Chapter Five
Osip
My phone cuts through the silence of the BMW’s interior, and Radimir’s name flashes on the screen.
I consider letting it go to voicemail. I’m not in the mood for my brother’s well-meaning bullshit right now.
But I answer anyway. “What.”
“ Bratok. ” His voice is careful, measured. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. I haven’t slept more than two hours at a stretch since Ilona disappeared. Every time I close my eyes, I see Slava’s face, hear his tiny voice saying “Pa-pa.” Then I imagine Ilona walking off into the distance, taking all hope of a normal life along with her.
“Osip—”
“I said I’m fine, Radimir.”
A pause. “When’s the last time you ate something? Really ate, not just coffee and cigarettes.”
“Christ, you sound like a babushka .” I take the turn toward the construction site too sharply, tires squealing against asphalt. “I don’t need you monitoring my fucking meals.”
“You’re falling apart, bratan .”
The words hit too close to home, so I lash out. “I’m handling my business. The site’s on schedule, the books are clean, and nobody’s dead who shouldn’t be. What more do you want?”
“I want my brother back. Not this ghost who’s been walking around for the past week.”
Ghost.
That’s exactly what I feel like. A shadow of the man who used to give a shit about profit margins and power plays. Now I can barely summon the energy to care about anything beyond the next breath.
“She’s gone, Radimir. Ilona’s gone, Slava’s gone, and I’m done pretending it doesn’t matter.”
“Give her space, Osip.” His voice gentles, the way it used to when we were kids and I’d come home bloody from another fight. “Maybe she’ll call.”
“Space?” The laugh that escapes me is bitter as black coffee. “Why the fuck would she need space? Women don’t just escape you and disappear because they need space. She made up her mind.”
“You don’t know that. She needs time to process. She lost a child too. Maybe she just needs—”
“Bullshit.” I cut him off, my voice raw. “Don’t feed me that therapeutic garbage. She walked away. End of story.”
Another pause, longer this time. “She was scared, brat . Think about what she went through— falling pregnant, then losing the baby, nearly dying. She was overwhelmed.”
“She’s done with me.” The words come out flat, final. “And maybe that’s for the best. Maybe she’s smart enough to know what I am.”
“What you are is my brother. A good man who’s been through hell.”
“A good man doesn’t kill his woman’s father.” The admission slips out before I can stop it.
Radimir’s silence stretches for so long I almost think the call dropped. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. “You did what you had to do. Shiradze was stealing from us, threatening our operation—”
“He was her father. And yet another life I ended.” I give a snort.
“It’s probably better this way. Maybe some part of her sensed it and her self-preservation kicked in.
So no, Radimir, she’s not coming back. She’s not calling.
She’s not processing. She’s surviving. And that means staying as far away from me as possible. ”
I end the call before he can respond and toss the phone onto the passenger seat. The construction site comes into view ahead, all scaffolding and exposed concrete, workers swarming over the bones of what will become Scarlet Fox Budapest.
If I can find the energy to give a shit about finishing it.
The concrete dust clings to everything at the construction site— my boots, my jacket, the inside of my fucking lungs. I stand in what will eventually be the main dining room of the restaurant, watching a crew of Hungarian workers install the custom walnut paneling I’d shipped from Germany.
Expensive as fuck, but it needs to be perfect. Everything needs to be perfect.
Not that it matters anymore.
“Mr. Sidorov!” Péter’s voice cuts through the hammer strikes and drilling.
My construction manager approaches with that careful expression he’s been wearing around me lately— like I’m a wild animal that might snap.
Smart man. “The electrical contractor has questions about the lighting fixtures for the private dining area.”
I grunt and follow him toward the back of the space, where Andor, the electrician, is squatting next to an open junction box with a frown creasing his weathered face. He launches into rapid Hungarian, gesturing at blueprints spread across a sawbuck.
“He says the specifications for the chandelier don’t match the electrical load capacity,” Péter translates. “We need to upgrade the wiring or choose different fixtures.”
“Upgrade the fucking wiring.” The words come out roughly, but I don’t give a shit. “I want those chandeliers.” They’re exact replicas of the ones in Boston.
Peter nods quickly and relays the message. Andor shrugs— another few thousand euros doesn’t bother him— and gets back to work.
I should care more about the money. Should be calculating profit margins and cost overruns like I always do. But the numbers feel meaningless now, just marks on paper that have nothing to do with the hollow ache in my chest.
“Osip!”
The small voice has my head snapping up.
I turn to see Dénes racing toward me across the construction debris, his little legs pumping as he navigates around paint cans and electrical cables.
Péter’s six-year-old son beams up at me with that gap-toothed grin that’s become familiar over the past few weeks.
“Look what I found!” He holds up a small wooden block, smooth and worn from handling. “It was buried under all the sawdust!”
I crouch down to his level, forcing my features into something that might pass for a smile. The kid’s eyes are bright with excitement, completely oblivious to the darkness eating me alive from the inside.
“That’s a good find, kid. You helping your dad build?”
“Yeah! Papa says I’m his best helper.” His chest puffs out with pride. “When I grow up, I’m gonna build houses just like him. Big ones! With secret rooms and… and towers!”
“Secret rooms, huh?” I ruffle his dark hair, and for a moment, the vise around my ribs loosens. “What would you put in the secret rooms?”
“Treasure! And maybe a dragon.” His expression turns serious, as if he’s revealing state secrets. “But a nice dragon. One that protects the treasure instead of stealing it.”
Bohze moy.
Péter walks over, wiping his hands on a rag. “The kid’s been talking about you all week, boss. Thinks you’re the coolest guy in Budapest.”
Dénes nods enthusiastically. “Osip has the fastest car and the biggest house, and he knows how to fight bad guys!”
The innocence in his voice sucks the wind from me. This kid looks at me like I’m some kind of hero, not the man who puts bullets in people’s heads for a living. Not the piece of shit who killed his surrogate’s father and drove away everyone who mattered.
“He’s the cool one,” I manage gruffly.
Péter chuckles and places a protective hand on his son’s shoulder. The gesture is unconscious, automatic— the way a father shields his child from the world’s sharp edges. The way I’ll never get to do.
Because men like me don’t get to be fathers. We’re the monsters parents warn their children about.
“Come on, Dénes,” Peter says gently. “Let’s let Mr. Sidorov get back to work.”
“But I want to show him my drawing!” The boy digs in his pocket and produces a folded piece of paper, crumpled from being carried around.
He unfolds it carefully, revealing a crayon drawing of stick figures standing in front of a building.
“This is you, and this is me, and this is Papa, and this is the restaurant!”
In the drawing, all the stick figures are smiling. Even the one representing me has a wide, crooked grin and arms outstretched like I’m about to scoop up the smaller figures in a hug.
Blyad.
“That’s… that’s really good, kid.” I take the paper with hands that aren’t quite steady. “You’re a real artist.”
“You can keep it if you want! Papa says giving presents makes people happy.”
I look down at this kid— this pure, untainted little soul who sees the world as a place where dragons protect treasure and stick-figure men smile all the time— and something breaks inside me.
This is what I’ve lost. This is what Slava could have been. What Ilona’s baby could have been.
But kids like Dénes need fathers like Péter. Steady men who come home every night with sawdust in their hair and patient smiles. Men who build things. Men who don’t have blood on their hands or enemies watching from the shadows.
Men who don’t wake up in cold sweats, reaching for guns that aren’t there.
“Thank you,” I tell him, carefully folding the drawing and sliding it into my jacket pocket. “I’ll put this somewhere special.”
Dénes beams and scampers back to Péter, chattering about something he saw on the street. Péter follows him with his eyes, that protective instinct never switching off.
That’s what a real father looks like.
“Boss?” Péter’s voice brings me back to the present. “You okay? You look…”
“I’m fine,” I snap, then exhale a steadying breath, softening my tone. “Just tired.”
He nods, but I can see the concern in his expression. Everyone’s been walking on eggshells around me lately— Radimir, the crew, even the contractors. They can sense the violence simmering just under my skin.
Good. Let them be careful.
My phone buzzes against my ribs. For a split second, hope flares in my chest— maybe it’s Ilona, maybe she’s finally ready to talk— but it’s just Radimir with updates about a shipment coming through the docks.
Of course it’s not her.
She’s gone. Vanished like smoke. And Slava… Blyad , Slava is probably calling some other man “Papa” by now.
The thought almost breaks me. I shove the phone back in my pocket and stalk toward the entrance, needing air that doesn’t taste like concrete dust and broken dreams. Péter calls after me, something about approving tile samples, but I don’t stop.
Outside, the cool air bites at my face. Budapest spreads out below me, all red rooftops and church spires, the Danube cutting through it like a scar. Beautiful city. Expensive city. The kind of place where a man could build something lasting.
If he was the kind of man who deserved to build anything at all.
Dénes’s drawing crinkles in my pocket as I lean against the construction fence. In his innocent world, monsters can be heroes, and everyone gets to smile in the end.
But in the real world— my world— monsters stay monsters. And the people stupid enough to love them end up running for their lives.
Maybe that’s for the best.
Maybe Ilona was smart to disappear. Maybe Slava will grow up better without me poisoning his childhood with nightmares and blood money. Maybe some people are meant to build things, and others are meant to tear them down.
I light a cigarette and let the smoke burn my lungs, watching the workers through the windows as they piece together my vision of what the Scarlet Fox could be. They’re building something beautiful here.
Too bad I’ll never truly be able to enjoy it.
Too bad I’m too fucked up to deserve the things I want most.
But that’s the way the world works, isn’t it? The ones who can create, do. The ones who can only destroy… well, we pay for it in the end.
One way or another, we always pay.