Chapter Thirteen
Osip
The restaurant is exactly the kind of place an honest businessman would choose—expensive enough to project success, quiet enough for conversations that shouldn’t be overheard.
I arrive early, claiming the corner booth that gives me clear sight lines to every entrance. Old habits. In my world, paranoia keeps you breathing.
I order black coffee and check my Patek Philippe. Igor’s five minutes late, which is unlike him. The good doctor prides himself on punctuality, the same way he prides himself on his reputation, his charity work, and his fucking humanitarian facade.
Ublyudok!
All bullshit, as it turns out.
My secure phone holds the evidence— recorded conversations with clients who paid him directly, financial records that don’t match our books, a pattern of theft so systematic it took Radimir days to uncover.
Igor Shiradze, the respectable gynecologist who gives our operation legitimacy, has been running his own empire while we handled the dirty work.
The betrayal tastes like copper pennies in my mouth.
When he finally appears, gliding through the restaurant like he owns the place, my blood pressure spikes.
Designer suit, confident smile, the practiced charm that makes desperate couples trust him with their darkest desires.
He looks every inch the successful doctor— except I now know he’s been buying that success with stolen money.
“Osip.” He slides into the seat across from me, immediately noting my expression. “You look like someone shot your dog.”
“Funny you should mention shooting.” I keep my voice level, controlled. “We need to talk.”
Igor’s smile falters slightly, but he maintains his composure. “About what?”
I get straight to the point. I place the manila folder on the table between us, thick with printed evidence. Financial records, transaction logs, copies of payments that went directly to his accounts instead of our shared operation.
“About the millions you’ve been stealing from our partnership.”
The color drains from his face, but he recovers quickly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t?” I flip open the folder, revealing highlighted bank statements. “Let’s go over it then. Mrs. Patterson in Greenwich. Four hundred thousand, paid directly to your private account. The Walkers in Connecticut— two hundred fifty. Should I continue?”
“Those are legitimate medical fees—”
“Cut the shit, Igor.” My patience evaporates like alcohol in fire. “I’ve spoken to the clients. They all think you run an independent adoption service. None of them know my name or Stanley’s.”
He opens his mouth to deny it again, but I’m done with his lies. I pull out my phone, queue up one of the recorded conversations, and press play without a word.
Mrs. Callahan’s voice fills the space between us: “Dr. Shiradze handled everything personally. Two hundred and fifty thousand, paid to his private account as instructed. Very professional, very discreet.”
Igor’s facade cracks like ice under pressure. His hands tremble slightly as he reaches for his water glass, and I know I’ve got him.
“That proves nothing,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction.
“It proves you’re a thieving mudak who’s been playing me for a fool.” I lean forward, voice dropping to the tone that makes grown men need a change of underwear. “How long, Igor? How long have you been running private deals?”
Sweat beads on his forehead despite the restaurant’s aggressive air conditioning.
“You don’t understand the pressure I’m under, Osip.
The medical board is asking questions. There’s a journalist sniffing around, rumors about my involvement in questionable adoptions.
A birth mother in Bulgaria is threatening to go public. ”
“So you decided to steal from us?”
“I’m the face of this fucking operation!” His voice rises before he catches himself, glancing around nervously. “The coverups aren’t cheap. Payoffs to officials, hush money to potential witnesses—”
“That’s Melor’s department. You know that.” I study his face, watching for tells. “This isn’t about expenses, you greedy pizda . This is about building your own business while using our infrastructure.”
Igor’s desperation transforms into something uglier— cornered animal aggression.
“Fine. You want the truth? The payoffs are getting more expensive. Officials want more money. Birth mothers want more. Everyone wants their cut, and I’m the one they come to because I’m respectable. I have a reputation to protect.”
“Reputation.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re a criminal, Igor. Same as me, same as Stanley. The only difference is your crimes wear a white coat.”
“I’m nothing like you.” His voice turns venomous. “I help families. I create hope. You’re just a thug with expensive suits.”
The insult hits exactly the nerve he intended. I feel the familiar ice spreading through my veins, the cold calculation that comes before violence. But I maintain control. This isn’t some street corner in Vladivostok— this is a public restaurant where witnesses have smartphones.
“You betrayed us, Igor, but I’ll give you a chance.” I say quietly. “Pay back what you stole. Every fucking kopeck. Do that, and you walk away breathing.”
Igor’s expression shifts, fear replaced by something more dangerous— arrogance. He leans forward, eyes narrowing as his voice drops to a whisper.
“Betray you? That’s rich coming from a Bratva criminal, Osip.
I’ve been in this business long enough to know where you buried all the bodies from your past— figuratively and literally.
” His smile turns cold, calculating. “Don’t think I don’t know about the things you’ve done.
I’ve got proof too. So before you start throwing around accusations, remember: I can bring down your entire fucking life with a single phone call. ”
The threat sets my teeth on edge. Igor knows about Vladivostok. About the men I took care of to earn my reputation. About the graves that would link me to cases the American authorities would love to solve.
But instead of backing down, something harder crystallizes in my chest. Igor just declared war. He chose this path.
“Fine,” I say, keeping my expression stone cold. “Forget about it then.”
“As I thought.” His smirk radiates satisfaction, the look of a man who thinks he’s won. “Smart boy.”
Boy?
The condescension ignites something murderous in my chest, but I don’t let it show. Igor’s revealed his true nature— not the compassionate doctor I thought I knew, but a pizda who’s been playing a longer game than I realized.
I stand, pushing my chair back with deliberate force. “We’re done here.”
“You bet we are.”
I ignore his comment. I pay the bill without another word, walking through the restaurant with Igor trailing behind. The summer night air hits us like a wall of heat as we exit into the parking lot.
Our cars are parked side by side— my BMW and his pristine Mercedes, both symbols of success built on blood money. I stop beside my driver’s door, keys in hand, but I don’t open it.
“Igor.” My voice carries across the empty space between us. “One last chance. Pay back the money you stole and walk away. Then we never see each other again.”
He looks confused, like he can’t believe I’m still pushing after his threats. “I thought we just went through this.”
“I won’t say it again. Be smart and walk away without consequences.”
“Be smart?” Igor’s arrogance returns full force, transforming his features into something ugly and unfamiliar.
“No, you be smart, you fucking cunt. Threaten me once more and I’ll expose you to the cops and ruin your life.
You understand? There won’t be anything left of your miserable existence.
No pregnant wife at home, no child. I can take it all away from you in an instant. ”
The mention of Galina and my child flips a switch I didn’t know existed.
My hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around his throat as I slam him against the side of his Mercedes. His eyes bulge with shock and terror, the arrogant mask finally slipping completely.
“Please, Osip,” he gasps, clawing at my grip. “I have a family, a wife, a daughter—”
I consider loosening my grip for a moment, but his bleating pleas are nothing but a mask for what he has in mind.
The movement in his pocket almost doesn’t register through my rage.
By the time I see the glint of steel, the blade is already arcing toward my neck.
Prison instincts take over, reflexes honed in cells where hesitation meant death.
I catch his wrist mid-strike, our faces inches apart as we struggle for control. Igor’s eyes are wild with desperation and fear, his breath coming in panicked gasps. The knife trembles between us, sharp edge gleaming in the moonlight.
He’s weaker than me.
Always has been.
I twist his wrist with brutal efficiency, redirecting the blade’s angle. The steel slides between his ribs like it was meant to be there, finding his heart with anatomical precision.
Igor’s eyes go wide with shock and disbelief. Blood blooms across his expensive shirt, dark red spreading like spilled wine. He tries to speak, but only gurgling sounds emerge as crimson bubbles at the corners of his mouth.
His knees buckle, and I release him. He slides down the side of his car, leaving a smear of blood on pristine white paint. His knife remains buried in his chest, his hands fluttering weakly around the handle as life drains from his eyes.
The final breath leaves him with a soft sigh, and Igor Shiradze— respected doctor, loving father, thieving pizda — becomes just another body in a parking lot.
Chert voz’mi!
This wasn’t the plan. I came here hoping for strong conversation, maybe threats at worst. But Igor forced my hand when he pulled that blade, when he threatened Galina and my unborn child.
Blyad!
I check my watch. Two minutes since we left the restaurant. I scan the parking lot— empty except for heat shimmer rising from asphalt. No witnesses, no security cameras visible. Just me and Igor’s cooling corpse.
My phone is in my hand before conscious thought intervenes. First call goes to my cleanup crew— professionals who specialize in making problems disappear.
“Yes, boss,” the voice answers on the first ring.
“Parking lot behind Deuxave on Commonwealth. One body, minimal blood. How fast?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Make it fifteen.” I end the call and immediately dial Melor.
“ Brat ,” my brother’s voice carries its usual dry humor. “Please tell me you’re calling about something legal.”
“Igor Shiradze is about to commit suicide.”
Long pause. “Osip—”
“How long to make it official?”
Another pause, longer this time. Melor understands the implications without explanation— suicide means no murder investigation, no scrutiny of our business arrangements.
“ Blyad. That won’t be easy,” he says finally. “Shiradze is a well-known gynecologist. Respected in the community. Suicide will raise questions.”
“You’re the legal guy in our operation,” I remind him. “Pull some strings.”
“I’ll do my best, but it won’t be cheap, brat .”
“I don’t give two shits about the cost. Just do it.”
The line goes dead, leaving me alone with Igor’s body and the weight of what just happened. My hands are steady as I light a cigarette, but something feels different inside my chest. Hollow. Like I’ve crossed a line I didn’t know existed.
Fifteen minutes later, my cleanup crew arrives in an unmarked van.
They work with professional efficiency— wrapping the body, bleaching the blood, polishing away evidence until the parking lot looks untouched.
Good as new. Igor’s Mercedes disappears with them, destined for a chop shop that doesn’t ask questions.
I drive back to my office in silence, navigating Boston’s streets in what feels like slow motion. The thirty-second floor feels different when I enter— not like a sanctuary anymore, but like a monument to choices I can’t unmake.
Vodka helps take the edge off, but it doesn’t touch the cold spreading through my chest. I stand at the ceiling-height windows, watching the city sprawl below me like a circuit board of light and shadow.
I killed Igor Shiradze today.
Not really in self-defense, or in the heat of the moment, but because he pushed me past a boundary I didn’t know I had. The man who threatened my unborn child doesn’t get to keep breathing.
But for the first time in my adult life, I feel something I haven’t experienced since childhood.
Shame.
It sits in my stomach like spoiled food, making me question everything I thought I knew about myself. What kind of father kills a father? What kind of man brings this darkness into his child’s world before that child even draws breath?
I drain another shot of vodka and check my phone. No messages from Galina, no updates from Melor, no emergencies requiring my attention. Just silence and the weight of Igor’s blood on my hands.
Tomorrow, I’ll have to tell Stanley what happened. Tomorrow, I’ll have to restructure our entire operation around the hole Igor’s death creates. Tomorrow, I’ll have to figure out how to live with what I’ve done.
But tonight, I sit in my expensive office, drinking expensive vodka, and wondering if my unborn son will grow up to be proud of his father— or will he be terrified of him.