Chapter Twenty-Four
Osip
The Range Rover’s engine roars as I weave through Boston’s nighttime traffic, the speedometer climbing past eighty as I take risks that would normally seem insane.
Blyad.
What the fuck is she doing there?
The question burns through my mind with every mile. Jack’s text haunts me: Still interested in the girl in Room 5? The casual phrasing can’t hide what this really is— my only chance to reach her after days of unanswered calls.
If you are, you might want to come as quick as you can.
The urgency in those words suggests more than just opportunity. Something is happening— now — and I might already be too late.
My phone sits dark on the passenger seat, a reminder of the countless calls I’ve made. She hasn’t answered once.
Maybe this is why she’s there. Looking for comfort in anonymous touch because the man who shared her bed turned out to be… what? A killer? A liar? Both?
Bullshit.
She doesn’t know.
The thought makes my jaw clench until my teeth ache. If she knows about Igor— and that’s still just speculation on my part— then she understands exactly what kind of monster she was letting into her body, her heart, her life.
The Scarlet Fox appears ahead, its discreet sign glowing in the darkness. I take the corner into the parking lot faster than I should, tires squealing against asphalt.
I’m moving before the engine fully dies, long strides carrying me toward the entrance. Every second that passes is another second she’s beyond my reach, another moment I can’t protect her from whatever drove her back to this place.
The front door opens to familiar warmth— burgundy walls, soft jazz, the scent of expensive liquor and cigars. But tonight the atmosphere feels different, charged with tension. It’s like I can taste it.
Jack spots me immediately, his expression carefully neutral. He’s polishing a glass with movements that seem almost nervous.
“Osip.” His voice carries something I can’t identify. “Wasn’t sure you’d make it.”
I approach the bar with every sense alert. The few other patrons remain absorbed in their drinks, but Jack’s attention focuses on me with uncomfortable intensity.
“Where is she?” I keep my voice low, controlled.
“Upstairs.” He sets down the glass, reaches under the bar. “Same room as before. But Osip—”
I slide a hundred-dollar bill across the polished wood, cutting off whatever he’s trying to tell me. “You’re certain it’s her?” It’s a stupid question, but I have to ask. Part of me is hoping he’ll say no, he got it wrong. The other part is certain this is my only chance of connecting with her.
Jack’s hesitation lasts a heartbeat too long before he pockets the money. His hand emerges with a locker key and a black leather mask.
“Absolutely sure.” He glances around. “You know the rules.” His voice seems cautious as he slides the items across the bar. “But you should know—”
“I know what I need to know.” I don’t have time for Jack’s complications. Whatever he’s trying to communicate can wait.
I pocket the key and mask, already turning toward the stairs. Jack’s voice follows me, urgent and low.
“Just… be careful up there.”
I roll my shoulders and don’t look back. I’m already climbing, taking steps three at a time. The upper level exists in a different world from the civilized bar below— darker, more intimate, heavy with secrets that can’t survive daylight.
At the landing, I force myself to slow down. The hallway stretches ahead, doors marked with numbers instead of names. Room 3, Room 4… Room 5 at the end, just like I remember.
But something feels wrong.
The silence up here is too complete, too heavy. During previous visits, there was always an undercurrent of life— muffled conversations, soft laughter, the subtle sounds of connection. Tonight, the corridor feels abandoned.
I pause outside Room 3, listening. Nothing. Room 4— same silence. It’s as if this entire wing has been cleared for… what?
Pizdets.
Something’s off.
It’s as if my instincts are trying to tell me something.
The thought carries weight from too many battles where paying attention to that whisper in the back of my skull meant the difference between breathing and bleeding out.
Blyad.
But I can’t turn back now. Whatever waits in Room 5— Ilona, answers, or both— I’ll face it. First, I need to follow protocol. Shower, change, become the anonymous figure who can approach her without the weight of our shared history crushing every word.
The bathroom mirrors my memory— marble surfaces, soft lighting, luxury that makes sins feel sophisticated. I strip with deliberate movements, hang my clothes in the provided locker. Hot water burns against my skin but doesn’t wash away the dread coiling in my stomach.
When I step out, I draw in a breath to steady myself.
Fuck.
I feel like I haven’t slept in days.
Because I haven’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face. Sometimes angry, sometimes hurt, sometimes soft with emotions I don’t deserve. The nightmares have gotten worse since Budapest— visions of violence I’m too late to prevent.
The dark circles under my eyes tell the story of a man haunted by his choices. At least the mask will hide the worst of it.
I dry off with careful movements, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought fails. This ritual is familiar— the preparation, the transformation into someone anonymous and safe. Someone who can touch and be touched without history ruining everything.
But tonight feels different. Tonight, the mask isn’t protection— it’s camouflage.
I pull on a black silk robe, tie the sash with steady fingers that don’t betray the anxiety simmering beneath my skin. Then the leather mask, black and smooth, transforming me into a shadow of who I really am.
This is the moment of truth.
The thought echoes as I leave the bathroom, footsteps silent on plush carpet. I will talk to Ilona. We will clear things up. I just have to pick the right moment to reveal that it is me, Osip Sidorov, behind this mask.
The hallway seems longer on the return journey, each step carrying me closer to a confrontation I’ve rehearsed countless times.
What will she think when I tell her the truth?
That the man who destroyed her family is the same man who worshipped her body in darkness?
How will she react when she realizes that every gentle touch, every whispered endearment in Room 5 came from hands that have taken her father from her?
I’m rehearsing the scene in my head. The explanations I’ll give, the justifications I’ll offer. How I’ll make her understand that whatever she thinks she knows, there’s more to the story. That survival sometimes requires choices that stain your soul permanently.
But even my carefully crafted explanations feel inadequate against the simple truth that she loved her father, and I am the reason he’s gone.
I stop in front of Room 5, my hand resting on the brushed steel handle. The metal feels cold against my palm.
Here goes…
Deep breaths, mudak.
The measured calm I used to find before walking into situations where hesitation meant death. But this isn’t war— this is something more terrifying. This is the moment where I either reclaim the only good thing in my life or lose it forever.
My hand tightens on the handle, begins to turn—
A sound stops me.
Muffled noises coming from behind the door.
At first, I think it’s what I half expect— sounds of intimacy, of connection. But there’s something wrong with the rhythm, something desperate and violent that freezes me in place.
First, a dull thud.
Like a body hitting furniture. Or a wall.
Then a woman screaming something.
“No! Get off me!” The voice cuts through my chest, familiar and terrified and unmistakably hers .
I recognize her voice.
Yobani urod!
Ilona!
Adrenaline floods me like a wave as every instinct honed over years of violence screams that she’s in danger. That someone is hurting her right now , while I stand here frozen like an idiot.
Ilona!
Someone is in there with her.
The thought barely forms before it’s overwhelmed by rage so pure and violent it threatens to tear me apart from the inside out. Someone is in that room with my woman. Someone is touching her, hurting her, making her scream.
Every civilized thought evaporates, replaced by cold fury that’s kept me alive through wars and prisons and betrayals that should have destroyed me.
The door handle turns under my grip. One moment it’s locked, the next it’s giving way before violence that doesn’t recognize obstacles.
I fling the door open and the sight before me makes me see red.
Ilona, pressed against the far wall in a silk robe that’s been torn open, the fabric hanging loose to reveal pale skin marked with red fingerprints.
Her eyes wide with terror that transforms into shock when she sees me.
And standing over her, one hand on her throat, the other trailing down her body with possessive familiarity—
Stanley fucking Morrison!
And he has his hands on my woman.
My woman!
Time stills into perfect, deadly clarity.
Every detail burns itself into memory— the way Stanley’s fingers are positioned around her throat like he owns her, the twisted smile spreading across his face, the sick satisfaction in his eyes when he realizes he’s been caught.
The sheer terror in her beautiful eyes, the way her chest rises and falls with panicked breathing.
Ublyudok!
What is that cunt doing here?
The sight of his hands on her skin, of her fear, of the violation already begun— it detonates something primal in my chest. This is my woman.
Mine to protect, mine to cherish, mine to fucking kill for.
And this piece of shit has his filthy hands all over her, has made her afraid, has dared to touch what belongs to me.