Chapter Twenty-Four
Osip
The nightmare always starts the same way.
I’m driving home through Boston streets that shimmer like black water under streetlights. Something feels wrong— the kind of wrongness that crawls up your spine and whispers warnings you can’t quite hear.
The house appears normal when I pull into the driveway. Colonial elegance, manicured lawn, the life I built for Galina and our unborn son. But the front door stands open.
She’s sleeping on the sofa, one hand over her belly, the other dangling against the rug. Lovely. Serene. Dead.
Then I see the movement.
Something shifts beneath the fabric of her dress, pressing against the taut skin of her abdomen with desperate, rhythmic motion. My son. Fighting for life.
“Hold on, malysh ,” I whisper, reaching for her belly. “Papa’s here.”
But before I can touch her, he appears.
The masked figure materializes from shadow like smoke given form. Black leather covers his face, but his hands move quickly as he produces a blade that gleams in the light. I try to move, try to scream, but invisible chains hold me paralyzed while he cuts.
The incision is perfect, clinical. No wasted motion as he reaches inside and pulls out—
My son. Tiny, perfect, alive.
“ Net! ” The word tears from my throat like broken glass. “Don’t take him!”
But the masked figure is already moving, cradling my child against his chest as he glides toward the door. I struggle against the chains that bind me, muscles straining until tendons threaten to snap.
“ Pozhaluysta! ” Please! “He’s mine!”
The figure pauses at the threshold, turns back to face me. Behind the leather mask, I see nothing— no eyes, no humanity, just void. When he speaks, his voice sounds like Death.
“You don’t deserve to keep what you love.”
Then he’s gone, vanishing into darkness with my son’s cries echoing in the night. I’m left alone with Galina’s cooling corpse and the knowledge that I failed them both.
Always the same.
Always.
I jolt awake in my king-sized bed, sweat-soaked sheets clinging to skin that feels like it’s raw. The digital clock glows 3:47 a.m., its red numbers burning against the darkness of my Buda Hills bedroom.
Bozhe moy.
My hands shake as I reach for the sedatives on my nightstand— little white pills that promise oblivion. Dr. Szabó prescribed them months ago when the nightmares started interfering with basic function.
“Sleep is when we process trauma,” he’d explained in that calm, clinical voice. “But sometimes the mind needs help sorting reality from fear.”
I dry-swallow two pills and lie back against Egyptian cotton that costs more than sheets should reasonably cost. The medication takes thirty minutes to work, thirty minutes of staring at shadows that might be memories or might be guilt given form.
When consciousness finally fades, it takes the ghosts with it.
The next time I wake, pale morning light filters through windows that overlook the Danube. My body feels heavy, disconnected, like I’m wearing someone else’s skin. But my cock is hard as steel, throbbing with need that has nothing to do with the woman currently occupying my guest bedroom.
Instead, I think about her. The masked woman from Room Five, whose name I’ll never know but whose presence haunts me more effectively than any ghost.
My hand wraps around my length, stroking with movements that feel more like punishment than pleasure. I remember her skin, porcelain pale in candlelight. The way she looked at me when I walked through that door— not with fear or calculation, but with hunger that matched my own.
She was everything Anett isn’t. Honest. Vulnerable. Real.
I come with a grunt while guilt and longing wage war in my chest. The release is violent, emptying, but it doesn’t touch the ache that’s taken up permanent residence behind my ribs.
The shower runs ice-cold because I deserve the shock of it, deserve the way it steals my breath and makes thinking impossible. By the time I emerge, skin raw and lungs burning, I feel almost human.
The sound of movement drifts from the kitchen— Anett, probably making coffee and planning whatever manipulation she’ll attempt today. Yesterday’s conversation about marriage and children hangs between us like a loaded weapon, and I don’t have the energy for round two.
I dress quickly in dark jeans and a charcoal sweater, grab my keys, and slip out through the side entrance before she can corner me with tears or accusations or whatever performance she’s rehearsed overnight.
The Buda Hills wrap around me as I drive through narrow streets that predate my grandfather’s grandfather. This is why I chose Budapest— the weight of history, the sense that individual tragedies matter less when measured against centuries of survival.
The Scarlet Fox sits at the corner of two residential streets, traditional whitewashed walls and red-tiled roof making it look like something from a fairy tale. I’ve been coming here for weeks, drawn by the name even though it bears no resemblance to the Boston club that changed my life.
Coincidence.
That’s all.
The interior matches the exterior’s rural charm— rough-hewn beams, checkered tablecloths, mismatched chairs made for comfort. A middle-aged waitress serves coffee strong enough to wake the dead while someone clatters around the kitchen.
“ Jó reggelt ,” she greets me with a tired smile that speaks of too many early mornings. “Good morning, sir.”
“ Jó reggelt ,” I reply, settling into my usual corner table with a view of both entrances. Old habits.
The coffee arrives black and bitter, exactly how I prefer it.
For twenty minutes, I sit in silence and watch Budapest wake up through windows spotted with age.
Trams clang past carrying office workers to jobs that don’t require violence.
Mothers push strollers along sidewalks, cooing at their babies.
Normal life.
The kind I used to think was for other people.
When the waitress returns to refill my cup, I notice the exhaustion in her movements, the way she glances nervously toward the kitchen.
“Everything alright?” I ask in Hungarian, my accent marking me as foreign but the effort earning a grateful smile.
She hesitates, then takes in a breath, as if making a decision. “I am worried for my job,” she says abruptly.
“Why?” I ask. “You do it well. Is there a problem?”
“The owner… he is planning to sell.” She shrugs.
“That so?” I cock my head.
She glances around, then leans closer. “You are regular customer, yes? Good customer.” Her English is careful but clear.
“Rich man.” She glances at the Patek Philippe on my wrist and I silently curse myself for this lapse into self-indulgence.
“Maybe you interested? The owner, he is struggling. Money troubles. Very sad.”
I stare at her for a moment. These are possibilities I hadn’t considered. “Selling?”
“ Igen . Yes. The family, they cannot keep up with costs. Modern places taking all the business.” She shrugs with the resigned grace of someone who’s watched dreams crumble. “Is shame. This place has history.”
I study the space with new eyes, seeing potential instead of nostalgia. The location is perfect— residential enough for privacy, commercial enough for legitimacy. The building itself has character that can’t be manufactured, charm that money can’t buy.
“Do you have the owner’s contact information?”
Her face brightens with hope. “You are serious? You buy?”
“Maybe. Worth a talk.”
She disappears into the kitchen and returns with a business card, the kind printed on cheap stock that’s seen too many hands. “His name is László. Very good man, just… bad timing with economy.”
I pocket the card and leave a generous tip— enough to cover her weekly wages, probably. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t question good fortune.
Outside, I pull out my phone and navigate to the family group chat. This decision feels significant in ways I can’t articulate— not just business, but transformation. A chance to build something clean from the ground up.
The video I send shows empty tables and rustic charm, traditional architecture that speaks of permanence. My brothers’ responses come quickly:
Melor: “Interesting. Location?”
Radimir: “Looks like a fucking fairy tale, brat. But maybe fairy tales can make money.”
I follow up with photos of the interior, the space that could be converted to private dining, the potential for something special. Each image builds the case for what this place could become.
Melor: “Kitchen would need work, but bones are solid. What’s the asking price?”
Me: “Haven’t called yet. Just found out it’s available.”
Radimir: “Well what are you waiting for? Call the mudak.”
Melor: “Agreed. But what’s the vision? Another restaurant? Club? Legitimate front?”
The question makes me pause. What is the vision? I stare at the traditional facade and see something that doesn’t exist yet— elegant without being ostentatious, exclusive without being elitist. A place where privacy matters, where conversations can happen without fear of surveillance or judgment.
Me: “Private club. Exclusive membership. The name stays.”
Radimir: “Scarlet Fox Budapest. Has a nice ring to it.”
Melor: “Legal business means legal taxes, legal oversight. You sure you want that level of scrutiny?
Me: “Time to go legitimate. All the way this time.
The words feel like a promise of something new. For years, I’ve straddled the line between criminal and civilian, using legal businesses to wash money earned through violence. But this feels different. Clean.
Maybe it’s the therapy. Maybe it’s the ghosts that won’t let me sleep. Maybe it’s the recognition that I can’t outrun my past by hiding in it forever.
Melor: “If you’re serious about going legitimate, you’ll need proper papers. Business licenses, health permits, insurance. I can handle the legal side.”
Radimir: “And I can design security systems that aren’t overkill for a restaurant. Keep it classy.”
Their enthusiasm surprises me. These are men who measure success in dollars laundered and territories controlled. But they’re backing my play without hesitation.
I dial the number on the business card, listening to it ring while studying the building that might become my future.
“ Igen , László speaking.” The voice is tired, defeated.
“László, I’m Sidorov, Osip Sidorov. I heard your restaurant might be for sale.”
Long pause. “Who told you this?”
“One of your staff. I’m a regular customer, interested in making an offer.”
The conversation that follows is conducted in careful English supplemented by hope and desperation.
László has owned the place for fifteen years, inherited from his father who built it in the seventies.
But Budapest’s dining scene has evolved, and traditional Hungarian fare can’t compete with trendy fusion restaurants and delivery apps.
“I love this place,” he explains, his voice heavy with resignation. “But love doesn’t pay the bills.”
The price he quotes is laughably low— pocket change for someone with my resources. Either he’s desperate, or Hungarian real estate is cheaper than I realized. Probably both.
“I’d like to see the full property,” I tell him. “Books, permits, everything. When can we meet?”
“Today? Now?” The eagerness in his voice makes my chest tighten. This man is drowning, and I might be the life preserver he’s been praying for.
“Can you get here in an hour?”
It takes him less than that to get to the restaurant. The paperwork László shows me tells a story of steady decline— rising costs, falling revenues, loan payments that consume what little profit remains. He’s been hemorrhaging money for two years, surviving on credit and false hope.
But the bones of the business are solid. Proper licenses, health permits up to date, a lease that’s transferable. Everything I need to turn this place into something special.
“I’ll take it,” I tell him after reviewing the final document.
His face transforms, relief and disbelief warring for control. “Just like that? No negotiation?”
“The price is fair. You get to walk away clean, I get a chance to build something new.” I extend my hand. “Do we have a deal?”
His grip is firm, grateful, slightly desperate. “We have a deal.”
The transfer won’t be official for days— lawyers need to verify titles, banks need to process payments, bureaucrats need to stamp forms. But morally, spiritually, the place is mine now.
After László leaves— heading home to tell his wife they can finally pay off their debts— I sit alone in my new acquisition.
The silence feels different now. Like the building itself is waiting to see what I’ll make of this opportunity.
I pull out my phone and dial Melor.
“Congratulations, brat ,” he answers before I can speak. “You’re officially a restaurateur.”
“Private club,” I correct. “Restaurant is just the cover.”
“Ah. Gangsters hangout.” He chuckles.
The suggestion sets my teeth on edge. This will be different. This will be clean.
“I want it done right,” I tell my brother. “Legal in every way that matters. If someone investigates, they should find exactly what they expect to find— successful businessman running exclusive club for discerning clientele.”
“Understood. What about staffing? You can’t run this alone.”
The question hadn’t occurred to me, but it’s crucial. The people I hire will shape the atmosphere, make sure this doesn’t become an expensive mistake.
“I’ll handle recruitment personally,” I decide. “Start small, build carefully.”
I look around the empty restaurant, trying to imagine it filled with the right kind of people. Not petty criminals or sycophants, but individuals who appreciate quality, discretion, authenticity. People who understand that the best things in life require patience and respect.
“You know,” I tell Melor, a slow smile forming, “this might actually work.”
After I hang up, I stay for another hour, mentally cataloging everything that needs to change. The kitchen requires modernization. The upstairs space needs complete renovation. The garden out back could become something spectacular with proper landscaping.
But underneath the practical considerations runs something more important— anticipation. For the first time since Galina died, I’m building toward something instead of running from something.
When I finally lock up and head back to my house in the hills, I’m already planning my next move. Because legitimate businesses need legitimate employees, and I’ll need to start interviewing soon.
Maybe building something clean will help wash away the blood on my hands.
Maybe this is exactly what I need to finally leave the past buried where it belongs.