook prepares
special meals to help her regain strength. They’re good people, but they’re
not me. And I’m abandoning her just like I abandoned my son.
 But I can’t stay.
Not when Slava is out there, waiting.
I grab my jacket and head for the garage. The engine roars to life, and
I peel out of the driveway like the hounds of hell are after me. Maybe they
are. Maybe this is my chance at redemption, or maybe it’s just another way
to destroy something innocent and pure.
The highway stretches ahead, and I push the accelerator harder. For
the first time in months, I feel something other than numbness. It’s not relief
— it’s terror mixed with desperate hope.
Hold on, Slava.
Papa is coming.
And this time, I won’t run away.
 Chapter Fifty-One
Osip

The next hour passes in a blur of movement and numbness.

My private jet is already fueled and waiting on the tarmac. The flight
attendant offers me food, drinks, conversation— I wave her off. I need
silence. I need to think. Or maybe I need to stop thinking entirely, because
every fucking thought leads back to the same place.
You failed him.
You failed your son, you coward.
The leather seat cushions me, but nothing can cushion the blow of
reality. Thirty thousand feet above the ground, trapped in this metal tube
hurtling through clouds, I finally let myself feel it.
My son has been alive this entire time. Growing. Learning to smile,
to laugh, to trust strangers who fed him and changed him and held him
when he cried. Strangers who became his family because his father was too
much of a fucking pizda to stay and fight for him.
The attendant dims the cabin lights, and I close my eyes, but sleep
won’t come. Instead, I see flashes of what I’ve missed. First steps that
happened without me. Tiny hands that reached for comfort from people
whose names I don’t even know. A voice calling “Papa” to someone else’s
face.
The captain’s voice crackles over the intercom. “We’ll be beginning
our descent into Boston shortly.”
Boston. The city where everything went to hell a year ago. The city
where my son has been waiting for a father who never came.
The plane touches down with a slight jolt, and I’m moving before the
engines finish winding down. My phone buzzes with a text from the driver
— black sedan, waiting outside Terminal 3. I don’t remember arranging a
car, but Radimir thinks of everything. Always has, even if I generally give
him shit.
The driver is a middle-aged man with tired eyes and calloused hands.
He takes one look at me and doesn’t try to make conversation. Smart. I slide
into the back seat and give him the address to Beacon Hill Home.
“Visiting family?” he asks as we pull away from the curb.
 I stare out the window at Boston’s familiar skyline. “Something like
that.”
The drive takes forty minutes through afternoon traffic. I watch the
city roll past— brick buildings and narrow streets, places where I used to
conduct business. Dark business. The kind that very likely led to Galina’s
death and my son’s orphaning.
We turn onto a tree-lined street, and suddenly there it is. The
orphanage rises before us like something out of a Disney movie. Red brick
with white trim, manicured gardens, children’s toys scattered across a
fenced playground. It looks safe. Wholesome. Everything I’m not.
“This is it,” the driver says, pulling up to the curb.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a wad of cash, peeling off several
hundreds. The driver’s eyes widen when he sees the amount.
“It’s way too much, sir.”
“Take your wife somewhere nice,” I tell him, already stepping onto
the sidewalk.
The orphanage’s front steps stretch before me, and I stop at the
bottom, staring up at the heavy wooden doors. Behind those doors is my
son. The boy I thought was dead. The child who’s been living without his
father.
I’m about to have the most unique and soul-crushing experience
anyone in this world has ever had. I’m going to see the owner of the tiny
feet that I saw kicking through Galina’s womb.
I’m shaking as I climb the steps. Each one brings me closer to a
reckoning I’m not prepared for. But I climb anyway, because running away
isn’t an option anymore. Not when it comes to Slava.
The reception area is warm and welcoming, with children’s artwork
covering the walls and the faint scent of cookies drifting from somewhere
deeper in the building. A young woman sits behind the front desk, her smile
bright and professional.
“Good afternoon. How can I help you?”
“I need to see someone about one of your children. Slava.” The
words sound foreign as I say them. Slava. My son has a name. A name I
didn’t give him.
Her smile falters slightly. “I’m sorry, but visits require an
appointment. Are you family?”
“I’m his father.”
 The receptionist’s eyes widen, and she fumbles for her phone.
“I… let me call the director. Please, have a seat.” She gestures to a
chair before mumbling something urgently into the receiver.
I don’t sit. I pace the small waiting area, studying the photos of
happy families on the walls. Adoption success stories. Children who found
their forever homes. Children who weren’t abandoned by their own fucking
fathers.
Footsteps on the stairs announce the director’s arrival before I see
him. A man in his fifties, graying hair framing a dusky face, with kind eyes
behind wire-rimmed glasses. His badge reads “Cameron Simpson,
Director.”
“Mr…?”
“Sidorov.” I straighten and he tilts his head to look up at me.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He extends a hand, which I shake
briskly. “Would you come with me?” He nods in the direction of the
hallway.
I follow him down a corridor lined with more photos and kids’
drawings framed in cheap, cheerful frames until we reach an office at the
end of the hall. Pushing the door open, he walks in and nods to a chair
before taking a seat across the desk.
“Now then,” he says, steepling his fingers. “I believe you claim to be
related to one of our children.”
“Slava Sidorov,” I say the surname firmly. “He’s my son.”
His expression sharpens slightly. “I see. Mr. Sidorov, you must
understand. You can’t just come in here making these claims. How am I
supposed to know you’re telling the truth?”
Blyad.
He has a point. I can tell I won’t get anywhere with this guy unless I
tell him the full story. The real story.
“Mr. Simpson.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “I need you to
understand that you can never speak a word of what I’m about to tell you.”
I slide an envelope across his desk— twenty thousand in cash. His eyes
almost pop out of his head. “Is this enough to keep your mouth shut?”
He pushes the envelope back toward me, his expression hardening.
“Mr. Sidorov, I’m not a man you can buy with money.”
“I’m not here to bribe you.” I meet his eyes, letting him see the
desperation I’ve been trying to hide. “I am here as a desperate father asking
for your help.”
Something in my voice must convince him, because he settles back
in his chair and nods. “Tell me.”
So I tell him about Galina. About the night she was murdered while
carrying my child. About the lies I was told, the way I left Boston to start
fresh, to avoid the inevitable investigation. About the months of believing
my son was dead while he was actually growing up in this building.
Simpson takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes when I finish. “This
is the most disturbing story I have heard in my thirty-year career in
childcare. I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Just let me see my son,” I say.
The silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating. Finally,
Simpson looks up at me, and the expression on his face makes my gut
clench.
“Unfortunately, Slava has been adopted, Mr. Sidorov. He is going to
have an amazing life with great parents. We… we are actually waiting for
the adoptive parents to collect him today.”
For a moment, it feels as it the planet stopped spinning.
Today.
What the actual fuck? I flew all the way from Hungary to hear…
this? My son— the child I just discovered is alive— is being taken away
from me today?
The odds of this are staggering, but considering the perpetual
clusterfuck of a life I used to live, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.
“I want to see my son,” I insist, but Simpson shakes his head.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. The adoption process has already
moved through the courts and the necessary agencies, and we’re bound by
those agreements. It’s out of our hands.”
“You don’t understand,” I say, desperation creeping into my voice.
“I’m Slava’s father. He’s my son.” I say the words as if they’ll make a
difference somehow.
“I… I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Sidorov. Laws are laws. I
can’t undo them. Even if what you’re saying is true, the system considers
Slava an orphan. My hands are tied.”
I reach for the twenty thousand on the table and slide it back to him.
Then I pull out another envelope, another twenty.
 “Mr. Simpson… if you don’t take the money for yourself, take it for
your institution. All I ask is that you let me see my son.”
Simpson stares at the money, then at me. For a long moment, neither
of us speaks. Finally, he sighs.
“Fine. I have three boys at home. I understand how you must feel.
But let me tell you something: It will be a lot harder for you if you see your
son, Mr. Sidorov. You might find it impossible to let go.”
“Just take me to him,” I repeat. I don’t care anymore about
consequences or complications. I don’t care about anything but seeing my
son. “I’m not leaving here until I see him.”
Simpson pulls out the drawer of his desk and puts the money inside.
Then he locks it with a key.
“I promise this will be invested in a good cause.” He stands,
straightening his jacket. “Let’s go.”
As we walk toward the stairs, I force myself to breathe. In a few
minutes, I’m going to see my son for the first time.
The child who survived when everyone said he couldn’t.
The boy who’s been waiting his entire life for a father who’s finally
come home.
 Chapter Fifty-Two
Ilona

The cramping hasn’t stopped.

It’s been days since the miscarriage, and my body still feels like it’s
turning itself inside out. Every breath comes with a sharp reminder of what
I’ve lost— not just the pregnancy, but the hope I didn’t want to believe I
was carrying. The possibility of something beautiful with Osip, something
that could have transcended whatever darkness brought us together.
Osip disappeared yesterday morning without a word. No note, no
explanation, just the silence where his presence used to be. Since I got back
from the hospital, I’ve returned to the guest suite. No sense in sharing a bed
with him now that we’re no longer trying for a baby. And that hurts just as
much as everything else.
And now there’s Melor— the brother who arrived out of nowhere
when Osip vanished. He claims he doesn’t know where his brother went,
but the way his eyes slide away from mine tells a different story. Everyone
knows something I don’t. Everyone is protecting me from truths I
apparently can’t handle.
I’m so fucking tired of being protected.
My phone pings with a reminder of my appointment with Dr. Varga
this afternoon, so I call to confirm.
“Of course, Doctor is looking forward to your follow-up,” the
receptionist says with a brightness that makes me want to curl in on myself.
How could he possibly be looking forward to another inspection of my
defective womb?
“Thanks,” I say flatly before ending the call. It feels like it takes all
of my energy to change out of the pajamas I’ve taken to wearing all day,
pulling on oversized sweats that were meant to accommodate an expanding
belly that will now remain flat.
The driver is already waiting in the hallway by the time I get
downstairs. No chance of me taking my own car anywhere since everything
went to hell. It’s Osip’s instruction, but it suits me anyway. The cramping
makes it hard to focus, and I’m still paranoid about the car incident from a
few weeks ago.
 The driver remains silent as I slide into the backseat, and that suits
me fine too. Budapest streams past the window in a blur of gray buildings
and gray sky, matching the gray fog that’s settled over my thoughts since
the miscarriage.
We pull up at the curb outside the clinic and the driver moves to get
out, probably intent on opening my door.
“It’s fine,” I tell him, putting a hand on his shoulder. I don’t feel like
calling attention to myself. Right now, I’d be perfectly happy if I could just
crawl into a hole.
Just as I’m stepping out in front of the clinic, something makes me
glance across the street. A figure in a dark coat, half-hidden in the shadow
of a tram stop. For one impossible moment, my breath catches. The way he
holds himself, the way his head is tilted slightly reminds me of someone
from a lifetime ago.
Stanley.
The same broad shoulders. The same way of standing with his weight
shifted to one hip.
A tram rumbles between us, its bright yellow bulk blocking my view
for endless seconds. When it passes, the street is empty except for an
elderly woman walking a small dog.
Paranoid.
You’re being paranoid, girl.
My legs feel weak as I push through the clinic doors. Stress. Grief.
Sleep deprivation. It has to be my mind playing tricks on me, conjuring
monsters from shadows because the real world isn’t frightening enough.
Stanley Morrison has no reason to be in Budapest. He has no way of
knowing where I am.
Does he?
“Goddammit,” I mutter, shoving the irrational fear aside. Besides,
who cares if it is actually Stanley? What could he possibly do that’s worse
than what’s already happened?
“Ilona?” Dr. Varga’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. He’s
standing in the doorway of his office, concern etched into every line of his
face. “Come, please.”
His examination room smells like antiseptic and lavender— an
attempt at comfort that somehow makes everything feel more clinical. The
paper crinkles under my body as I settle onto the examination table, and Dr.
Varga pulls on latex gloves with a snap that makes me flinch.
“Tell me about the pain,” he says, his accented English careful and
precise. “Scale of one to ten.”
“Six. Maybe seven when it’s bad.” I wince as he begins palpating my
abdomen, his fingers gentle but thorough. “It’s not constant, but when it
comes…”
“Sharp? Dull? Cramping?”
“All of the above.” The pressure of his examination sends fresh
waves of discomfort through my pelvis. “And the bleeding hasn’t stopped.
It’s lighter than before, but it’s still there.”
His frown deepens as he continues the exam, pressing different areas
of my abdomen and watching my face for reactions. When I involuntarily
suck in a breath, he pauses.
“Here? This hurts?”
“Yes.”
He makes a note on his chart, then reaches for the ultrasound
equipment. The gel is cold against my skin, and the wand feels invasive as
he moves it across my lower abdomen. I turn my head away from the screen
— I don’t want to see the empty space where a life used to be growing.
“Ilona.” His voice is gentler now. “Look at me, not the screen.”
I meet his eyes, and the sympathy there makes my throat tighten.
“There appears to be some retained tissue,” he says carefully. “This is
not uncommon after a miscarriage, but it needs to be addressed. It’s what’s
causing your continued bleeding and pain.”
Retained tissue.
The clinical words sit heavy in the room between us.
“What does that mean? What needs to be done?”
“If it doesn’t resolve on its own, we may need a small procedure— a
D&C— to ensure everything is cleared properly. But first, I want blood
work and urine samples to check for infection.” He strips off his gloves and
tosses them in the medical waste bin. “I will call you with the results in the
next one to two days. If the pain becomes severe, or if the bleeding
increases significantly, you come immediately. Do not wait.”
The worry in his voice follows me out of the building like a dark
cloud.
 I’m barely ten steps onto the sidewalk when my phone rings. I reach
into my purse and pull it out. Jason’s name flashes on the screen, and
something cold settles in my stomach.
“Ilona.” His voice carries an edge that’s totally unlike his usual warm
tone— like he’s discovered something that’s changed everything. “I have
news. About your father. It’s big. You’re going to need to brace yourself.”
My heart skips a beat.
I scan the street until I spot a small park across from the clinic, just a
patch of grass with a few benches and some shady trees. My legs feel
wobbly as I make my way over and sink onto the cold metal slats.
“Tell me.”
The silence stretches out for too long, and I can practically hear Jason
wrestling with whatever he’s about to say. In the distance, a church bell
chimes the hour, each note hanging in the air like some sort of doomsday
clock.
“Ilona, what I’m about to say isn’t going to be easy for you to hear.
Your father did not die of suicide. He was murdered. The suicide was a
cover-up. I’m sorry, kiddo.”
The bench seems to drop away beneath me.
The world narrows to just Jason’s voice and the word murdered
echoes around my head. My throat closes like a fist and my heart shatters
into a thousand pieces at the same time.
Dad.
Oh my God, Dad.
But somewhere beneath the shock, somewhere in the darkest depths
of my soul, a tiny voice claws its way to the surface.
I knew it.
The thought rises from some deep place in my chest, fierce and
vindicated and absolutely terrifying.
I fucking knew it.
“Do you know who did it?” My voice sounds strange, unfamiliar
even to my own ears. Too goddamned calm, considering the bombshell he
just unloaded.
“One of his business partners. I’m sorry to say this, Ilona, but it
seems your father was involved in something very shady and frankly, quite
dangerous.”
Business partners.
 That makes no sense. Dad was a gynecologist. His business partners
were other doctors, hospital administrators, medical suppliers. What could
any of them have to do with murder?
“What are you talking about?”
Jason’s hesitation crackles through the phone line. When he finally
speaks, his voice is even gentler, like he’s breaking bad news to a child.
“I’m not sure you want to hear it.”
“Tell me!” The words explode out of me, sharp enough that a woman
walking past with a stroller glances over nervously.
“They were procuring orphaned babies for wealthy parents who
couldn’t have their own child. For astronomical fees. And besides being the
face of this operation, it seems your father was skimming these fees—
practically stealing from his business partners. When they found out…”
Jason’s voice trails off, letting me fill in the horrific blank.
Baby trafficking.
My father— gentle, healing, devoted to bringing new life into the
world— was selling babies to the highest bidder.
Nausea rises up my throat in a wave that I have to force down by
swallowing hard.
“Who killed him, Jason?” I snap. My lips feel numb as I speak, cold
and tingling, as if the warm blood’s been sucked from me. “Tell me!”
“Ilona… if I tell you the name I found, I’m putting you in a world of
danger.”
Danger.
Like the figure I thought I saw outside the clinic. Like the car that
nearly crashed a few weeks ago. Like the feeling I’ve had lately that
invisible eyes are tracking my every movement.
But right now, I don’t give a damn about any of it.
“I don’t care, Jason. I have to know!” I fight to keep my breathing
steady.
“This is not someone you want to mess with, kiddo. Even if I tell
you, you have to promise me that you never, ever go after this guy. Do you
understand me?”
The promise sits on my tongue like poison. Because part of me— the
part that’s been hollowed out by loss and betrayal and too many
unanswered questions— wants exactly that. Wants to find my father’s killer
and make them pay.
 “I promise,” I lie.
“Fine. His name is—”
“How was the appointment?” A voice cuts Jason’s words short,
leaving me unable to hear the rest of the sentence. Deep, familiar, carrying
the same protective undertone I’ve grown accustomed to over the past two
days. Melor stands beside the bench, his massive frame blocking out the
weak afternoon sun.
“Ilona?” Jason presses. “Are you there?”
“Just a minute,” I tell him.
“Ready to go?” Melor asks, looking pointedly at his watch and then
reaching for my purse.
“I’ll call you back,” I manage to tell Jason, my finger already moving
toward the end call button.
But just before I hang up, Jason’s voice cuts through the speaker,
urgent and sharp: “Ilona, I need you to be very careful, this is—”
The call ends with a soft beep, leaving me staring at Melor’s
impassive face and wondering what name just got swallowed by silence.
 Chapter Fifty-Three
Osip

Mr. Simpson leads me through corridors that stretch endlessly.

Every door we pass could be hiding my son, and the uncertainty is
eating me alive from the inside out.
When he finally stops, it’s in front of a door that looks no different
from any other. Plain wood, brass handle, unremarkable.
“You can see Slava,” he says, his voice careful and measured, “but
you can’t meet him. This is all I can do for you.”
No, goddammit!
But I force myself to nod because speaking might crack whatever’s
left holding me together.
He opens the door, revealing a room divided by glass. Observation
glass. The kind they use in police stations when they need you to identify a
body.
I step through and my world stops.
There he is.
Slava, my only son, sits on the floor of what looks like a play area—
soft mats, colorful toys scattered around him like promises of a normal
childhood. He’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen. Fair hair catches the
afternoon light streaming through windows, and every feature on his tiny
face is a mirror of my own. The nose, the shape of his eyes, even the way
he tilts his head— it’s like looking at myself three decades ago.
My son.
My flesh and blood.
Living and breathing and real.
A young woman sits beside him— early twenties, blonde, wearing
scrubs that mark her as institutional staff. She’s probably one of the
volunteers, someone who spends her days caring for children whose parents
can’t or won’t. The thought makes my chest tighten yet again.
Slava pushes himself up on unsteady legs, his balance uncertain but
determined. He takes one wobbly step, then another, before his little legs
give out and he lands hard on his diapered bottom. The impact doesn’t faze
him— he just grins and pushes himself back up again, ready to try once
more.
Those little legs.
The same little legs I saw kicking desperately against Galina’s dead
stomach that night in Boston. The memory sucks the air from my lungs—
the death, the sirens, the paramedics who told me there was no hope. But he
fought then, just like he’s fighting now. Still determined to live, to stand, to
move forward despite everything that happened to him.
“He started walking just a few days ago,” Mr. Simpson says beside
me, his voice distant and professional.
“Is that normal for his age?” I ask, wondering if my son is unusual in
any way. Because why wouldn’t I think that? Why wouldn’t I imagine that
my boy would be extraordinary?
“Every child is different,” Simpson responds. “Some of our kids are
walking at one, some prefer to crawl for longer, some even scoot on their
bottoms until they’re two.”
“Der’mo,” I say beneath my breath. No son of mine would ever drag
himself around on his ass. Never. My boy is… perfect.
I watch, almost breathless, as he tumbles, stands and falls again.
Spirited. Fearless. Just as I knew he would be. I swallow hard, blinking
quickly as my eyes begin to burn.
And then, as if summoned by some invisible force, Slava turns his
head toward the glass. Our eyes meet through the partition, and the world
goes silent except for the sound of my heart shattering into a thousand
pieces.
He stares at me with wide blue eyes— not quite my gray-blue, but
close enough to be unmistakable. The intensity of his gaze is unnerving for
a one-year-old. It’s like he can see straight through the glass into my soul,
like he recognizes something in me that he can’t name but feels in his
bones.
We stay locked like that for what feels like hours but is probably only
seconds. Neither of us blinking, neither willing to break the connection. My
chest is so tight I can barely breathe, and there’s a pressure behind my eyes
that threatens to undo me completely.
The young woman notices Slava’s fixation and follows his gaze to
the window. She can’t possibly know who I am, but she sees him staring
and takes action. Gently, she reaches for his tiny hand and waves it in my
direction.
“Say hello to the man,” I see her mouth move, though I can’t hear her
through the soundproof barrier.
Slava gives me the faintest smile as she manipulates his little hand
into a wave, but his eyes never leave mine. They’re haunted in a way that
children’s eyes should never be— like somewhere deep in his developing
consciousness, he knows this moment matters. Like he understands that
we’re supposed to be together but can’t.
He recognizes me.
The thought leaves me reeling. This tiny boy who’s never seen my
face before today, who’s been raised by strangers since birth— he knows.
Somehow, he knows. Blood calls to blood. Father to son across glass and
grief and all the mistakes that brought us here.
I raise my hand and wave back, trying to smile through the moisture
gathering at the corners of my eyes. Without thinking, I press my fingertips
against the glass as if I could somehow reach through and touch his soft
skin, hold him close, whisper all the things a father should say to his child.
“That’s enough, Mr. Sidorov.” Simpson’s hand lands heavy on my
shoulder. “You’re only torturing yourself.”
“Please.” The word comes out broken, ragged. I’ve stared death in
the face more times than I can count, negotiated with guns pointed at my
head, but nothing has ever felt as vital as this. “Let me hold him for just one
minute. To say goodbye. He is my son. My own flesh and blood.”
My voice cracks on the last words. Flesh and blood— the same
phrase I’ve used to justify a hundred violent acts, a thousand moral
compromises. But here, with my child on the other side of the glass, it
means something pure. Something worth dying for instead of killing for.
“I’m afraid you can’t, Mr. Sidorov.” His tone is final, not unkind but
immovable. “I warned you this would happen. We must go. Come.”
He guides me toward the door with gentle but firm pressure. I don’t
have the strength to resist— all my fight has been drained by sixty seconds
of looking at my son. My legs feel like they belong to someone else as we
move back into the hallway.
The corridor suddenly feels like a tomb. Every step away from that
room is a step toward a future where Slava doesn’t know my name, doesn’t
know I exist, doesn’t know how much his father wanted to be better than
the man he turned out to be.
It’s all your fault, dolboyob.
It hits me all at once— every brutal moment of the past year crashing
down like an avalanche. Galina’s death. Seeing her broken body. Meeting
Ilona and thinking maybe I could have a future, something with meaning.
Killing Igor Shiradze and watching Ilona’s world crumble when she learned
the truth. Her pregnancy— the hope that bloomed like spring after winter.
Then the miscarriage that took even that small miracle away.
And now Slava.
My son.
The child I thought was dead, living and walking and waving at
strangers while his father stands behind glass like a criminal in a lineup.
It’s too much. Even for a man who’s survived wars and betrayals and
enough violence to fill a graveyard. Even for someone who’s learned to
bury his emotions so deep they can’t hurt him. The wall I’ve built around
my heart crumbles completely, and the tears come without permission.
I collapse against the institutional wall and break down like a child
myself. Great, heaving sobs tear from deep within my chest and echo off
the sterile tiles. Years of suppressed grief pour out— for Galina, for Ilona,
for the father I’ll never get to be, for the son who will grow up thinking he
was abandoned instead of taken.
Mr. Simpson pulls a tissue from his jacket pocket and offers it
without comment. When I’ve composed myself enough to look up, his
expression is sympathetic but resolute.
“We men can’t be strong all the time, can we?” he says quietly.
I don’t respond. I just stare at nothing, like I’m lost in a void, in a
world where my son can be with me.
Simpson’s phone rings, cutting through the moment. A blessing in
disguise because I need a few moments to collect myself. He steps away to
answer, his voice dropping to professional levels.
“Yes, Mr. Vorobev,” he says. “Yes, Slava’s ready.”
The name makes my head snap up, eyes narrowing on Simpson as he
ends the call.
Vorobev.
I know that name— Leonid Vorobev, one of Boston’s most
influential venture capitalists. Old money, legitimate business, the kind of
man who collects philanthropic awards and sits on hospital boards. The
perfect adoptive father for a child with a complicated past.
Mr. Simpson returns, his expression carefully neutral. “That’s all I
could do for you, Mr. Sidorov. Slava’s adoptive parents are coming to take
him to his new home later today.”
Later today.
In a few hours, my son will disappear into a life of privilege and
proper education, designer clothes and trust funds. He’ll have everything I
could never give him— safety, respectability, a future untainted by my
bullshit.
Maybe it’s better this way.
“Rest assured, we carefully vetted all applicants,” Mr. Simpson
continues. “He’ll be in a very good, wealthy family.”
“I… understand,” I say, although my heart doesn’t fucking
understand at all. Worthless piece of meat never learned how to process
emotions like this.
His hand returns to my shoulder, heavier this time. “Let him go, Mr.
Sidorov. He’s going to have a great life.”
Let him go.
As if it’s that simple. As if I can just walk away from the only piece
of myself that’s truly innocent. As if love can be switched off like a light
when it becomes inconvenient.
My heart shatters again, finding new ways to break that I didn’t know
existed.
There is nothing I can do.
Nothing.
The truth of it settles over me. All my power, all my connections, all
the fear my name once commanded— none of it matters now. I am just a
man whose past disqualifies him from the most fundamental human right:
to raise his own child.
I straighten up, wiping the last of the tears from my face with the
back of my hand. If this is goodbye, then I’ll say it with whatever dignity I
have left. My son deserves better than to see his father fall apart completely.
Through the glass, Slava has gone back to practicing his steps,
tottering between toys under the watchful eye of his caregiver. He’s already
forgotten the man who waved at him through the window. Already moving
forward into a life where I don’t exist.
 Maybe that’s how it should be. Maybe some loves are too dangerous
to claim, some connections too toxic to pursue. Maybe the greatest act of
fatherhood I can perform is to walk away and let strangers give him the life
I never could.
But as we head toward the exit, one truth burns itself into my soul
with the permanence of a brand: I will remember every detail of this
moment for the rest of my life.
The way he smiled.
The recognition in his eyes.
The sound of his tiny hands clapping together as he celebrated his
own steps.
Slava Vorobev will grow up safe and loved… and distant.
And Osip Sidorov will carry the weight of that like a cross for
whatever years he has left.
 Chapter Fifty-Four
Ilona

The leather seat is firm against my spine as Melor takes another sharp
turn.
My phone weighs nothing in my palm, but the echo of Jason’s voice
makes my fingers cramp around it.
I know who killed your father.
The words loop in my head like a broken record. I dig my nails into
my thigh, trying to ground myself in something concrete. Something true.
“Who were you talking to back there?” Melor’s question is innocent
enough, but for some reason, I feel a surge of guilt in response. In the
rearview mirror, his pale eyes find mine. Hold them.
“Just an old friend from Boston.” I’m relieved that I can say the
words without my voice trembling.
He nods. Once. But those eyes don’t move.
Does he think I’m lying?
Oh, for God’s sake, Ilona, why would he think that?
My conscience is turning everything into a drama.
But Melor doesn’t ask questions without reason. Doesn’t speak
without purpose. Every word from him costs something.
“American friend?” he presses.
“Yes.” I glance away, focusing on the passing streetlights that streak
gold across the rain-slicked pavement.
“Business or pleasure?” The questions come soft, conversational.
Like we’re discussing the weather. But there’s something else underneath—
a careful probing that makes my stomach clench.
“Personal.”
He hums. Turns back to the road.
Breathe.
Whatever Jason has to tell me can’t be that bad, surely?
The house appears through the windshield, and as always, I’m in awe
of how grand it all is. Towering stone walls, perfectly manicured grounds,
windows that glow like jewels in the darkness. My sanctuary. My prison.
The words taste the same now.
 The circular driveway crunches under the tires as we approach the
main entrance. Security lights activate automatically, flooding the car with
harsh white light that makes my eyes water. Or maybe that’s something else
entirely.
“I’m tired,” I mumble as we park. “Going straight to bed.”
“Da. Rest well.” Melor’s voice carries that same careful neutrality,
but his reflection in the side mirror shows eyes that miss nothing.
I fumble with the door handle, my fingers suddenly clumsy. The
evening air hits my face— cool, crisp, carrying the scent of autumn leaves
and the faint diesel smell from the car’s engine. Normal smells. Innocent
smells.
Everything feels tainted now.
The front door opens before I reach it— Katya, one of the staff, her
face creased with concern. She takes one look at me and steps back, her
hands fluttering uselessly.
“Miss Ilona? Are you feeling well? Should I call—”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
She nods quickly, backing away further as I make my way across the
foyer to the staircase.
Behind me, I hear Melor’s car door slam. His footsteps on the gravel.
The front door closing with a solid thunk. Normal sounds of a normal
evening in this abnormal life.
The second floor hallway stretches before me, lined with family
portraits that aren’t my family, expensive rugs that muffle every sound. My
bedroom door sits at the end, painted white, with brass fixtures that gleam
like gold. A sanctuary within a sanctuary. Or a cell within a prison.
My bedroom door clicks shut. The sound echoes too loudly in the
silence.
Finally.
I lean against the door, pressing my back to the solid wood as I
fumble for my phone in my purse. The screen is cracked— when did that
happen?— but it still works. I scroll for Jason’s number, pushing away from
the door. Each ring stretches an eternity while I pace the space between bed
and window, my heels sinking into the thick carpet.
“Jason—”
“Ilona, Jesus, I was worried sick. What the hell happened back
there?”
 “Nothing. I got interrupted,” I say, dropping onto the bed.
“Yeah…” He pauses, and I can picture him in his old office in
Boston, probably working overtime, probably surrounded by case files and
cold coffee. Real things. Honest things. “Well, maybe it’s a good thing,
because—”
“Who did it?” The words rip out of me, raw and desperate. “Please,
Jason. I need to know.”
I stand again, unable to stay still. Walk to the window. The gardens
stretch out below, perfectly landscaped, every hedge trimmed to perfection.
Even in the darkness, I can make out the fountain in the center, probably
still running, probably still beautiful.
Another pause.
Long enough for my nerves to feel like they’re about to snap.
“I know you won’t let this go,” he says finally, and there’s defeat in
his voice. “But you have to promise me— swear to me— that you won’t do
anything stupid with this information.”
“I promise,” I lie again. It tastes like copper in my mouth. Like
blood. “Just tell me.”
Through the window, I can see Melor’s car pulling around to the
garage. The headlights sweep across the lawn.
“The person responsible for your father’s death… His name is Osip
Sidorov. Former Bratva. Maybe current— hard to tell with these guys.
That’s all I can give you, kiddo. But you need to be very careful. This isn’t
some street thug we’re talking about, alright? Ilona? Are you still there?”
He keeps talking, but I’m not listening anymore. Can’t listen. The
phone slips from my fingers, hitting the carpet with a muffled thud.
Osip Sidorov.
The name detonates in my chest as images reel through my head.
Every touch, every whispered word in the darkness. Osip, holding me.
Osip, making love to me. Osip, whose child I carried for five perfect weeks.
My father’s killer.
My knees buckle, and I grab for the windowsill, my fingers pressing
against the cold glass.
“Ilona? Ilona, answer me!”
Jason’s voice floats up from somewhere near my feet, tiny and
distant. Like he’s calling from another planet. Another universe where
daughters don’t fall in love with their fathers’ murderers.
 Finally, I manage to crouch down, retrieve the phone with trembling
fingers. Hold it to my ear.
“I have to go.”
“Hey— this is serious. You need to listen to me—”
I end the call. I can’t hear any more. Can’t process any more truth.
I’m thinking of Osip. His hands on my face when I told him about the baby.
The way his eyes went soft when he thought I wasn’t looking. The taste of
his mouth when he kissed me.
Did he know?
The question burns through my veins like poison. When he offered
me the job? When he kissed me that first night? When he held me after the
miscarriage, his strong arms wrapped around me as I sobbed for what we’d
lost?
My stomach lurches.
I sprint to the bathroom, skidding on the polished marble. I barely
make it to the toilet before my body convulses, trying to purge itself of the
impossible truth. Everything comes up— dinner, coffee, the lies I’ve been
swallowing for weeks.
The floor is cold against my knees as I collapse. Real. Solid. More
honest than anything else in this house. I press my palms flat against the
stone, trying to ground myself in something that won’t shift beneath me.
When the retching stops, I sit back on my heels. Wipe my mouth with
the back of my hand. The taste of bile coats my tongue— bitter truth in a
world of sweet deceptions.
I can’t stay here.
The thought cuts clean through the fog. I can’t breathe his air for
another second. Can’t pretend this is home when my skin crawls at the
memory of his hands. Can’t sleep in the bed where he made love to me
while knowing what he’d done to my family.
Did he know?
I don’t even know what’s keeping me anyway. The baby is gone. The
contract is meaningless. I’m nobody’s surrogate now— just a shattered
woman living with her father’s murderer.
Boston.
I need my mother. Need to hold her and let her hold me while I figure
out how to survive this. She can’t know the truth— it would destroy her
completely— but I need her presence. Her love. Something real in this
carnival of lies.
After splashing my face with cold water, I walk numbly back to the
bedroom. I retrieve my phone from where I dropped it, and check my bank
account. The screen blurs as I stare at the numbers. The money sits there,
mocking me. Blood money. Payment from my father’s killer for the
privilege of using my body to create new life. Money he deposited while
knowing exactly who I was, exactly what he’d stolen from me.
He had to know who I was.
Had to.
I have to get out of here.
I switch to a travel app, scroll through airline options with desperate
fingers. The next flight to Boston leaves in a little over three hours.
Business Class is my only option at this short notice. Costs more than I’ve
ever spent on anything. I don’t care. I’d pay anything to escape this
beautiful prison.
The booking confirmation appears on my screen— seat 12B,
departure in three hours. Real. Concrete. A way out.
I move through my room like a sleepwalker, pulling a suitcase from
the walk-in closet and stuffing it with clothing— designer dresses, silk
blouses, cashmere sweaters.
Each item feels contaminated as I throw it into the suitcase. The
emerald dress he said brought out my eyes. The black cocktail dress he
couldn’t stop touching when I wore it to dinner. The white sundress from
our weekend in the countryside, when he held my hand and talked about
baby names.
All of it rotting from the inside out.
I grab toiletries from the marble bathroom, pack them into a travel
bag without looking. Toothbrush, face wash, the prenatal vitamins I haven’t
been able to throw away. Physical evidence of dreams that died before they
could live.
From the bedroom window, I can see lights in the main house’s other
wings. The house bustles with the sounds of the staff who’ve been going
about their business since my return. Footsteps in the hallway, muffled
conversations in languages I don’t understand, the distant sound of classical
music from the kitchen radio.
 Caregivers he brought in to help me after my stay in the hospital.
Nurses, a therapist, a nutritionist— all meant to help me heal from losing
the baby. They’ve given up on bothering me, though. I haven’t wanted their
care.
No sounds of Osip’s return either. I still have no idea where he’s gone
to.
Should I leave a note? But what the fuck would I say?
Thanks for the job, sorry about the dead baby, figured out you
murdered my dad?
What do you say to someone who destroyed your world while
making you believe he was rebuilding it?
Nothing, that’s what.
Let him wonder. Let him lie awake trying to piece it together, the
way I’ve been doing since the day my world imploded. Let him feel what
it’s like to have reality shift beneath his feet.
Leave.
Leave now.
The hardest part of the entire exercise is getting out without running
the gauntlet of Osip’s security team. But they, too, have learned to give me
my space since the miscarriage. The polite fiction that I need time to grieve
gives me freedom to move through the house without questions.
Nobody’s openly mentioned it, but I know the lost pregnancy is
probably spoken of among them. Whispered conversations in corners,
worried glances, the careful way they’ve all started treating me like I might
break.
They’re not wrong.
I drag my suitcase to the door, pause with my hand on the brass
handle. This house has been my world for weeks. The place where I
dreamed of building a family, of creating something beautiful from
something that started as business. The place where I fell in love with my
father’s killer.
The irony would be funny if it didn’t feel like dying.
The hallway is empty when I peer out. Most of the staff will be
downstairs or in the service areas. My heels are loud on the marble, but I
can’t help that. Each step echoes too loudly, announcing my departure to
anyone listening.
 But nobody comes. Nobody bothers me when I step out the door and
head toward the main gates, dragging my suitcase behind me.
Thankfully, Melor is nowhere in sight, because I doubt he’d let me
go. His questions in the car proved he suspects something. Men like him
and Osip don’t survive by ignoring instincts.
Keep walking, Ilona.
Walk away.
Beyond the front gates, Budapest spreads out in all directions—
lights twinkling in the distance, traffic moving along distant highways, life
continuing as if nothing has changed.
But everything has changed.
The taxi idles outside when I drag my suitcase through the gate. I
called ahead, grateful that my voice didn’t shake when I gave the address.
The driver— a middle-aged man with kind eyes— doesn’t ask why I’m
crying. Just loads my luggage without comment and asks me what airport
gate I’m heading to.
“Terminal 2,” I manage. My voice sounds like it belongs to someone
else.
As we pull away, I don’t look back. Can’t look back. Because if I do,
I might remember the good moments. The laughter. The tenderness. The
way his eyes lit up when I told him about the baby. The way we planned to
create a new living soul together.
I might remember that I was falling in love with my father’s killer.
It doesn’t matter. Whatever game we were playing is over now. The
rules have changed. The board has been cleared.
I know who he is.
And that changes everything.
 Chapter Fifty-Five
Osip

The heavy glass doors of Beacon Hill Orphanage swing shut behind
me with a finality that echoes through my bones.
The sound might as well be the closing of a coffin lid— mine, his,
ours. The conversation with Simpson plays on repeat in my skull like a
broken record.
Slava has been adopted.
He is going to have an amazing life with great parents.
Amazing life. Great parents.
Not with me. Never with me.
The rain hits my face the moment I step outside the building, cold
and merciless as the truth I’ve just been force-fed. Boston’s autumn weather
has turned vindictive, the sky weeping the tears I refuse to shed in front of
these people. Cold trails stream down my cheeks, but I don’t bother wiping
them away.
What’s the fucking point?
My legs carry me to the bench just outside the ornate iron gate— the
same gate that’s now a barrier between me and the son who’s being torn
from me. The wrought iron is slick with rain, the metal cold enough to bite
through my expensive suit, but I collapse onto it anyway. The discomfort is
nothing compared to the gaping wound where my heart used to be.
I close my eyes and let myself break.
For the first time since Galina died and my future was destroyed, I let
the grief consume me completely. It pours out of me like blood from a
severed artery— months of denial, weeks of desperate hope, and now this
crushing, final blow.
My son is alive.
My son is being taken away from me.
My son will grow up never knowing that his father flew across an
ocean to find him, only to arrive too late.
The rain soaks through my jacket, through my shirt, through to my
skin. I don’t care. I sit there like a statue of misery, letting Mother Nature
wash away whatever dignity I have left. The cold seeps into my bones, but
it’s nothing compared to the arctic wasteland that’s opened up inside my
chest. Time passes but I’m barely aware of it.
How long have I been sitting here?
The thought drifts through my mind. Could be minutes. Could be
hours. But the rumble of an approaching engine cuts through my self-pity,
and I force my eyes open.
A massive Land Rover idles at the gate, waiting for the security
system to grant it access. Even through the rain-blurred windshield, I can
make out the registration: VOR 0014.
Vorobev.
The name burns itself into my retinas like a brand.
These are the people who are stealing my son.
Adrenaline floods my system, cutting through the haze of despair.
I’m suddenly alert, sharp. I surge to my feet, every instinct screaming at me
to act, to fight, to do something other than sit here like a broken dog. The
window on the driver’s side slides down, revealing a professional-looking
Russian couple in their mid-forties. He’s got the bearing of a man
accustomed to respect and deference. She’s elegant in that polished way
that comes from never having to worry about money.
Old money.
Clean money.
Everything I’m not.
The man’s eyes find mine through the rain, and there’s a moment of
mutual assessment. He’s probably wondering why a disheveled stranger is
loitering outside an orphanage. And me? I’m wondering how much pain I
can inflict before his security detail puts me down.
But violence won’t get me what I want. Not here. Not now.
“Da. Can I help you?” His accent is educated, refined. Boston
Russian elite, not gutter trash like me.
“Mr. Vorobev, can we speak?” The words come out in Russian.
His expression sharpens, and he kills the engine. The car door opens
with the solid thunk of German engineering, and he steps out onto the wet
pavement. Everything about him screams success— the cut of his coat, the
confidence in his posture, the way he moves like a man who’s never been
denied anything in his life.
“How do you know my name?”
 “I heard Cameron Simpson call you that on the phone not long ago.
And your vehicle registration…” I glance to the grille of his car, letting him
guess how I put two and two together.
“Ah.” His eyes rake over me, taking in my red-rimmed eyes, my
unshaven jaw, the way my expensive clothes hang on my frame like wet
rags. “I see.” There’s disdain in his voice now, the kind reserved for drunks
and derelicts. “What can I do for you, Mr…?”
“Sidorov.” The name should mean something to him, considering
that he’s the man standing between me and my son. But I know he’s never
heard it. The system didn’t know I existed until this afternoon. “Look…” I
continue. “I’m Slava’s biological father. There’s been a misunderstanding,
and I want to take my boy home.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. The only sound is the drumming
of rain on metal and concrete.
“Oh.” His tone goes from dismissive to carefully neutral. “I’m afraid
that’s impossible. Slava is our son.”
Our son.
He says it with such casual authority, such absolute certainty. As if
paperwork and legal proceedings can erase the genetic bond that connects
me to my child. As if love can be filed in triplicate and notarized.
But I stay composed. I have to. Falling apart now won’t help Slava.
“Mr. Vorobev.” I step closer, close enough to see the raindrops
beading on his expensive coat. “I may not look like it now, but I am a
wealthy man. I’m willing to pay any amount for you to cancel the adoption
process. Name your price and consider it received today.”
Money. The universal language of men like us. Surely he understands
that everything has a price, that every problem has a financial solution. I’ve
built my life on that principle.
But Vorobev shakes his head, and there’s something almost pitying in
his expression. “I don’t think you understand, Mr. Sidorov. Elena and I have
been through a lot to have a child. IVF, legal procedures, everything. We’re
not giving Slava up. He is our son.”
Their son.
Again with the possessive pronouns, the casual erasure of my
existence.
“In fact,” he continues, turning back toward his car, “it’s not us who
chose him. It is he who chose us.”
 The casual cruelty of that statement stops my heart. My son— my
flesh and blood— chose strangers over a father he’s never met. Of course
he did. What did I expect? That he’d somehow sense our connection
through the orphanage walls? And even if he did, why would he choose
trash like me?
“And now, if you’ll excuse me,” Vorobev says, his hand already on
the car door handle, “we need to go and collect our son.” He puts emphasis
on the last two words.
“Wait, please!” The desperation in my voice strips away whatever
dignity I had left. “Let’s talk this through!”
But he’s already climbing back into his fortress of steel and leather.
The engine purrs to life, expensive and well-maintained, and I’m left
standing in the rain like a beggar outside a palace gate.
The Land Rover disappears through the orphanage entrance, and I
hear the electronic locks engage behind it. The sound might as well be the
clanging of prison bars. I’m on the outside, looking in at a world where my
son exists but I don’t belong.
I pace the sidewalk like a caged animal, thinking movement will
somehow ease the terrible thoughts clawing at my skull. But rage and
frustration and pure pain keep escalating, and I find myself fumbling in my
bag for the strip of sedatives I’ve taken to carrying everywhere.
One pill.
Then another when the first does nothing to touch the raw agony
eating me alive from the inside out.
The medication combines with stress and exhaustion— I’ve been
flying all night, living on adrenaline and desperate hope— and suddenly the
world starts to blur at the edges. My eyelids feel heavy, my limbs loose and
uncoordinated. I stumble back to the bench and collapse, letting the rain
wash over me as unconsciousness threatens to pull me under.
Give up, Sidorov.
Slava deserves better than you.
Go back to Budapest and pretend this never happened.
The thought whispers through my drug-addled brain. It would be
easier. Safer. I could go back to my carefully constructed life, my expensive
club. I could pretend that the part of my soul that belongs to Slava doesn’t
exist.
 But giving up isn’t in my nature. Never has been, not even when the
odds were stacked against me and common sense screamed at me to run.
Maybe I should find a hotel, clean up, get some sleep, approach the
Vorobevs when I’m rested and rational instead of looking like a vagrant
who’s lost everything.
But sleep feels impossible. How can I close my eyes knowing my son
is so close, yet so far beyond my reach?
The sound of the massive gate grinding open jolts me out of my
spiraling thoughts. My vision swims as I force my eyes to focus, and there
it is again: VOR 0014. The license plate looms out of the rain-blurred
gloom as the Land Rover approaches the exit.
This is it.
This is the moment they drive away with my son forever.
The vehicle stops for a moment, brake lights painting the wet asphalt
red. Mrs. Vorobev— I can see her clearly now through the passenger
window— gets out to adjust her clothing. She’s elegant even in the rain, the
kind of woman who probably has never known real hardship or loss.
I push myself to my feet, swaying slightly as the sedatives war with
desperation in my bloodstream. I’m about to approach the car one final
time, to make one last plea for mercy, when I see him.
In the back seat, barely visible through the slightly tinted window, is
a tiny head crowned with fair hair. Even from this distance, even through
the glass and rain, I can make out features that mirror my own— the set of
his eyes, the shape of his nose, the stubborn line of his jaw that he inherited
from me along with my DNA.
My son.
My Slava.
And then— Christ, and then— the little head turns toward me.
Through the rain and glass and impossible distance between us, our eyes
meet. Recognition flickers in that tiny face, some inborn understanding that
defies logic and reason.
The small hand lifts in a wave.
The little lips form a word that stops my heart: “Pa-pa.”
The sound doesn’t reach me— couldn’t possibly reach me over the
rain and engine noise— but I read it on his mouth as clearly as if he’d
shouted it.
My son recognizes me.
 Knows me.
Calls to me across the void.
“SLAVA!” His name tears from my throat before I realize I’m about
to call it, and then I’m running. The rain makes the pavement slick,
treacherous, but I don’t care. Nothing matters except reaching that car,
reaching my son, bridging the gap that’s about to become permanent.
But Elena is already back in her seat, already closing the door. The
Land Rover lurches into motion just as my fingers brush the rear bumper,
and I watch helplessly as it accelerates down the street. The red tail lights
disappear around the corner, taking my son into a life where I’m nothing
but a shadow.
I stand there in the middle of the empty street, rain pouring down my
face, and feel something inside me die.
Not break.
Die.
There’s a difference. Broken things can be fixed, rebuilt, made
stronger than before. But death is final. Absolute. The part of me that
believed in redemption, in second chances, in the possibility that love might
conquer all— that part flatlines right here on this rain-soaked Boston street.
My world has ended.
Not with violence or betrayal or any of the dramatic finales I’ve
imagined for myself over the years. But with a little boy waving goodbye
from the backseat of a stranger’s car, calling for a father who failed him
before they ever had a chance to meet.
I sink to my knees on the wet asphalt, letting the rain wash away the
last traces of hope I’ve been carrying. Somewhere in this city, my son will
begin a new life with people who will love him, protect him, give him
everything I never could.
I am Osip Sidorov, and I have lost everything that ever mattered. The
rain falls harder, as if the sky itself is mourning the father I’ll never get to
be.
In the distance, thunder rolls across the Boston skyline like the sound
of a closing door.
And I am nothing.
Nothing.
 Chapter Fifty-Six
Ilona

The driver doesn’t speak on the way to the airport, which suits me
perfectly.
I need the silence to process what I’ve just done.
I actually did it.
I got out.
The city lights blur past the window, each one taking me further from
the man who’s torn my world apart. Further from the twisted love that’s
been slowly destroying me from the inside out. The evening air seeps
through the taxi’s windows, carrying the scent of freedom and fear in equal
measure.
“Terminal 2, yes?” the driver confirms again in heavily accented
English.
“Yes.” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears— hollow,
determined.
Just a few more hours and I’ll be gone.
Vanished.
Free.
But even as I think it, I know Osip will come for me. Men like him
don’t let go of what they consider theirs. And God help me, despite
everything, part of me still belongs to him.
The part that’s been slowly killing me.
The taxi slows as we approach the airport, and my stomach drops.
“I’m sorry, miss,” the driver says, pulling to the curb. “I can only park here,
a bit further away from the terminal. There are roadworks and I can’t go
closer.”
“It’s okay.” I force steadiness into my voice. “I have some time
before check-in opens.”
The driver helps me wrestle my suitcase from the trunk— the same
suitcase I’d packed in desperate silence.
I shove some notes into the driver’s hand and then the taxi disappears
into traffic, leaving me alone on the sidewalk. The wind cuts through my
cardigan, and I pull it tighter against my chest. The terminal building looms
ahead, its lights promising escape, sanctuary, a new beginning.
I start walking toward those lights. Each step takes me closer to
freedom, but the weight in my chest only grows heavier.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
My phone. Shit, where is it? I stop abruptly, nearly losing my grip on
the suitcase handle. My purse— of course. The phone keeps ringing,
insistent and shrill in the evening air.
I fumble through the contents of my bag, my fingers clumsy with
cold and adrenaline. Lipstick, wallet, keys to a life I’m leaving behind—
finally, my phone.
Dr. Tamás Varga’s name flashes on the screen.
My doctor. At this late hour?
Shit.
What now?
“Hello?” I answer, pulling my suitcase closer and balancing it against
my legs.
“Ilona, I have some news. I’ve reviewed your latest tests,” he says
briskly. There’s something in his tone— excitement? Concern? “We now
know why your symptoms didn’t go away.”
The world tilts sideways. “Oh. And why?”
“Because you are still pregnant.”
For the second time today, the phone nearly slips from my numb
fingers. The words don’t compute, don’t make sense.
I’m… what?
Pregnant?
But the blood, the cramping, the devastating loss I’d mourned—
“I… uh… How is that possible?”
“You carried non-identical twins,” Dr. Varga explains, his voice
gentle but clinical. “Two separate fetuses. You only lost one of them, and
now the other has more space and is developing well, even thriving. This is
extremely rare, especially with endometriosis. Initially, we mistook it for
one of the endometrial tumors we’d been monitoring. But, Ilona, it’s not a
tumor— it’s a living baby! This little one seems determined to make it.”
Twins.
The word reverberates through my skull. I had been carrying twins,
and one of them… one of them is still alive. Still growing. Still fighting.
 Osip’s baby.
My knees threaten to buckle. The cold wind whips around me, but I
can’t feel it anymore. Can’t feel anything except the crushing weight of this
revelation.
“So… the cramps and the spotting?” I manage to ask.
“They’re consistent with the earlier loss and your endometriosis,” he
reassures me. “But as I said, the remaining baby looks strong.” He pauses.
“I’m truly sorry we didn’t catch it earlier, Ilona. The second fetus must have
been smaller and hidden during the initial scan after your miscarriage. It’s
rare, but it happens in about one in a hundred twin pregnancies. We just
picked it up during your recent examination.”
I can’t believe it. I stand frozen on the sidewalk like a statue, the
suitcase handle cutting into my palm. My mind feels like it’s shattered into
a thousand pieces, each one screaming a different truth:
I’m going to be a mother.
I’m having my father’s murderer’s baby.
There’s a piece of Osip growing inside me, and I can never escape it.
I can never escape him.
I’m having a baby.
I’m going to be a mom!
The flight I’m supposed to catch, the new life I’m running toward—
it all seems meaningless now. How can I start over when I’m carrying the
ultimate reminder of everything I’m trying to leave behind?
“Ilona, are you there?” Dr. Varga’s voice cuts through the chaos in
my head.
What am I supposed to tell him?
Sure, I’m here, Dr. Varga, I just need to process this because the
baby’s father killed my father and I’m escaping him right now, I’m at the
airport and—
Something, or someone, snaps me out of my thoughts, and it’s not
Dr. Varga.
Cold metal presses against my spine. I jerk in shock, not immediately
comprehending what’s going on.
“What the—?” I blurt. A hand clamps over my mouth before I can
call out, fingers digging into my cheeks.
Oh God!
 The metallic taste of fear floods my mouth as I recognize the shape
pressed against my back— the unmistakable barrel of a gun.
This isn’t happening.
This can’t be happening!
My phone slips from my fingers, clattering to the pavement. Dr.
Varga’s voice becomes a distant buzz as terror floods my system.
I try to scream, but the hand over my mouth muffles everything. The
area around me is deserted— just empty concrete and shadows. I’d been so
focused on the call, so lost in the devastating news, that I hadn’t noticed the
car pulling up beside me.
Stupid!
So fucking stupid!
“Get in,” a muffled male voice growls in my ear. “If you want to live,
get the fuck inside.”
The piece of metal digs deeper into my back, and I whimper against
the hand covering my mouth. My mind races— is this Osip? Has he found
me already? But the voice is wrong, unfamiliar.
No.
This isn’t him.
A rough cloth bag is yanked over my head, plunging me into
suffocating darkness. Strong hands grab my arms, and I’m thrown forward
like a rag doll. My knee hits the car frame hard, sending pain shooting up
my leg. The door slams shut behind me, then locks, trapping me inside.
Kidnapped.
You’re being kidnapped, Ilona.
The engine roars to life, and we’re speeding through the night. I’m
pressed between two bodies— both larger than me, both silent except for
their harsh breathing. The car reeks of cigarettes and something else.
Something metallic.
Blood.
My stomach lurches, and not from the pregnancy. These aren’t Osip’s
men. I know his security detail, know their scents, their movements. These
men are strangers.
Which means they don’t know I’m pregnant.
Which means they don’t care if they hurt the baby.
Panic claws at my throat as the reality crashes over me. I’m
completely alone. Cut off from everything and everyone. The phone call to
Dr. Varga was cut short— he probably thinks we just lost connection. No
one knows where I am. Melor never saw me leave; he probably thinks I’m
safe in bed. By the time anyone realizes I’m gone, I could be anywhere.
I could be dead.
“Please,” I whisper through the bag, my voice muffled and desperate.
“Please, I—”
A sharp blow to my ribs cuts off my words. Pain explodes through
my torso, and I double over, gasping.
“Shut the fuck up,” one of them hisses. “You speak when we tell you
to speak.”
Tears sting my eyes as I curl into myself, one hand pressed against
my ribs, the other instinctively protecting my stomach.
The baby.
Oh God, what if that hit—?
What if it hurt—?
I can’t lose another one.
I can’t.
The car takes a sharp turn, throwing me sideways. My head hits
something hard, stars bursting behind my eyelids. Everything spins, and I
taste blood on my tongue.
I think of Dr. Varga’s words.
This little one seems determined to make it.
“Hold on,” I plead silently to the life growing inside me. “Please,
just hold on.”
But as the car speeds into the unknown, carrying me further from any
hope of rescue, one terrifying truth takes root in my mind.
I’m completely and utterly alone.
Nobody’s coming to save me and my baby.
And we might never see tomorrow.

End of Part 1.
CLICK HERE to continue to Part 2.
 I ran from the Bratva boss whose baby I lost.
Or so I thought.
Now I'm caring for his son... and he has no idea.

I discovered something about Osip that changed everything.

Something dark enough to make me run and leave everything behind.
Even him.

So, I disappear into a new life.

New city.
New identity.
New job as a nanny for a sweet little boy.

Until fate plays the cruelest joke of all.

The child I’m hired to care for?
Those familiar dark eyes.
That stubborn chin.
Osip Sidorov’s son.
 The child he's been fighting to get back.
The child I’m falling in love with.
The child who calls me "mama" when his adoptive parents never return.

When Osip walks through that door, the game changes completely.
Because now he’s not just fighting for custody...
He’s fighting for the family he never knew he had.

And me?
I’m about to drop the biggest secret of all.
ONE CLICK - Continue to Part 2.
 A Message From Lisa
Hello Dearest! :-)
How are you finding Ilona & Osip’s story so far? I hope you’re
enjoying it!
Before you move on to part two, can you please do me a quick favor?
It would mean the world to me if you could review this book on
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All you need to do is click here and you will land directly on the
review page. Just write your honest review and be done in a minute.

Thank you so much! :*

Also by Lisa Lovell
Tarasov Bratva
Porcelain Lies
Porcelain Vows
Korolev Bratva
Ruthless Lullaby
Ruthless Serenade
Vyronov Bratva
Ruby Mayhem
Ruby Menace

Yakov Bratva
Marble Scars
Marble Sins

Ulianov Bratva
Crimson Fury
Crimson Wrath

Vassiliev Bratva
Arrogant Beast
Heartless Liar
Ravaged Hearts

Ivanov Bratva
Scarred Devil
Fierce Sinner
Shattered Oath

Borisov Bratva
Savage Heir
Ruthless King
Damaged Empire
Brutal Prince
Reckless Vows

Box Sets
Vassiliev Bratva Series
Ivanov Bratva Series
Borisov Bratva Series
Broken Throne Series
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