Chapter Twenty-Eight
Osip
The drive to my house in the Buda Hills passes in silence.
Ilona sits in the passenger seat of my BMW, staring out the window at Budapest’s evening lights with the kind of exhaustion that seems bone-deep. Every few minutes, she shifts in her seat, and I catch the subtle tremor in her hands that speaks of adrenaline crash.
When we pull through the gates of my property, she straightens slightly.
The mansion looms before us, its facade a mix of modern architectural lines and traditional Hungarian motifs, crafted to evoke history while still feeling contemporary.
Towering stone pillars frame the entrance, offering an imposing welcome beneath an intricately tiled roof that glints in the twilight.
Money can’t buy happiness, but it sure as hell can buy security.
“This is your house?” Her voice carries wonder mixed with uncertainty, like she’s not sure she belongs in a place this luxurious.
“ Da .” I cut the engine and study her profile in the dim light. “It’s too big for one person, but it’s secure. Safe.”
She follows me through the front entrance, and I watch her take in the space— the crystal chandeliers, the artwork I barely notice anymore, the kind of wealth that screams success to anyone who enters.
For some reason, seeing her impressed by what I’ve built makes something warm uncurl in my chest. Pride, maybe. Or just the simple pleasure of offering something beautiful to someone who’s had too much ugliness lately.
“Tea?” I ask, leading her toward the kitchen. “Food? You look like you haven’t eaten today.”
“Tea would be nice.” She settles onto one of the bar stools, her movements careful and deliberate. “Thank you. For all of this. I know you didn’t have to—”
“Stop thanking me.” I fill the kettle, grateful for the mundane task. “I’m your boss now. That makes your safety my responsibility.”
While the water heats, I study her more closely. The familiarity keeps gnawing at me— something about the way she holds herself, the cadence of her voice. But the memory stays frustratingly out of reach.
“Tell me about yourself,” I say, settling across from her with two steaming mugs. “How did you end up working for that pizda ?”
She wraps her hands around the ceramic, seeking warmth or comfort. “It’s a long story.”
“I have time.”
Ilona’s eyes fix on the steam rising from her mug. “I built a content writing business after everything fell apart back home. Thought I’d found the perfect escape— laptop, passport, complete freedom.”
“And then?”
“Then AI happened.” A wry smile tugs at her lips. “Turns out clients prefer paying five dollars to a robot instead of five hundred to a human. My business died in just a few months.”
The kitchen’s warm lighting softens her features, but can’t hide the shadows under her eyes. She sips her tea, fingers still trembling slightly.
“Why Budapest?” I keep my voice neutral, professional.
“My mother’s Hungarian. She used to tell me stories about growing up here.” Her gaze drifts toward the window, where city lights sparkle against the darkening sky. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought. That I’d feel connected to something.”
“Did you?”
“For a few weeks. Then my savings ran out.” She laughs without humor. “Turns out nostalgia doesn’t pay rent.”
I lean against the counter, watching her. There’s a quiet dignity in how she recounts her failures without self-pity.
“The Scarlet Fox was supposed to be temporary. Just until I found something better.” Her fingers trace the rim of her mug.
“But then you found Tibor.”
“Then I found Tibor.” She grimaces then takes a sip of her tea. The more she talks, the stronger the familiarity becomes. Something about her gestures, the way she pauses between thoughts. Like déjà vu that won’t resolve into actual memory.
“What about your family?” I ask, though some instinct warns me the answer might be dangerous. “Can’t they help?”
“My mother…” She pauses and I see a gleam of hesitation in her eyes.
Pain flickers across her features so quickly I almost miss it.
But then she looks up to meet my gaze, and something in my expression convinces her it’s safe to share.
“She’s in Boston. She’s not… well, and I don’t want to burden her.
My father…” She stops, swallowing hard. “He died last year.”
Boston?
“I’m sorry.” The condolence feels inadequate, but it’s all I manage. Something at the back of my mind begins to take shape. Something dark, something more than just mere familiarity. “Your father… He was also in Boston?”
“Yes. He was a gynecologist. Very respected, very…” Her voice breaks slightly. “Very loved.”
Bozhe moy.
The tea mug slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers, ceramic shattering against marble with a sound like breaking bones. Hot liquid spreads across expensive stone, but I barely notice because the pieces are suddenly falling into place.
The strange feeling of familiarity.
The gynecologist who died.
Igor Shiradze.
The woman standing in front of me is fucking Igor Shiradze’s daughter. Sitting in my fucking kitchen. Drinking my fucking tea.
The woman from Room Five.
The masked angel who trusted me with her pain while I carried the knowledge of causing it. The daughter of the man I murdered in a parking lot because he threatened everything I cared about.
Impossible.
The odds are astronomical, the coincidence too cruel to be real. But the universe has always had a twisted sense of humor when it comes to my life.
“Are you okay?” Ilona’s voice comes from very far away, muffled by the roaring in my ears.
I force myself to focus on her face— concerned, beautiful, alive. The woman who haunts my dreams sitting three feet away, worried about me instead of recognizing the monster who destroyed her world.
“Fine.” My voice sounds foreign, mechanical. “Just clumsy.”
But I’m not fucking fine. I’m drowning in the weight of recognition, in the cosmic joke that brought Igor Shiradze’s daughter to my restaurant, my house, my protection. The same pull I felt in Room Five burns between us now— magnetic, undeniable, wrong in every possible way.
She doesn’t know. Can’t know. The mask protected both our identities for several nights, kept us safely anonymous. To her, I’m just the Russian businessman who saved her from a creep’s assault. Not the masked stranger who made her feel alive. Not the killer who stole her father.
“I should clean this up,” I mutter, dropping to gather ceramic shards with hands that I have to force to keep steady.
“Let me help—”
“ Net. ” The word comes out too sharply. “Just… sit. Please.”
She settles back onto her stool, but I feel her eyes on me as I clean. Studying. Probably wondering why her simple mention of her father’s name made me react this way.
When I straighten, she’s watching me with the same intensity I remember from that burgundy room. The air between us crackles with something I can’t acknowledge, a pull I can’t act on. I know she feels it too.
“Ilona.” For some reason, I find it hard to say her name. “I need to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Have we met before? You seem…” I let the sentence hang, fishing for recognition that might destroy us both.
She tilts her head, studying my face with uncomfortable intensity. “I don’t think so. I would remember.”
Relief and disappointment war in my chest. She doesn’t recognize me without the mask, doesn’t connect the voice or the mannerisms. We’re strangers again, safely anonymous.
But the pull between us hasn’t diminished. If anything, it’s stronger now— raw attraction complicated by shared history she doesn’t remember. I want to cross this kitchen, frame her face in my hands, taste the mouth that confessed secrets to a masked stranger.
Instead, I stay frozen by the sink, drowning in the weight of everything she can never know.
“The guest room is upstairs,” I manage finally. “Second door on the right. Clean sheets, private bathroom. Take whatever time you need.”
“Thank you.” She slides off the stool, movements graceful despite her exhaustion. “Really, Mr. Sidorov. I don’t know how to repay—”
“You don’t owe me anything.” The lie burns my throat. She owes me everything— her father’s life, her family’s peace, the future I stole with a knife between ribs. “Just… be safe.”
She pauses as she moves near me, looking up with an expression I can’t read. “Can I ask you something?”
Dread pools in my stomach like acid. “ Da .”
“Why did you help me tonight? Really?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications I can’t untangle. Why did I help her? Because she’s my employee? Because stopping assault is basic human decency? Because some part of me recognized the woman who made me feel alive in a room full of shadows?
All true.
None the whole truth.
“I don’t tolerate men who abuse power,” I say finally, the partial truth easier than the whole. “Especially not against women who work for me.”
She studies my face with those sea-colored eyes that seem to cut through pretense. We’re standing close enough that I can smell the faint floral scent of her skin, see the pulse flickering at her throat.
“There’s more to it than that,” she says softly.
The kitchen suddenly feels too small, the air between us charged with something dangerous. Her lips part slightly, and I remember how they felt against mine in that darkened room in Boston, how she tasted of sweet temptation.
My hand moves of its own accord, almost touching her cheek before I catch myself.
She doesn’t step back. Instead, she tilts her face upward, eyes searching mine with quiet intensity. There is something in them that’s unmistakable, unspoken but clear in the slight parting of her lips, the shallow rhythm of her breath.
Blyad.
I could kiss her now. Could bridge this gap and taste what I’ve been dreaming of for a year. She would let me— might even welcome it, this strange connection neither of us understands.
One step forward and I could have her in my arms again. One moment of weakness to satisfy this hunger that’s been gnawing at me since Boston.
But I see Igor’s face behind my eyelids. Hear his accusations, his threats, the wet sound of the knife entering his body. Remember the weight of his secrets and mine.
I step back, putting distance between us, watching confusion flicker across her features.
“I should show you to your room,” I say, voice rough with restraint. “You must be tired.”
The disappointment in her eyes is a separate kind of torture. “Of course,” she says.
I turn before I can change my mind and bend her over the kitchen counter.
The universe really does have a fucking twisted sense of humor.