Chapter Thirty-Nine
Maron
She haunts me, even in my sleep.
And I fucking hate it.
It’s early in the morning and I’m lying awake in bed, contemplating my fucked-up existence. I hate how Mindy still lingers in my thoughts. Just finished relieving myself, but all I can think about is her.
I need to find a way to support Sharon and spend time with her without her mother hovering around. But how? Take this shit to court? Yeah, right - so I can end up being the weekend dad who gets to see his daughter twice a month if he’s lucky?
Fuck that. That’s almost as bad as not seeing her at all.
A blast of ice-cold water might knock some sense into my head. I drag myself out of bed and stumble toward the bathroom, but just as I reach for the faucet, my phone starts ringing. Fucking perfect timing. Who the hell is calling at this hour? My hand freezes mid-air.
It could be Mindy.
Shit, what if Sharon needs help?
I bolt back to my room and grab my phone. Unknown number. What the fuck? This is my private line - the one only my inner circle knows about. The one I keep for emergencies. Frowning, I hit answer.
"Mr. Korolev." The female voice cuts like ice.
"Who the fuck is this?"
"Someone you need to listen to very carefully." Each word drips with predatory satisfaction. "I’m Dr. Rachel Anderson."
Fucking perfect.
Eva’s sister.
"How’d you get this number?" My voice drops dangerously low.
"Let’s just say I have... friends in interesting places."
"That supposed to impress me?"
"Consider it a preview of our discussion, Mr. Korolev."
"Cut the bullshit. I saw the CNN report."
"Good. Message received then."
"Get to the point before I hang up."
"Tramoxine’s still out there, Mr. Korolev. People are still dying."
I bite back a curse. "If this is about your sister-"
"My dead sister," she cuts in, sharp as a blade.
"Right. Sorry for your loss." My tone makes it clear I’m anything but.
"Let me be crystal clear," Rachel says. "You killed her."
A dark laugh escapes me. "That’s quite an accusation, doc."
"You and I both know what happened."
"What I know is your sister and I split up. Like adults. Whatever came after isn’t on me."
"She was depressed, vulnerable-"
"Not my fucking problem."
"She was carrying your child."
Blyad!
That lie again. My jaw clenches. Is it a lie?
"Listen carefully, Dr. Anderson," my voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "There was no test. No proof. Just a bunch of baseless accusations. We’re done here. Call this number again, and you won’t like what happens next."
"That’s not all, Mr. Korolev." Rachel’s voice turns colder, if that’s even possible.
"Enlighten me." My sarcasm drips like venom.
"Eva killed herself with your Tramoxine."
Motherfucker.
So that’s her play.
But it’s not my goddamn problem if she broke into my office, stole the key to the cabinet, and helped herself to what wasn’t hers. Not my fault if she was stupid enough to pop pills with booze.
"I never gave anything to your sister." My voice could freeze hell over.
"Spare me the act." Her tone sharpens like a knife. "Autopsy reports don’t lie."
Silence stretches between us. A waiting game.
"You’ve lost me, doc." I’m playing dumb while my mind races.
She lets out a laugh that could shatter glass. "Then let me connect the dots for you, nice and slow. Astoasium. Ring any bells? Your precious Tramoxine may be legal, but that little component isn’t. Quite the oversight on your end." She pauses, savoring the moment. "See, I’m not just Eva’s sister. I’m a clinical psychiatrist who specializes in addiction. I watched that poison eat away at her brain while I tried to save her. But astoasium? That shit’s different." Her voice cracks, but the threat beneath is steel. "When you tossed her aside, she took too much of your illegal cocktail and it killed her. Simple as that."
Shit.
"You see, Mr. Korolev," Rachel’s voice turns lethal, "being a clinical psychiatrist opened all the right doors. Her autopsy report told quite the story." She lets the words hang. "You killed my sister and her unborn child. And as both her sister and a doctor who knows exactly what was in those pills..." Her voice drops to a whisper. "I’m going to make damn sure you pay for every single milligram."
I grind my teeth, muttering curse after curse under my breath. But fuck it. If this bitch wants a war, I’ll give her one. And she won’t fucking like it.
"What do you want?" I ask, each word grinding through my teeth.
"Simple math, Mr. Korolev." Her voice is as cool as ice. "Actions have consequences. Consequences have prices."
The rage builds in my chest like a pressure cooker. "How. Much."
"Ten million. And Tramoxine disappears. Forever."
A savage laugh rips from my throat. She can’t be serious. "You’re fucking delusional, doctor."
"I expected that response." Her cool tone makes my skin crawl. "So let me be clear - this isn’t a negotiation. These are terms."
My grip threatens to shatter the phone. "Is that a threat?"
"A promise." She doesn’t miss a beat. "I’ve been studying you, Mr. Korolev. Very carefully."
"That right? And what bedtime stories have you heard about me?"
"Everything." The smug bitch says. "Your Bratva connections. Organ trade. All that blood money from your dirty deals. And Tramoxine?" Her voice cuts deeper. "Those autopsies tell quite the story. So many victims of your miracle drug."
Ublyudok!
The bitch has to die!
This isn’t some grieving sister with an axe to grind. She’s dug deep, pulled every fucking string, called in God knows how many favors. The kind of intel she has? That takes serious money and even darker connections.
"Still with me, Mr. Korolev?"
"Yeah." It comes out like gravel.
"Good. While you weigh your options, here’s one final factor to consider." A pause. "I know all about Sharon."
The rage hits like a nuclear blast. White-hot. All-consuming.
"If you so much as breathe my daughter’s name again-"
"Oh, but your daughter’s already part of this, isn’t she?" Rachel interrupts, her voice dripping honey-coated venom. "Such a precious little thing. Even with her... defect. Selective mutism, isn’t it? Such a shame. Let’s hope she stays healthy enough to overcome it."
Red bleeds into my vision. Every cell in my body screams for her blood. My knuckles crack against the phone and my heart pounds in my ears. I’m already planning how to hunt this bitch down and tear her to pieces. "Touch her and I’ll-"
"You’ll what?" She cuts through my threat like it’s nothing. "Go to the police? The media? I’m sure they’d love to hear about Tramoxine’s special ingredient. Not to mention your Greatest Hits collection." Her voice hardens. "Ten million. Tramoxine gone. Or your daughter pays for daddy’s sins. Simple math."
I’ve weathered storms before. Survived threats, blackmail, enemies. It’s the cost of doing business in my world. Hell, I could even stomach pulling Tramoxine if I had to. But threatening Sharon? That awakens something primitive. Something lethal.
"You even think about my family," my voice drops to a murderous low, "and they won’t find enough pieces to bury."
Silence stretches for three heartbeats.
"My twin sister was everything to me, Mr. Korolev." Her voice cracks with genuine pain. "You took my other half. The only thing that’ll ease this agony is watching you lose what I lost."
"And ten million buys your peace?" I spit.
"Careful with that tone." Ice crystallizes in her words. "One wrong move and your little girl vanishes. The clock’s ticking – you have forty-eight hours to make the right choice." She pauses. "And remember, Mr. Korolev, I died with Eva. I’ve got nothing left to lose."
The line goes dead, leaving me alone with my rage and one crystal-clear thought:
Rachel Anderson just signed her own death warrant.