Chapter Twelve
Osip
The numbers on my computer screen blur together like broken code.
I’ve been staring at the same spreadsheet for twenty minutes, but all I can see are her eyes behind that lace mask. Eyes that roved over me with something raw and hungry that made my chest tighten.
I got home after midnight last night, the drive from The Scarlet Fox passing in a haze of her scent still in my nostrils.
Galina was fast asleep, one hand resting protectively over her swollen belly, dark hair spread across Egyptian cotton like spilled ink.
She looked peaceful. Innocent. Everything I’m not.
I should have slipped into bed beside her, should have let my wife’s presence ground me back to reality. Instead, I stood in our bedroom doorway for several minutes, watching her breathe while my mind replayed every second of what happened in that burgundy room.
The woman’s voice, defeated and honest: I’m broken in ways that can’t be fixed.
The trust in her eyes when she told a masked stranger about her health problems. The way she said it— quiet, broken, like she was confessing to murder instead of a medical condition.
Endometriosis.
She can’t have children easily. Maybe not at all.
The knowledge sits heavy in my chest. This information should be irrelevant— she’s a stranger, a masked encounter that was supposed to end when I walked out that door. But it gnaws at me anyway, this understanding of her pain, her broken dreams.
I’d tried to sleep. Tossed and turned for two hours while Galina slept peacefully beside me, her pregnancy-deepened breathing a constant reminder of what I was betraying just by thinking about another woman. Finally, I gave up and went to the shower.
Under scalding water, with steam filling the marble-tiled space, I’d wrapped my hand around my cock and let myself remember. Her lips parting when she saw me. The heat of her skin when I touched her cheek. The way she looked at me like I was salvation instead of damnation.
I came harder than I had in months, biting my knuckles to keep from making noise that would wake my pregnant wife. The guilt hit immediately after— sharp, acidic, the kind that burns your throat and leaves you hollow.
But even the guilt couldn’t erase the memory of her voice, the magnetic pull I felt sitting across from her in that candlelit room.
Now I’m here at my office, trying to focus on legitimate business while my thoughts are consumed by a woman whose name I’ll never know. A woman who trusted me with secrets she probably hasn’t shared with anyone else.
My secure phone buzzes against the mahogany desk, and I snatch it up. Radimir’s name flashes on the screen.
“What do you have for me?”
“ Blyad , Osip.” My younger brother’s voice carries exhaustion and something sharper— anger mixed with disbelief. “I’ve been digging through financial records all night. This is worse than we thought.”
I lean forward, forcing my attention away from red velvet and lace masks. “How much worse?”
“Shiradze isn’t just skimming— he’s built an entire parallel operation. I’m talking about theft going back at least three years, maybe longer.” The sound of rapid typing echoes through the phone. “You know how methodical I am with data, da ? Well, this fucker has been methodical too.”
Radimir talks fast when he’s excited or angry, his words tumbling over each other like machine-gun fire.
Of my two brothers, he’s the one who lives inside computers and server farms, more comfortable with code than conversation.
But when he finds something that pisses him off, he becomes eloquent in his rage.
“Give me specifics,” I growl.
“Remember the Kowalski couple from Hartford? Shiradze told us they changed their minds, remember? Well guess what— they paid four hundred thousand for twin boys through ‘Dr. Shiradze’s private practice’. We never saw a kopeck of that money. According to our books, that placement never happened.”
My jaw tightens. “Keep going.”
“The Richmond family in Newport— three hundred fifty thousand for a healthy newborn girl. The Castellanos in Manhattan— five hundred thousand for what they were told was a rare ‘expedited placement.’ All of them think they dealt exclusively with Igor’s medical practice.
None of them even heard the name Sidorov. ”
Each revelation builds the anger inside me. Igor hasn’t just been stealing money— he’s been stealing clients, building his own empire while using our infrastructure and connections.
Yobani Urod!
“How many clients total?”
“That I can confirm? Fourteen major transactions in the past eighteen months alone. We’re talking about seven million dollars that never touched our accounts, Osip. Seven fucking million.”
The number reverberates through my skull like artillery fire.
Seven million dollars. Enough to run our entire operation for years or to buy off half the police department.
Money that should have been split between our partnership, used to expand operations, shared according to the agreements we all signed.
“But here’s the beautiful part,” Radimir continues, his voice dripping with bitter sarcasm. “The suka is still taking his cut from our legitimate transactions. So he’s getting paid twice— once from us for the work we know about, and again from his private clients for the work we don’t.”
“The medical records?”
“Forged. He’s using real birth certificates and legal documents, but routing everything through shell companies that don’t exist on paper. Very sophisticated operation. If I didn’t know what to look for, I never would have found it.”
I close my eyes, processing the scope of Igor’s betrayal.
This isn’t opportunistic theft— it’s strategic warfare.
While I protected him from the violent realities of our business, while I handled enforcement and collection and all the ugly necessities that kept our operation running, he was building a competing empire using my own resources.
“The contacts?” I ask. “How is he finding these clients?”
“Hospital networks, fertility clinics, private practices. He’s got legitimate medical credentials, remember? He can walk into any elite medical facility and start conversations with desperate couples. Meanwhile, we’re stuck dealing with back-alley introductions and word-of-mouth referrals.”
The strategy is brilliant in its simplicity. Igor presents himself as the respectable face of adoption services while I remain the criminal in the shadows. Clients trust him because he’s Dr. Igor Shiradze, respected gynecologist, not some Russian gangster with blood on his hands.
“There’s more,” Radimir says quietly. “I found communications with lawyers, accountants, even a contact at Child Protective Services. This isn’t just about money, brat . He’s building infrastructure to completely bypass our operation.”
K chertu ublyudka!
Igor isn’t just stealing from me— he’s positioning himself to eliminate me entirely. Once his network is established, once he has enough clients and resources, he won’t need Osip Sidorov anymore.
“What about Stanley’s accusations?” I ask.
“Morrison was right about the missing money, wrong about the cause. That Henderson delivery he was screaming about? Igor took the full payment and reported it as a failed placement. Client got their baby, Igor got his money, and we got fucked.”
Everything slots into place with sickening clarity. Stanley’s rage wasn’t about imaginary money— it was about real theft that I was too blind to see. While I dismissed his accusations as paranoia and jealousy, Igor was systematically dismantling our partnership from the inside.
“How long have you known?” Radimir asks quietly.
“Suspected for a few days. Had confirmation yesterday.” I scrub my free hand over my face. “Stanley came into my office making wild accusations. I thought he was losing his shit, looking for someone to blame for his own failures.”
“Stanley Morrison is a lot of things, but he’s not stupid about money.”
True. For all his faults, Stanley has always been good with numbers and client relationships. If he noticed irregularities, I should have taken him seriously instead of dismissing him as a paranoid mudak .
“So what do we do?” Radimir asks. “This kind of betrayal… in the old country, there would be no question.”
In the old country.
In Siberia, where I learned that trust is a luxury that gets you killed. Where betrayal is answered with violence so swift and brutal that it serves as a lesson for anyone else considering disloyalty.
But this isn’t Siberia. This is Boston, where I’ve built a life based on respectability and careful distance from my past. Where I’m a legitimate businessman, not a killer figuring out the best way to eliminate a problem.
“Leave it to me,” I tell my brother.
“Osip—”
“I said leave it to me.”
The line goes dead, and I set the phone down with deliberate care. The office falls silent except for the hum of air conditioning and the distant murmur of traffic thirty floors below.
Seven million dollars.
Fourteen stolen clients.
Taking regular payments anyway.
Three years of systematic betrayal.
Igor Shiradze has been playing me for a fool while positioning himself to inherit everything I’ve built. The compassionate doctor who talks about helping families find hope, the respected professional who convinced me that our business was about more than money— all performance, all calculation.
I lean back in my leather chair, letting the familiar calm settle over me. The cold calculation that’s kept me breathing through wars, prison, business deals that could have ended with bullets instead of handshakes. When violence becomes necessary, emotion is a luxury I can’t afford.
But underneath the professional fury, something else burns. Personal betrayal. The sting of being made to look like a fool in front of my brothers, my partners. Igor didn’t just steal money— he stole my reputation, my judgment, my ability to trust my own instincts.
That’s not business.
That’s personal.
And personal betrayals require personal consequences.
I pick up my phone and dial Igor’s number, my fingers steady despite the rage building in my chest. The phone rings four times before his familiar voice answers, warm and concerned as always.
“Osip? This is unexpected. Everything alright?”
The fake concern in his tone makes my teeth clench. “Igor. We need to talk.”
“Of course. What’s on your mind?”
“Not over the phone. Dinner. Tomorrow night.”
A pause. “Tomorrow? I’m actually in New York for a medical conference. Very last-minute invitation— I literally flew out this morning. But I’ll be back early next week if—”
“When exactly?”
“Thursday evening. I land at Logan around six. Is this urgent? Because if there’s an emergency with one of our clients—”
“Thursday works. At Deuxave, eight o’clock. We have business to discuss.”
Longer silence this time. I can almost hear his head ticking, trying to read the temperature of this conversation through my tone.
“Business? Osip, if this is about any administrative issues or scheduling conflicts, I’m sure we can sort everything out quickly. You know how these medical conferences can complicate scheduling—”
“Thursday. Eight o’clock. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll see you then. Should I… is there anything specific I should prepare? Financial records or client files?”
“Just yourself, Igor. That’s all I need.”
I end the call before he can respond, setting the phone down with the same deliberate care.
Thursday gives me four days to calm the fuck down and plan this conversation.
Four days to decide exactly how to handle a man who’s been stealing from me for years while presenting himself as my most trusted partner.
Four days to figure out whether Dr. Igor Shiradze walks out of that restaurant alive.
The thought should disturb me more than it does. But as I sit in my office, surrounded by the trappings of corporate success, all I feel is the familiar weight of necessity. Some problems can be solved with lawyers and contracts. Others require more direct solutions.
Igor Shiradze chose his path when he decided to steal from me. Now he gets to live with the consequences.
Or die with them.