Chapter Twenty-One
Osip
The blinds are drawn tight across the panoramic view of Boston Harbor, darkening the hotel’s penthouse suite with shadows that match my mood.
Late afternoon sun tries to creep through the gaps, but I’ve made sure this place stays as dark as I feel.
The silence presses against my skull— no noise of traffic or outdoor clamor here.
Just expensive marble floors, Italian leather furniture, and the kind of luxury that only money can buy… without the satisfaction.
I’m not leaving this fucking city without her.
I lean back in the chair, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension that’s been building there for days. My head is hollow from lack of sleep and my mouth tastes like stale vodka. I feel like hell.
Ilona.
Her name echoes in my mind, relentless and consuming.
The way she looked at me in that orphanage parking lot, like I was a stranger wearing her lover’s face.
The way she flinched when I reached for her.
The way she protected Slava from me— me , his own father— like I was some monster crawling out of her nightmares.
Maybe I am.
I reach for my phone, thumb hovering over her contact. Cameron Simpson gave me her number, along with a lecture about “respecting boundaries” and “personal space”. Fuck that. I’ve called seventeen times. Each ring that goes unanswered feels like a personal violation.
But I can’t stop.
Won’t stop.
The decision formed in my mind hours ago, settling over me like concrete hardening around rebar.
I’m going to marry her. Not just because it’ll make the legal process easier— though Simpson assures me a married couple has better chances in family court than a single Russian father with shadows in his past. No, the real reason runs deeper than legalities and logistics.
I can’t live without her.
But it’s more. It’s not about the burn when she looks at me— I’ve had fires lit under me before. It’s not even about the way she used to move under my hands like she already knew how I wanted her.
It’s my boy. The way he responded to her so naturally. And she responded to him too. Without knowing who he was, she instinctively cared for my son. Loved him, even. You can’t put a value on that. It’s priceless.
Slava needs a mother as much as I need a wife.
There’s no one else who can fill that role. No other woman who could be the mother he needs, the wife I crave, the missing piece that could make this fucked-up family complete. It has to be her.
It will be her.
I just need a plan to convince her of that.
Easier said than done, mudak.
The vodka makes everything sharper and softer at the same time. But alcohol doesn’t fix shit, useless against the fists clenched in my gut.
Ilona’s ghost won’t fucking leave.
And now, I’d trade every bullet in my clip to hear her say my name again. Not afraid. Not disappointed .
But she’s across the city, freezing me out like I’m just another problem to shut a door on.
Fine.
I’ll kick the fucking door down.
My phone buzzes against the table, and I whip my head around to check the name on the screen.
Fuck. It’s not her.
As if she’d answer my last call when she’s ignored the million before it.
It’s Melor. I consider letting it go to voicemail, my black mood not fit for human consumption, but my brother doesn’t call unless it’s important. Maybe has answers for me.
“ Da? ” I growl into the phone.
“You sound like hell, Osip.” His voice carries that familiar mix of concern and exasperation that’s been there since Galina died. “How’s Boston treating you?”
“Like shit.”
“Still no word from Ilona?”
“Not since the orphanage. No.” The words come out gruffly. “And Simpson says the legal process for Slava could take months, if not fucking years.”
There’s a pause, then Melor’s voice turns sharp as broken glass. “Well, what the fuck did you expect? This is America, not Siberia. They don’t hand over children to single Russian fathers with pages of criminal records.”
Jesus Christ, does he have to keep on about that?
The glass in my hand shatters against the table before I realize I’ve thrown it. Vodka and crystal shards spray across the polished wood, and the sharp pain in my palm tells me I’ve cut myself. Good. Physical pain I can handle.
“I am not a criminal!” The words tear from my throat. “I am Slava’s biological father!”
“Okay, you’re not a convicted criminal— at least in the US.” Melor’s voice remains annoyingly calm. “But we both know that you’re far from innocent. Don’t you think the US court looks at men like us and sees the Bratva written all over them?”
“Yobani Urod!” I roar, surging to my feet so fast the chair tips backward. “Slava is my son, mudak ! They have no right to keep us apart!”
The silence that follows stretches for a minute, filled with everything we can’t say over an international phone line. When Melor speaks again, his tone has softened to the voice he used when we were teenagers and the world was trying to break us.
“Look, bratok , I know this is eating you alive, but you need to think strategically. Getting angry solves nothing. Focus on going the legal way, for once. You can’t risk bribing an entire system when there’s this much at stake.
” He pauses, and I can almost see him choosing his words carefully.
“And if you seriously think Ilona is the best choice for a wife and for Slava’s mother, you need to prove it to her. ”
I sink back down onto the bed, scowling down at my bleeding palm. “And how do you suggest I do that?”
“You’re smart, Osip. You just need a cool head and you’ll figure it out.”
The line goes dead, and I toss the phone onto the leather sofa with deliberate force. The silence in the room feels suffocating now, filled with memories of conversations I should have had and choices I should have made differently.
But dwelling on the past won’t get me what I need.
Won’t get me her .
My chest burns with frustration, but beneath that fire, something else simmers. Something that tastes like determination and feels like steel.
Fuck this. If she won’t pick up the phone, I’ll just go and find her.
I pull on my leather jacket, checking the weapon secured at my hip out of habit. The weight of it is comforting, familiar. Enough waiting. If Ilona won’t answer my calls, I’ll find her myself. I’ll tear down this fucking city brick by brick if I have to.
Boston’s a big place, but I’ve tracked people through bigger.
I’ll start at the beginning, work my way through every connection, every lead, every shadow until I find her.
And when I find her— when , not if— I’ll make her listen.
Make her understand that we belong together, that Slava needs both of us, that this stubborn pride of hers is going to destroy the only good thing either of us has ever had.
I’m reaching for the door handle when my phone buzzes with a text. The name on the screen makes me freeze.
Jack.
From Scarlet Fox Boston.
What the fuck?
I stare at the message like it might change if I blink hard enough. Jack hasn’t contacted me in over a year, not since I disappeared to Budapest and left that life behind. He doesn’t even know I left the country, let alone that I’m back.
But why would he? He was just a bartender at a bar I should never have walked into.
The message is short, casual, like we talked yesterday instead of fourteen months ago:
Still interested in the girl in Room 5?
My pulse jumps, pounding against my throat. Room 5. I remember that room— red walls, black furniture, the scent of expensive perfume and priceless secrets.
But why is Jack asking about it now? And why does something in my gut twist with a premonition I don’t want to name?
I almost hold my breath as I type back: “Why?”
The response comes faster than my next heartbeat:
“If you are, you might want to come as quick as you can.”
I stare at the screen until the text starts to blur. Room 5. The girl in Room 5. There’s only one girl I care about in this entire city, only one woman who could make Jack think to contact me after all this time.
No.
The word screams through my mind even as my body moves without conscious thought.
No, not there.
Not like that.
But even as I deny it, pieces click together with sickening clarity.
Ilona’s been ignoring my calls for days.
She’s struggling— I could see it in the careful way she held herself, the exhaustion around her eyes.
And Scarlet Fox isn’t just any place. It’s where we met.
Where she found solace once before when her world was falling apart.
Beautiful. Broken. Looking for comfort.
From a man she doesn’t know is me.
This is the answer to your prayers, mudak.
I’m out the door and down the hall before my conscious mind catches up, footsteps muffled by plush carpet as I sprint for the elevator. The ride down feels like falling into hell, each floor bringing me closer to a reality I can’t accept but can’t ignore.
If she’s there— if my Ilona is in that place, in that room— it’s because she’s looking for something. Someone . Someone who isn’t me… yet is.
Maybe what I’m about to do is wrong on every possible fucking level, but I’m out of options. There’s only one door open to me now.
The door to Room 5.
And I’m going through it.