Chapter Six
Osip
I wake with my cock harder than steel and her voice echoing in my skull.
Galina sleeps beside me, one hand resting on her swollen belly. So far along and she still looks like porcelain— untouchable, perfect, breakable. Her breathing is deep and even, the kind of sleep that comes from a clear conscience.
I slip from the Egyptian cotton sheets without disturbing the mattress, bare feet silent as I stalk across the bedroom. The bathroom door closes with a whisper as I shut it carefully, shoulders tight with tension I can’t shake. I feel like a man who’s been fighting wars in his sleep.
The shower runs scalding, steam filling the marble-tiled space. I step under the spray and let it beat against muscles knotted with stress and unwanted arousal. The water should wash away the memory of Room Five. Of candlelight flickering across lace masks. Of tears I had no right to witness.
It doesn’t work.
My balls pull tight with a need that’s almost painful.
My hand wraps around my cock, and I’m back in that burgundy chair, watching the woman from last night break apart in front of a complete stranger.
The way she looked at me when I walked through the door— not like the dangerous bastard everyone else sees, but like something worth wanting.
Worth the restraint that nearly killed me.
Her voice was broken and honest: My boyfriend thinks I’m lying about being sick.
The memory of her pain hits harder than my physical need. Someone dismissing her suffering like it’s inconvenience rather than truth. If I knew the bastard’s name, I’d teach him what real pain feels like. Slowly.
My grip tightens on my shaft, movements rough and urgent along my slick flesh. The image of her in that chair, spilling secrets to a masked stranger, trusting me with vulnerability I didn’t earn. The way she said “holy hell” when she saw me, like I was something magnificent instead of monstrous.
Pleasure uncoils with each stroke of my fist, my palm slapping wetly against the dense mat of dark hair at the base of my cock as I pick up the pace. I see her deep eyes, those sweet lips, made for kissing. Made for wrapping around my hot flesh.
Blyad.
Release hits like violence, stealing my breath and leaving me hollow. But even as I come down from the high, she’s still there. Still talking in that broken, beautiful voice. Still looking at me like I matter.
Chert voz’mi.
I brace against the tile wall, letting the water run cold until my skin protests. Force my thoughts to business. To numbers and logistics and problems I can actually solve. The woman from Room Five is a distraction I can’t afford. A complication that leads nowhere.
But my body remembers the magnetic pull between us. The way the air changed when I entered that room. The restraint it took to walk away instead of…
Stop it, mudak.
I towel off roughly, skin raw and red from the heat. I feel composed on the surface, but there’s chaos underneath. I’ve mastered control in every aspect of my life except this. Some random woman I’ll probably never see again.
Wrapping the towel around my hips, I leave the bathroom.
The walk-in closet spans the length of the bedroom, organized precisely.
Charcoal Armani, pressed and waiting. Italian leather shoes polished to a mirror gleam.
Every piece chosen to project power, success, respectability.
The uniform of Osip Sidorov, legitimate businessman.
Galina is awake when I emerge, sitting at her antique vanity in cream silk that makes her skin glow like alabaster. She catches my reflection in the three-way mirror but doesn’t comment on how long I was in the shower or the tension radiating from every line of my body.
“Good morning, husband.” Her voice is calm, serene, never demanding more than I’m willing to give.
“Morning.” I adjust my tie briskly, fingers steady despite the storm in my head. “Sleep well?”
“The baby was restless.” She touches her belly with maternal reverence, still studying her reflection instead of me. “Dr. Martinez says it’s normal at this stage.”
Normal. Everything about Galina is normal. Predictable. Safe. She’ll be an excellent mother— patient, nurturing, undemanding. Everything our child needs. Everything I should want in a wife.
So why does normal feel like suffocation?
“I’ll be late tonight. Business.”
She nods, applying lipstick with the same careful precision she brings to everything.
Two years of marriage, and she’s never asked what kind of business keeps me out until midnight.
Never questioned the secure phones or encrypted messages.
Our arrangement suits us both— mutual benefit without messy complications.
Except now I know what messy feels like. Know that it’s masked with lace and willing to give everything to a stranger.
Get your head out of your ass, dolboyob.
I yank my thoughts back to the present. “Have a good day,” I tell my beautiful wife as I brush my lips over her forehead and then leave the room before she replies.
The garage houses my collection— Aston Martin, Bentley, Mercedes S-Class. I choose the BMW today, something understated that won’t draw attention. The engine purrs to life, German engineering at its finest. But even the familiar ritual of driving can’t quiet my thoughts.
Boston traffic crawls, and I get stuck in streets lined with history and hidden money. Brownstones that have housed four generations of the same families. Businesses built on handshake deals and old-world connections. This city runs on tradition, reputation, trust.
All things I’ve been systematically destroying for profit.
My office building rises thirty-two floors above the financial district, glass and steel reflecting clouds and ambition. The elevator carries me past floors of legitimate businesses—law firms, investment banks, consulting groups. People who earn money through intelligence rather than violence.
The thirty-second floor belongs entirely to my operation.
Reception area decorated in mahogany and leather, projecting stability and success.
My private office overlooks Boston Harbor, where ships once brought fortunes in tea and rum.
Now they bring different kinds of cargo. More valuable. More dangerous.
More lucrative for me.
I pour coffee from the machine my assistant installed— single-origin beans from Colombia, ground fresh each morning. The ritual provides structure, clears my head.
The quarterly reports spread across my desk like accusations. Columns of numbers that should tell a story of profit and growth. Instead, they now speak of betrayal in languages I’m fluent in— missing payments, redirected transfers, accounts that don’t balance.
My fingers trace patterns in the data, connecting dots that form a picture I don’t want to see. At first glance, clerical errors. System glitches. But I’ve been in this business long enough to recognize theft when it’s wearing a three-piece suit and speaking with a medical degree.
Someone with access to client payments. Someone trusted enough to handle transfers without oversight. Someone who could convince desperate couples that their money was buying legitimate adoptions.
Igor Shiradze.
The realization has me grinding my teeth.
I lean back in my leather chair, the mechanism creaking under sudden weight.
Dr. Igor Shiradze, the respectable gynecologist who gives our operation legitimacy.
The ‘Hope Merchant’ as they call him, who convinces wealthy couples that their money buys dreams, futures, the families they couldn’t create naturally.
My most trusted partner. The man I protected from the violent realities of our business.
I cross-reference payment schedules with client contact logs, fingers flying across the keyboard with increasing urgency.
The Henderson delivery Stanley was screaming about yesterday?
The payment went directly to Shiradze’s private account, never touching our books.
Same pattern with three other recent transactions worth over half a million combined.
Suka!
My coffee mug shatters against the wall, ceramic exploding like my carefully controlled composure. Dark liquid stains the off-white paint, dripping down like black blood. The sound echoes in the empty office, sharp and final.
Fucking Stanley was right. Igor hasn’t just been skimming— he’s been building his own empire. Using our connections, our reputation, our blood money to establish himself as the sole face of the operation. While I handled the dirty work, he collected the profits and the respect.
I grab my secure phone with hands that want to break things. Dial Mrs. Patterson in Greenwich, the socialite who adopted twin boys six months ago. My voice sounds steady when she answers, betraying none of the rage building in my chest.
“Mrs. Patterson? This is an administrative follow-up regarding your recent adoption. We’re conducting internal audits of our payment processing.”
“Oh, certainly. Dr. Shiradze handled everything personally. Such a compassionate man, so dedicated to helping orphaned children find wealthy families.”
Each word drives the knife deeper. “Dr. Shiradze received payment directly?”
“Of course. Four hundred thousand, as we discussed. He was very thorough about explaining the fees— medical expenses, legal processing, facility costs. I never dealt with anyone else from your organization.”
My jaw tightens. “You didn’t?”
“Well, I assumed it was just Dr. Shiradze’s practice. Very boutique, very exclusive. I never heard any other names mentioned.”
I end the call before I say something that reveals the violence building inside me.
Dial another client. Same story. Then another.
Each conversation confirms what the numbers already told me— Igor has been running a shadow operation, collecting full payments while reporting a fraction to our partnership.
By the fourth call, I’m recording. Evidence. Documentation. Proof that will stand up in court or justify what happens next.
“Mrs. Callahan, this is regarding your recent adoption. For our records, can you confirm who processed your payment?”
“Dr. Shiradze, handled everything personally. Two hundred and fifty thousand, paid to his private account as instructed. He assured me the fee covered all legal and medical expenses.” Her voice carries the relief of someone who believes she avoided the seedy side of “off-the-books” adoption. “Very professional, very discreet.”
“Did Dr. Shiradze mention working with partners? Other associates?”
“No, just his practice. He made the whole process feel so personal, not like those terrible stories you hear about black market babies.”
The irony almost makes me laugh out loud. She thinks she avoided the black market by paying Igor directly. Doesn’t realize Igor is the black market, just wearing a white coat and speaking with authority.
I end the recording and save it to encrypted storage. Six calls. Same fucking pattern. Every client thinks Igor runs a legitimate adoption service. Every payment went to his accounts. None of them ever heard the name Osip Sidorov.
The rage builds slow and steady, like a nuclear reactor approaching critical mass.
Igor’s gentle bedside manner. His passionate speeches about helping families find hope, helping orphaned and disadvantaged babies find loving parents.
His fucking gratitude every time I shielded him from the consequences of our business.
All performance. Calculation. A long con designed to position himself as the legitimate face while I remained the criminal in the shadows.
Pizdets!
I slam my fist on the mahogany desk, the impact reverberating through expensive wood. Pain shoots up my arm, but it’s nothing compared to the humiliation burning in my chest.
How long has this been happening? How much has he stolen? How many clients exist that I don’t even know about?
Trust is a luxury I can no longer afford. Vulnerability gets you killed in this world. Igor made me vulnerable by making me believe our partnership was built on shared principles of trust instead of mutual greed.
Rage burns like acid in my chest. A feeling I need to douse with something soothing. On impulse, I reach for my phone and dial again.
“Osip. Figured you’d call eventually,” says Jack from the Scarlet Fox.
“Do you know if she’ll be back?”
Long pause. “You know I can’t share details about members. Confidentiality is what keeps this place running. People trust us with their secrets.”
“How much?”
“Excuse me?”
“How much for information? When she comes in, what she asks, which room she takes.” I lean back in my chair, leather creaking. “Name your price.”
Longer pause. I can almost hear him weighing loyalty against opportunity. “This isn’t about money, Osip. It’s about trust. These people rely on discretion.”
“Fifty thousand.”
Silence stretches across the connection. The amount hangs between us like a challenge, more money than most people see in a year.
Finally: “She asked if masked nights were regular events. Whether the same people usually attended. Seemed… affected by last night.”
Affected.
The word rolls through me like expensive liquor, warming parts of my chest that have been cold for years.
“If she comes back, give her Room Five and let me know immediately.”
“Osip—”
“One hundred thousand. Cash.”
His sharp intake of breath is all the answer I need. “Room Five. I’ll call you.”
I end the call and stare at the financial records spread across my desk. Igor’s betrayal demands immediate attention, strategic response, careful planning. But all I can think about is candlelight and the sound of her breath catching when I touched her face.
She was a stranger. One night of anonymous connection that should have ended when I walked out of that room.
But she felt like the only real thing in my world.
Blyad.