Scarlet Chains (Sidorov Bratva #2)

Chapter One

Osip

The jet’s leather seat feels cold against my back as I settle in for the flight to Budapest.

My clothes are still damp from standing in the rain, but I can’t be bothered to change them.

Through the oval window, Boston’s skyline shrinks into gray distance, taking my son with it.

Slava’s face is burned into my retinas— the way he looked at me through the car window before his new parents carried him away.

Forever.

I press my palms against my thighs, feeling the tremor in my hands that I can’t seem to stop. The flight attendant approaches with her professional smile.

“Something to drink, Mr. Sidorov?”

“Vodka. Double.”

She nods and retreats. Smart woman— she can probably smell the violence rolling off me in waves. I’m barely keeping it together, and everyone around me seems to sense it.

The vodka slides down my throat like liquid fire, but it doesn’t touch the ache in my chest. Nothing will.

I have unlimited resources, connections in every major city, enough money to buy politicians and judges.

But I couldn’t buy my way into that orphanage.

Couldn’t buy the right to hold my own fucking son.

He’s better off without you, mudak.

The thought slides through my mind like poison.

Look what happened to Galina.

Look what you do to everyone you touch.

I down the rest of the vodka and signal for another. The alcohol sits heavy in my empty stomach— I haven’t eaten since yesterday, maybe the day before. Food feels pointless when your world has been carved hollow.

My phone sits powered off in my jacket pocket. I don’t want interruptions. Don’t want to deal with whatever crisis my brothers think needs my immediate attention. This flight is mine— a few hours of numbness before I have to face reality again.

A reality that rips my heart to pieces.

Slava will call someone else Papa. Will take his first steps toward another man’s outstretched arms. Will never know that his real father is a killer who destroys everything he claims to care about.

But there’s someone else. Someone waiting for me in Budapest who doesn’t know about the blood on my hands.

Ilona.

The thought of her softens something inside my chest. I can picture her in my kitchen, humming while she makes coffee, sunlight catching the gold in her hair.

I need to tell her about Slava. About Galina. About the son I’ll never get to raise. She’ll understand— she knows what it’s like to lose family, to have pieces of yourself torn away without warning.

I’ll tell her everything.

Almost everything.

Some secrets have to stay buried. Like the fact that I put a blade in her father’s heart. Like the fact that I was the masked stranger who touched her in that Boston club, who made her come apart in my hands before either of us knew each other’s real names.

Those truths would destroy whatever fragile thing we’ve built together. And I’m selfish enough to want to keep her, even if it means living with lies between us.

The plane touches down in Budapest with a soft bump that jolts me from my vodka-induced haze.

My legs feel unsteady as I disembark— too much alcohol, not enough sleep, and the weight of everything I’ve lost pressing down on my shoulders.

The jet bridge smells like industrial cleaner and recycled air.

I power on my phone as I walk through the terminal. The screen lights up with a cascade of notifications. Seven missed calls, all from Melor. A few texts from Radimir about some business matter. My thumb hovers over Melor’s contact info.

What the fuck could be so urgent?

He knew I was flying. Knew I’d be unreachable for hours. Whatever the fuck he thinks he’s dealing with can wait until I’ve had a chance to process what happened in Boston. I slide the phone back into my pocket without returning the calls.

The driver is waiting outside customs— a quiet man who takes one look at my face and doesn’t attempt conversation.

Smart. I settle into the back seat of the Mercedes and watch Budapest’s late-night streets blur past. The city looks different through the tinted windows, more foreign somehow.

Like I’ve been gone for months instead of days.

During the drive, I plan what I’ll say to Ilona. How I’ll explain about Galina without revealing too much about the life I used to live. How I’ll tell her about Slava without breaking down completely. She deserves to know why I’ve been carrying this grief around like a stone in my chest.

The thought of seeing her again creates a warmth in my chest that the vodka couldn’t manage. She’ll be sleeping when I get home, but maybe I’ll wake her. Maybe I’ll pull her into my arms and breathe in that vanilla scent of her hair until the world makes sense again.

The house greets me with silence.

Not the comfortable quiet of people sleeping, but something else.

Something wrong. I drop my bag in the foyer and listen to the emptiness settle around me.

No soft sounds from upstairs. No hum of the refrigerator or whisper of air through the vents.

Even the regular outdoor night bird sounds have gone silent.

“Ilona?” My voice echoes off the marble floors, bouncing back from the high ceilings. “Melor?”

The echo mocks me with its emptiness.

I move through the ground floor first, checking the kitchen where I expected to find evidence of dinner— maybe a plate left in the sink or the lingering scent of whatever she’d cooked. Nothing. The granite counters are spotless, the dishwasher empty. It’s as if no one has lived here for days.

The living room is equally sterile. Cushions arranged perfectly on the sofa, not a single book or magazine out of place.

This isn’t how Ilona leaves a room— she’s neat but lived-in, always leaving small traces of herself behind.

A coffee mug on the side table. A throw blanket draped carelessly over a chair arm.

I take the stairs two at a time, my pulse beginning to quicken. Her bedroom door stands open— unusual for any time of day. She’s private about her space, always closes the door even when she’s not inside.

I flip on the light and my stomach plummets.

Empty. Not just empty— cleaned out. The dressing room door hangs open, revealing bare hangers.

I pull open dresser drawers one by one, finding nothing but dust and old drawer liner.

Even her toiletries are gone from the bathroom— the vanilla-scented lotion, the expensive perfumes I bought for her, the delicate bottles of “woman stuff” that used to crowd the marble counter.

This isn’t someone who stepped out for a walk. This is someone who packed everything they owned and disappeared.

Where the fuck is she?

I pace back to the hallway, running my hands through my hair as I try to make sense of this. Melor should still be here— I left him to watch over her, to make sure she was safe while I was gone.

Where the fuck is he?

I stride down the hall to the guest room he’s been using.

The door is closed, which gives me a moment of hope until I push it open.

His things are still here— clothes in the closet, toiletries in the bathroom, his laptop charging on the desk.

But the bed hasn’t been slept in, and there’s no sign of him anywhere.

My phone feels heavy in my hand as I pull it out. Ilona’s number is at the top of my recent calls list. I press it and pace back toward her empty room while it rings.

Once. Twice. Then her voice, distant and professional: You’ve reached Ilona. Please leave a message.

Blyad.

I try again, wearing a path in the carpet between her bathroom and the window. Same result. On the third attempt, I don’t even get the rings— just straight to voicemail. Her phone is either dead or turned off.

The panic spreads through my chest. Ilona doesn’t turn off her phone. She’s too responsible, too careful. She checks it compulsively, always worried about missing something important.

Something has happened to her. Or someone made something happen.

I need to find Melor. Now.

I march back downstairs, taking them three at a time now. The missed calls from Melor suddenly make perfect sense— he was trying to tell me something went wrong. Something he couldn’t handle on his own.

I dial his number while pacing the length of the living room, from the fireplace to the windows overlooking the city.

“Melor,” I bark the moment he picks up.

“ Bozhe moy , finally!” His voice is tight with stress. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”

“I was flying.” I stop pacing and grip the phone tighter. “Where is Ilona?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, bratok . She’s…” He hesitates, and that pause sends cold dread racing down my spine.

“What?” The word comes out as a roar.

“Ilona is gone, Osip. I can’t find her anywhere.”

The world feels like it’s spinning around me. Gone? I lean against the window, pressing my forehead to the cool glass while the city lights blur below.

“What the fuck do you mean gone?” I push off from the window and resume pacing, more aggressively now. “Weren’t you supposed to be watching her?”

“I have no fucking idea, brat .” Melor’s voice carries defensive irritation. “She must have slipped out while I was downstairs. I checked on her room later and she was just… gone. All her things too.”

Slipped out.

Like she’s a teenager sneaking past her parents instead of a grown woman who chose to disappear.

Blyad!

I hang up on my useless brother and immediately dial Radimir. He’s the only one who might be able to help me figure out where she’s gone.

“What now, bratok ?” Radimir’s voice carries mild exasperation. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Drop whatever you’re doing. Ilona is missing.” I stride into my study and start pulling open desk drawers, looking for… what? Evidence? Clues? Something that might tell me why she ran.

There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again. “Define ‘missing.’”

“Gone. Vanished. Do you want me to spell it out for you?” I slam a drawer shut with too much force. “Her room’s cleaned out. Her phone goes straight to voicemail. I need to know where she is.”

“Alright, calm down. Give me ten minutes and I’ll trace her phone.”

Ten minutes. The longest ten minutes of my fucking life stretch ahead of me like hours. I can’t sit still, can’t think straight. I move through the house like a caged animal, checking every room again as if she might materialize from thin air.

In her bathroom, I open the medicine cabinet. Empty except for a bottle of aspirin and some cotton swabs.

Gone.

She’s fucking gone!

But why? What spooked her enough to pack everything and disappear without a word?

My phone rings. Radimir.

“Her phone last gave off a signal at Budapest airport,” he reports without preamble. “About two hours ago.”

Fuck. “Which terminal?”

“Near Terminal 2B. That’s all I can pinpoint from here.”

The airport. What the hell is she doing at the airport?

I grab my keys from the kitchen counter, adrenaline flooding my system. “I’m heading there now.”

“Osip, wait—”

But I’m already moving, slamming the front door behind me as I race toward my car. The BMW roars to life, and I tear out of the driveway with gravel spraying behind me.

The roads stretch out before me, mostly empty at this hour. Every traffic light feels like an eternity. Every slow-moving taxi becomes an obstacle between me and answers.

My mind churns through possibilities as I navigate the winding streets down from the hills. She could be meeting someone. Running away from something. Or someone could have forced her to go there.

But forced by whom? And why? The questions multiply faster than I can process them.

Terminal 2B. That’s where Radimir said her phone last pinged. But that was two hours ago— she could be anywhere by now. On a plane to God knows where, or worse, taken by someone who wanted to hurt her.

The speedometer climbs as I hit the highway toward the airport. Budapest’s lights blur past in streams of neon and shadow, but all I can think about is Ilona’s face the last time I saw her. Had she seemed worried? Scared? Was there something I missed?

If she’s running from me— if she’s figured out the truth about her father— then I might already be too late.

If someone has taken her because of what I am, what I’ve done, then I’ll burn this fucking city to the ground to get her back.

The airport exit looms ahead, and I take it fast enough to feel the BMW’s tires protest against the asphalt. Whatever I find there, whatever answers wait for me in that terminal, I’ll face them.

Because Ilona belongs with me, whether she realizes it or not.

And I don’t let go of what’s mine.