Chapter Four
Ilona
The wheels screech against Boston’s tarmac, and my stomach lurches— not from the landing, but from the hollow ache that’s been gnawing at me for thirteen hours straight.
My face feels raw, salt-crusted from tears that wouldn’t stop. The passenger beside me kept shooting worried glances, but I couldn’t care less about his discomfort.
Who the hell tried to take me?
The question claws at my mind as I shuffle through the terminal like a ghost. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, too bright, too harsh. Every face in the crowd makes me flinch. Every man in a dark coat sends ice racing through my veins.
Was it Osip?
Some enemy from his blood-soaked past finally coming for what’s his?
My hand instinctively moves to my belly. The baby. God, what if they know about the baby?
Or maybe it has to do with Dad.
With what Osip did to him.
The thought makes bile rise in my throat. I swallow it down, forcing my legs to keep moving toward the exit.
What if they found out about Jason?
What if he’s in danger because of what he told me?
A flash of movement in my peripheral vision makes me spin around, heart hammering. A tall man in a gray suit disappears behind a pillar. For a split second, I swear it looked like—
Stanley.
No. Impossible. I shake my head hard enough to make my vision blur.
You’re losing it, Ilona.
You’re seeing ghosts.
I dig through my purse with shaking hands, counting crumpled bills. Enough for a cab, at least. But first— I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a shop window and wince. My feet are still conspicuously bare, and I look like I’ve been through hell.
The airport gift shop smells like stale coffee and overpriced convenience. I grab the first pair of flats I see— black canvas slip-ons that’ll have to do.
“Rough day?” the cashier asks, eyeing me strangely. I’m still a mess.
“Something like that.” I hand over twenty dollars and don’t wait for change.
Outside, the Boston air hits me like a slap— chilly and sharp, carrying the familiar scent of car exhaust and sea salt. I slide into the first yellow cab in the queue, my new shoes already feeling like freedom.
“Where to?” The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror. He’s older, maybe sixties, with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.
I give him Mom’s new address in Somerville, and he nods. “You okay, miss? You look like you’ve been through the wringer.”
“Long trip,” I manage, pressing my cheek against the cool window.
“Ah, I get it. I’ve got a daughter about your age. Sometimes life just kicks you in the teeth, you know?”
His words hit closer to home than he could know. I watch Boston blur past— familiar streets I grew up on, neighborhoods that hold a thousand memories. The further we get from the airport, the more the paranoia fades. But the ache in my chest remains.
We wind through streets lined with triple-deckers, their paint peeling from harsh New England winters. Mom’s building sits wedged between a corner bodega and a laundromat, three stories of brick and broken dreams.
“That’ll be thirty-eight fifty,” the driver says gently.
I hand him two twenties. “Keep it.”
“You sure? That’s—”
“Please. And thank you.” I need his kindness right now, even if it’s from a stranger.
He smiles in the mirror. “Take care of yourself, kid.”
I climb three flights of narrow stairs, the carpet threadbare beneath my new shoes. The hallway smells like cooking oil and old paint. Such a far cry from the house I grew up in— the one we lost after Dad died, along with everything else.
My knuckles rap against her door. One knock. Two.
Shuffling footsteps from inside, but the door doesn’t open.
Three knocks.
“Mom?” I call out. “Are you in there? It’s me.”
“Ilona?” Mom’s voice comes through the wood, shocked and muffled.
The deadbolt clicks. The chain rattles. Then the door swings open, and her face transforms— surprise melting into pure joy before concern takes over.
“Ilona! Oh my God!”
She reaches for me, and that’s all it takes. The last thread holding me together snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight. I collapse into her arms, sobbing into her shoulder like I’m five years old again and scraped my knee.
“Mom.” The word comes out broken, desperate.
Her hands stroke my hair, her voice making soft shushing sounds. But as I pull back to look at her, something stops me cold.
She’s… smaller. The soft curves that used to make her hugs feel like sinking into a cloud are gone. Her arms feel bird-thin around me. Her face is all sharp angles now, cheekbones too prominent, eyes too large in a face that’s lost its fullness.
“Mom.” My voice catches. “You’ve… you’ve lost weight.”
A shadow flickers across her features before she waves me off with forced lightness. “Lifestyle change, darling. You know, I’ve been eating better, walking more.”
But her voice wavers just enough. Just enough for me to notice the lie underneath.
What aren’t you telling me?
“Come inside, darling.”
Her apartment is a shoebox— one small room, a kitchenette barely large enough for two people to stand in together.
But she’s made it warm somehow. Bright throw pillows scattered across a secondhand pull-out couch.
A framed photo of the three of us from before everything went to hell sits on the coffee table, Dad’s arm around both of us, all of us smiling like we believed happiness was permanent.
The sight of his face makes my chest tighten.
If only you knew what I know now, Dad.
If only you knew what kind of man would destroy our family.
Mom bustles around the tiny kitchen, filling her kettle, pulling down mismatched mugs. Her movements are more careful than I remember, like she’s conserving energy.
“Sit, baby. Tell me what happened. Why didn’t you call before you came?”
I sink into the couch, and she settles across from me at the small table, wrapping her thin fingers around her mug like it’s an anchor.
Where do I even begin? How do I explain that I fell in love with a monster? That I’m carrying his child? That I ran away from the one person who made me feel alive because I can’t stomach the truth of what he is?
“In Budapest…” I start, testing the words. “I met someone.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly. “Someone special?”
“I guess you could say that.” I try not to choke on the words. “His name is Osip.” Just saying his name makes my throat tight. “We… we got close really fast. Too fast, probably.”
“What’s he like?” Mom leans forward, maternal curiosity overriding her concern. “What does he do?”
He kills people.
He destroyed our family.
“He’s… complicated.” I stare into my tea, watching steam curl upward. “Successful. Powerful. A businessman.” The words barely scrape the surface of what he is.
Should I tell her?
Should I tell her what he did to Dad?
My stomach churns at the thought. I can’t. She’s already lost so much— our house, our security, her husband. How could I tell her that the man I fell in love with, the father of her grandchild, is the one who ended her husband’s life?
It would destroy her.
Completely.
“But something went wrong?” Mom prompts gently.
“Very wrong.” My voice cracks. “I found out some things about him. Things I can’t forgive. We had a huge fight, and I… I ran.”
You’re a coward, Ilona.
Maybe you should tell her the truth.
But the words stick in my throat.
“There’s something else, Mom.” I force myself to meet her eyes. “I’m pregnant.”
Her mug freezes halfway to her lips. “Pregnant,” she repeats softly.
“Osip is the father… obviously. But he doesn’t know. And he can’t know. Ever.” My voice rises slightly as I say it and I force myself to calm down.
Mom sets down her mug with shaking hands. Tears well in her eyes as she reaches across the table to take mine.
“Oh, my sweet girl.” Her voice breaks on the words. “How far along?”
“Not far. Maybe six weeks.”
“And you’re sure you don’t want him to know?”
How can I explain that he’s a killer without telling you he killed your husband?
“I’m sure. What we had… it wasn’t real. I was living in a fantasy, and when reality hit, it all fell apart.”
The reality that I was being paid to have his baby. That none of it was what I thought it was. And there’s no way I can tell my mother any of this.
She studies my face for a long moment, and I can see her fighting the urge to ask more questions. Finally, she squeezes my hands.
“It’s okay, baby. You always have a place here. You can always come home. We’ll figure it out, don’t you worry.”
She pulls me into another hug, and I let myself sink into it, breathing in her familiar scent— lavender soap and vanilla. But even as comfort washes over me, I can’t ignore how fragile she feels. How her bones press against my palms through her thin sweater.
What’s wrong with you, Mom?
What aren’t you telling me?
The question burns in my throat, but I can’t bring myself to ask. Not yet. Not when I’m keeping secrets of my own.
Later, as evening shadows creep across the small apartment, Mom bustles around gathering blankets and pillows.
“I’m sorry the couch isn’t more comfortable,” she says, shaking out a faded quilt. “But it’s better than it looks, I promise.”
“Mom, this is perfect. Thank you.”
She tucks the sheet around the cushions, then straightens, one hand pressed briefly to her lower back.
“There are extra blankets in the closet if you get cold. And help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”
“I will.”
She hovers for a moment, like she wants to say something more, then leans down to kiss my forehead.
“I’m so glad you’re home, baby. Whatever happened over there, we’ll get through it together.”
If only you knew the whole truth.
“I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too. Try to get some sleep.”
She disappears into her bedroom, leaving me alone with the water-stained ceiling and the weight of everything I can’t say.
Hours pass, but sleep won’t come. Every sound from the neighboring units feels like it’s happening inside my skull— footsteps overhead, muffled conversations through thin walls, the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
But it’s not the cramped space keeping me awake.
It’s him.
Osip.
I can still feel his hands on my skin, still hear the way his voice went soft when he found out about the baby. The way he held me like I might disappear if he let go— desperate and possessive and achingly tender all at once.
But you’re not who I thought you were.
I roll onto my side, pulling Mom’s threadbare blanket up to my chin. The fabric smells like her— safe, familiar, home. But even here, thousands of miles away from Budapest, I can’t escape him.
Because the truth is more complicated than I want it to be.
The truth is that even knowing what he did, even knowing what kind of man he really is, a part of me still aches for him. Still feels that invisible thread pulling me back toward the darkness I ran from.
God, what kind of person does that make me?
I press my face into the pillow, but sleep won’t come. It can’t, not when my heart is still tangled up with a killer.
For better or worse.