Chapter Twenty-Seven
Osip
The drive through Budapest’s narrow streets feels different today.
Not the usual mindless navigation between therapy sessions and empty houses, but purposeful. I have business to handle— legitimate business, for once in my goddamn life.
The Scarlet Fox sits exactly as I left it three days ago when I signed the papers. Whitewashed walls, red roof, the fox sign swaying gently in the evening breeze. My restaurant now. My chance at something clean.
I check my Patek Philippe— 6:25 p.m. Tibor Arany should be waiting in his office. We’d arranged this meeting two days ago, time to discuss operations, staffing, the transition from his old boss to me. But when I called twenty minutes ago, the mudak declined my call. Now he’s not answering at all.
Sloppy. Unprofessional.
Red flags that make my jaw clench with familiar irritation.
I push through the front entrance, noting how the dinner crowd has thinned to a handful of tables. The interior still carries that rustic charm that sold me on the place— the kind of authenticity money can’t manufacture.
But right now, I’m more interested in finding the manager who thinks declining the new owner’s calls is acceptable behavior.
The office is in the back, past the kitchen where someone clatters pans with efficient rhythm. A cheap nameplate reads “Tibor Arany - Manager” in faded lettering that’s seen better days. I’m about to knock when voices filter through the thin wood— muffled, tense, wrong.
A woman’s voice, strained with something between fear and desperation: “No! Leave me alone!”
What the fuck?
My hand freezes inches from the door as more sounds leak through— scuffling, heavy breathing, a man’s voice saying something in Hungarian that doesn’t sound like workplace conversation. The woman again, sharper this time: “No! Stop it!”
I don’t knock.
The door flings wide as I slam it open, revealing a scene that makes violence roar through my veins.
Tibor Arany— the chubby, rustic manager I thought I could work with— has a young woman pressed against his desk.
His pants are unzipped, his fat cock hanging out.
She’s pushing against his chest with both hands, her face twisted with revulsion and terror.
Staff uniform. She works here. For me now.
And this suka thinks he can assault my employees.
“What the fuck is going on?” I roar. Tibor jerks away from the woman so fast he nearly falls, his face cycling from shock to guilt to desperate calculation. His hands fumble with his pants, trying to stuff himself back inside while manufacturing explanations.
“Mr. Sidorov! This isn’t— I mean, we were just—”
“Just what?” I step into the office, my presence filling the small space with the kind of controlled menace that should make the fucker turn and run for his life. “Just sexually assaulting your coworker?”
“No, no, you don’t understand.” Tibor’s voice climbs toward panic as he finally manages to button his pants. “Ilona and I, we have an arrangement. She wanted extra shifts, and—”
“An arrangement.” I spit the words out. I’ve heard this bullshit before— powerful men explaining away their crimes with euphemisms and victim-blaming. “That why she was telling you to stop?”
The woman— Ilona— hasn’t moved from where she’s pressed against the desk. Her chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, tears tracking down pale cheeks. But there’s something about her voice, something familiar that tugs at memories I can’t quite reach.
“She’s emotional,” Tibor continues, desperation making him look stupid. “Women, you know how they are. They say one thing but mean another—”
My fist connects with his jaw before conscious thought intervenes. The impact sends him sprawling across his cluttered desk, scattering papers and knocking over a coffee mug that shatters against the floor.
“You’re fired.” I lean over him, voice dropping to the tone that’s preceded executions. “Pack your shit and get out. Now.”
“Fired? You can’t fire me! I built this place, I know every customer, every supplier—”
“I own this place.” I emphasize each word. “Which means I own your employment contract. Which I’m terminating. Immediately.”
Tibor struggles to his feet, holding his jaw where my knuckles split his lip. Blood trickles down his chin, but his eyes burn with the kind of entitled rage men feel when consequences finally catch up with them.
“This is insane! Over some little waitress who—”
The second punch drops him completely. He hits the floor hard, his head bouncing off cheap linoleum with a sound that brings back memories of Moscow alleys and men who learned respect the hard way.
“You have ten minutes to clear out.” I straighten my jacket, flexing fingers that ache pleasantly from impact. “Or I handle this my way.”
The threat hangs in the air, the meaning painfully clear. Tibor’s eyes go wide with the kind of recognition that says he’s heard stories about Russians who buy restaurants with cash and don’t flinch from violence.
Smart pizda.
Finally understanding the situation.
He scrambles to his feet, blood still flowing from his busted lip, and begins shoving papers into a briefcase with shaking hands.
“This isn’t over,” he mutters, but there’s no conviction behind the words.
Just the empty bluster of a coward who’s finally met someone more dangerous than the women he preys on.
“Yes, it is.” I check my watch. “Nine minutes.”
Tibor flees like the rat he is, clutching his briefcase and his wounded pride. The office door slams behind him hard enough to rattle the windows, leaving me alone with the woman he was assaulting.
She’s still pressed against the desk, arms wrapped around herself like armor.
Her dark hair falls in waves around a face that’s beautiful despite the tear tracks and terror.
Something about her features tugs at my memory— delicate bone structure, pale skin, the kind of ethereal quality that belongs in art museums rather than restaurant back offices.
“Are you alright?” I keep my voice gentle, though every instinct screams to hunt down Tibor and finish what I started.
She nods without speaking, but her hands are shaking.
“Did he hurt you?”
Another nod, then a shake of her head. “Not… not physically. But he was going to…” Her voice breaks on the words she can’t finish.
Rage builds in my chest like a nuclear reactor approaching critical mass. If I’d arrived five minutes later, if I hadn’t heard her voice through that door…
“Let me give you a ride home,” I offer, forcing calm into my tone. Violence solved the immediate problem, but this woman needs safety, not more intimidation.
“No, thank you.” The refusal comes quickly, automatic.
I step closer, noting how she flinches despite my careful movements. “Hey. Look at me.”
When her eyes finally meet mine, recognition hits like lightning to the spine. Not specific memory, but familiarity so profound it stops my breath. I know this woman. Know her voice, her mannerisms, something fundamental about the way she carries herself.
But from where?
“Let me take you home,” I repeat, gentling my voice further.
“I don’t think I can go home.” The words come out broken, defeated.
“Why not?”
Her eyes are wet again— silent tears that speak of exhaustion beyond anything physical. “I’m staying in a room in Tibor’s house. Or… was.”
Blyad.
Of course she was living with that predator. Of course firing him just created another problem for this woman who’s clearly already struggling.
“What’s your name?”
“Ilona… Ilona Katona.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, trying to compose herself.
Katona. Hungarian surname, but her accent is pure American. East Coast, maybe Boston. The familiarity grows stronger, like trying to remember a dream that’s slipping away.
“I’m Sidorov,” I tell her. “I’m the new owner. Do you work here?”
“Yes.” The word comes out husky. “I’m a waitress.”
So she’s my employee now. My responsibility. Which means protecting her from situations like this falls under my authority.
“Listen, Ilona.” I lean against the doorframe, trying to appear less threatening. “I can give you a room for a few nights until you figure out where to move. It’s in my house, but I promise— no one will touch you. You’ll be safe.”
She stares at me like I’ve spoken in ancient Greek. “Why would you do that?”
“Because you work for me now. Because what just happened is unacceptable. Because—” I stop myself before saying something that reveals too much about my past, about the women I failed to protect when it mattered. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”
“I don’t even know you.”
“Fair point. But you know Tibor, and look how that worked out.” The comparison is harsh but necessary. “Sometimes strangers are safer than familiar monsters.”
She considers this with the careful calculation of someone who’s learned not to trust easily. Finally, reluctantly, she nods.
“Just for a night.”
“Until you find something permanent,” I agree.
Relief floods her features, followed immediately by exhaustion so profound she looks ready to collapse. Whatever brought her to this situation— working for Tibor, living in his house, accepting his “arrangements”— it’s been grinding her down for longer than just tonight.
“Can you get your things from his place?”
“I… yes. But not alone.” Fear flickers in her eyes. “He has keys to everything. He could be waiting.”
“I’ll go with you.” The offer comes automatically, protective instincts overriding common sense. “He won’t touch you again.”
For the first time since I opened that door, she almost smiles. “Thank you. Really. You didn’t have to—”
“Yes, I did.” The words carry more weight than a simple rescue mission should bear. “Some things can’t be ignored.”
As we leave the office together— her gathering her purse, me mentally itemizing everything that needs to change about this place— I can’t shake the feeling that this moment matters. Not just because I stopped an assault or offered shelter to an employee in need.
Because I know this woman from somewhere.
And whatever buried memory is trying to surface feels significant in ways I’m not ready to understand.
But first things first. Get her somewhere safe. Deal with the familiar ghosts later.
The restaurant feels different as we walk through it— less like a business opportunity and more like a responsibility. These people, this place, they’re mine to protect now. Starting with the dark-haired waitress whose voice carries echoes of a half-forgotten dream.
A dream I thought I’d left buried in Boston.