Chapter Four
Osip
The drive home is shit.
Boston traffic moves like molasses through streets lined with homes that are rich in heritage as much as wealth, but tonight, all that money feels like a noose around my neck. I scowl through the windshield while Stanley’s bullshit echoes in my head.
Maybe your faith in the good doctor is misplaced.
Fucking pizda thinks he can storm into my office and question my judgment. Question my operation. Two years of partnership, and now he wants to cry about imaginary money.
Chert voz’mi.
But the bastard planted a seed. Igor’s weird behavior lately— the private meetings, the dodged questions, taking over more of the day-to-day shit. If Stanley’s right about anything, it’s that trust will get you killed in this business.
I pull into my driveway. The house screams old money— Federal-style mansion in Beacon Hill, the kind of place that makes tourists take pictures.
Six bedrooms, original hardwood, price tag that would make grown men weep.
All of it designed to say “successful businessman” instead of “criminal piece of shit.”
The door opens before I reach it. Galina stands there in a pink maternity dress, hand resting on her belly. Seven months pregnant and still moves like a dancer. No drama, no interrogation about where I’ve been or why I’m late. This is Galina— steady as stone, complicated as a glass of water.
“You’re late,” she says. Not angry. Just stating facts.
“Business ran long.”
She nods and locks the door behind me. “You must be tired, husband.”
I shrug. “I’ll live.”
The house smells like those lavender candles she burns constantly. Trying to make this museum feel like a home, I guess.
“Are you hungry? I kept dinner warm.”
“Not hungry.” I hang my jacket on the rack in the hall. “How was your day?”
“Productive.” She settles onto the cream sofa, careful with her belly. “I finished the nursery colors. Three greens that work for either a boy or a girl.”
She spreads paint samples on the coffee table like they’re treasure maps. The domestic shit feels surreal after today— choosing between sage and forest green while I’m wondering if my business partner is stealing from me. And where I’ll bury the body if he is.
“Green is fine,” I say, pouring vodka from the crystal decanter.
“Which green?” Patient as a saint talking to a slow child.
I glance at the samples without seeing them. “Your choice. You have good taste.”
It’s true. Galina turned this cold showpiece into something warm. She’s got a gift for making expensive things feel comfortable. But watching her arrange paint chips, I feel like I’m watching someone else’s life through glass. Here but not here.
“I thought about names today,” she says, rubbing her belly. “If it’s a boy, maybe Viktor? After your grandfather?”
Viktor. My grandfather died coughing blood at fifty-two, lungs destroyed by steel mill work. Good man who deserved better than life gave him.
“Maybe.”
Galina studies me with those calm eyes that never push for more than I’m willing to give. She’s learned to read my moods without starting fights— makes her the perfect wife for a man like me.
“Osip,” she says quietly, “you don’t have to pretend enthusiasm you don’t feel. I know this isn’t exactly your idea of fun.”
The honesty hits like cold water. We’ve never talked about it directly— the family conversations, the mutual benefits, the practical arrangement dressed up as romance.
But Galina’s not stupid. She knows what this is.
A marriage of convenience. A contract designed to give me respectability. And an heir.
“The baby will be loved,” I say. Truth. I might not have chosen this path, but I won’t punish a kid for adult decisions.
“I know.” She folds the samples with precise movements. “And you don’t need to stay celibate for my sake while I’m… unavailable. I understand men have needs.”
The words hang between us like a business deal. Practical. Reasonable. Cold as winter in Siberia.
“Galina—”
“I’m not naive, Osip. Our families brought us together because it was a good match. But I know how these marriages work. You’re discreet, you’re careful, and you come home to me.” She meets my eyes without flinching. “I won’t ask questions I don’t want answers to.”
The permission should feel liberating. Instead, it feels like being offered a candy bar when you’re starving. A quick fix when what I need is a real meal.
I finish my vodka and set the glass down too hard. “I’m going for a walk.”
“It’s late.” She pinches her lips together, and I fight down a surge of guilt. I’m not cut out for playing the dutiful husband.
“I need air.” I shrug.
Galina nods and gets up carefully, all pregnant grace. “Don’t wake me when you come in. Baby’s been restless tonight.”
She kisses my cheek— dry, polite contact that feels more like duty than affection—and heads upstairs. I listen to her footsteps, the soft closing of our bedroom door, the house settling into quiet.
Standing alone in my expensive living room, surrounded by furniture that projects exactly the right image, I feel more isolated than I did in that Siberian cell five years ago. At least there, I knew what I was fighting. A fucked-up system that I eventually learned to manipulate.
Here, I don’t know what I’m fighting.
All I know is that I’m fighting… something.
I grab my jacket and call a cab. The driver doesn’t ask questions when I give him a Back Bay address, just nods and drives. Boston at night looks different from the back seat— more honest somehow. Less concerned with keeping up appearances. A lot like me.
The Scarlet Fox sits between a boutique and an art gallery, the exterior discreet, classy. I’ve passed this place dozens of times without it standing out, which tells me they know how to keep secrets.
The vibe inside hits me immediately— warm wood, burgundy fabric, jazz at exactly the right volume. The kind of place where people come to disappear instead of to be seen. It’s good. I like it.
The bartender spots me before I reach the bar. Tall, dark hair, confident without being cocky. He gives me a smooth smile as he reaches me.
“Evening, sir. What’s your pleasure?” He leans forward, elbows resting on the polished counter.
“Vodka. Neat.” I haul a barstool over and angle a hip onto it.
Without a word, he pours Beluga— top shelf without asking. Either good instincts or expensive taste. He reaches for a towel and begins buffing wine glasses he takes from the washer nearby.
“Rough night?” he asks as I kill half the glass.
“Business.” More than just business. My brain is bursting with unanswered questions and simmering rage.
“Ah.” He keeps polishing glasses. “The kind that follows you home?”
I study his face for calculation or curiosity. Instead, there’s just professional interest— someone who’s heard plenty of sob stories and learned not to judge.
“Something like that.” I scowl into my vodka.
“I’m Jack. Bartender, occasional therapist, full-time keeper of secrets.”
No pushiness, no probing for more details. In my world, that discretion is worth gold.
“Osip.” I empty my glass in one mouthful.
“Russian?” He watches me.
“ Da .” I nod.
Jack refills without being asked. “My grandfather was Russian. Came over after the revolution with nothing but clothes and a chess set carved from whalebone.”
“Chess teaches patience. And how to think three moves ahead.” Although I’ve been known to have an entire game mapped out before I’ve even begun it.
“Speaking of thinking ahead…” Jack leans closer, voice dropping. “We host private events here. Masked nights. Anonymous encounters for people who want to forget who they are for a few hours.”
I set down my glass. “What kind of encounters?”
“Whatever kind you want. Talk, companionship, physical contact— up to the participants. No names, no personal information, no contact outside these walls.” He pauses. “No judgment, no expectations, no consequences beyond what happens in the moment.”
“Sounds like a fucking fairy tale.” I snort lightly.
“The best things usually do.” Jack’s smile is pure charm. “But sometimes we need fairy tales to remember we’re still breathing.”
The words hit deeper than they should.
When’s the last time I felt alive instead of just surviving?
Never.
“What kind of people do this?” I can’t help the curiosity that’s beginning to build.
“People who want to forget who they are. People tired of performing their lives instead of living them. Interested?”
I drain the vodka. This is insane. I have responsibilities, a pregnant wife who trusts me to be discreet. But discretion and anonymity aren’t the same thing.
“How does it work?” I shouldn’t be asking this shit. But what the hell. You only live once.
Jack shifts to something more professional. “Everyone wears masks. Random room assignment— no choosing, just fate. If you don’t like your pairing, you leave. If you do like it…” He shrugs. “That’s between you and them.”
“Security?”
“Cameras in common areas, emergency buttons in private rooms. Break the rules— reveal identity, make outside contact, violate consent— and it’s a permanent ban. We protect members because they trust us with secrets.”
I think about Galina’s careful permission, Stanley’s accusations, the weight of always being “switched on.” When’s the last time someone looked at me and saw just a man instead of a reputation?
“Interested.”
Jack nods like he expected this. “Follow me.”
The corridor behind the bar feels like entering another world. Soft lights, thick carpet, fabric-lined walls that swallow sound. Everything designed for intimacy and secrets.
He stops at a cabinet and pulls out something black and elegant— a mask that would cover the upper half of my face. The leather is butter-soft, expensive.
“No phones past this point. No weapons. No real names.” Jack hands me the mask. “What happens here stays here. What you learn about yourself is yours to keep.”
The mask feels oddly heavy in my hands; like its weight will keep my secrets. Quality craftsmanship, nothing cheap or theatrical. Crafted by someone who understands that anonymity can be a luxury.
“Room assignments are random?”
“Completely. The person inside could be a lawyer, a teacher, a socialite looking for thrills. Part of the appeal is not knowing.”
The mask changes everything when I lift it to my face. Once this goes on, I stop being Osip Sidorov— businessman, husband, criminal. I become just another anonymous figure looking for something he can’t name.
“Any advice?” The question feels foolish. I always pride myself on knowing exactly what I’m getting into. But for once in my life, I like the idea of stepping into the unknown.
Jack’s smile is mysterious. “Don’t think too much. Thinking is what brought you here.”
Blyad.
He’s right.
“Room Five,” Jack says, pointing down a hallway with numbered doors. “There’s a change room at the end of the hall, if you’d like to get washed up. Maybe change out of your clothes. Take your time. Leave whenever you want. Trust your gut.”
I nod, turning away as he leaves me standing there.
The change room is as luxurious as everything else in this place— slate floors, rain shower heads, towels thick as fur.
I strip off my suit like shedding dead skin. The day’s bullshit swirls down the drain with soap and hot water. Stanley’s accusations, Igor’s possible betrayal, Galina’s clinical permission to fuck around— all of it washes away until there’s just me and steam and silence.
The water beats against muscles gone tight from stress.
I let it run hotter than comfortable, scalding away the grime of doing business with men who’d sell their mothers for the right price.
I lather soap over a body that’s seen more than its share of hard living— scars across my ribs from street fights, the puckered bullet wound on my shoulder from a deal gone sideways in Vladivostok.
Battle trophies from a war that never ends.
I towel off and wrap the Egyptian cotton around my waist. The mask goes on, transforming me into someone else as the leather fits like a second skin. Someone without a pregnant wife or suspicious business partners or blood on his hands.
The hallway feels different when I walk through half-naked. More honest. My bare feet sink into plush carpet, and Room Five waits at the end like a question I’m not sure I want answered.
What the fuck are you doing, dolboyob?
But my hand reaches for the handle anyway. Some magnetic pull stronger than logic or caution. The need to feel something real instead of the constant performance of being Osip Sidorov.
My pulse kicks up, that familiar pre-fight adrenaline flooding my system. Except this isn’t violence waiting for me.
I don’t know what’s waiting.