Chapter Thirty-Four
Osip
I glare out through the windscreen at the morning traffic, the engine of my BMW purring beneath me like a caged predator.
Blyad.
My mind won’t shut the fuck up— keeps replaying every second of last night. The way Ilona looked at me with those ocean eyes when I had her pressed against the doorframe. How she felt beneath my hands, around me, so perfect it was like finding a missing piece of myself I didn’t know was gone.
I broke my own fucking rule.
No attachments.
No complications.
Keep business separate from pleasure, and never let anyone close enough to become a weakness. But one look at her in my secret room, surrounded by weapons and cash and toys I’d never used with anyone else, and my control shattered like cheap glass.
How the fuck did you get yourself into a shitshow like this, dolboyob?
At least Anett is out of my hair. That’s something. Breaking up with her before touching Ilona means I didn’t technically cheat, though the distinction feels meaningless when I’ve been wanting Shiradze’s daughter since the moment I saw her in that room back in Boston.
The cosmic joke keeps getting more twisted.
I can already feel myself getting attached to her.
Can see it in the way my chest tightens when I think about her sleeping in my house, the way my body responds just to the memory of her voice saying my name.
She’s wildly pulled to me too— I felt it in every arch of her spine, every breathless moan, the way she surrendered to my touch like she’d been waiting her whole life for someone to take her properly.
But this can only end in catastrophe.
She has no idea I’m the man from Boston. No idea that the stranger who met her in Room Five is the same man who showed her what real pleasure looks like in my bedroom. And what’s worse— much fucking worse— she has no idea I murdered her father and covered it up as suicide.
The weight of those secrets sits in my chest like swallowed lead, growing heavier with each mile toward the construction site.
How long can I keep hiding the truth from her?
How long before she starts asking questions?
Because she will ask questions, of that, I have no doubt.
It’s only a matter of time before the pieces fall into place.
The Scarlet Fox comes into view, surrounded by scaffolding and construction equipment that transforms it from rustic charm into something promising. My vision taking shape one beam at a time. Clean money building something legitimate for the first time in my adult life.
PéterBokor stands near the entrance, his hard hat catching the morning sunlight as he discusses blueprints with one of his crew.
Mid-forties, weathered hands that speak of decades working construction, the kind of man who takes pride in building things that last. His English carries a thick Hungarian accent, but it’s clear enough for business.
“ Jó reggelt , boss,” he calls when I approach.
“Yes, it’s a good morning.” I study the progress, noting how the interior walls are already being reconfigured according to my specifications. “How are we looking on timeline?”
“Good, very good. Maybe two weeks ahead of schedule if the weather holds.” He gestures to where workers are installing new electrical systems. “The kitchen renovation will be the tricky part, but—”
A blur of motion catches my eye. A small figure darts between the construction barriers with the fearless confidence only children possess.
“Dénes!” Pétershouts, but there’s more affection than anger in his voice. “Gyere ide! Come here, you little monkey.”
The boy who emerges from behind a stack of lumber makes my breath catch. Six years old, gap-toothed grin, dark hair that sticks up despite obvious attempts to smooth it down. He bounces toward us with energy that seems to vibrate through his small frame.
“Sorry, boss,” Pétersays, one hand settling protectively on his son’s shoulder. “School holiday today, his mother is working, so I brought him here. Hope that’s okay.”
“It’s fine.” But my voice sounds strange, hollow. Something about watching this father and son together makes my chest feel like it’s caving in.
“Dénes, this is Mr. Sidorov. He owns this place.”
The boy looks up at me with curious eyes that hold no fear, just open interest. “Are you Russian? Papa said you’re Russian.”
“ Da . I am Russian.”
“Cool! Do you know any Russian swear words?”
“Dénes!” Péter’s face flushes red. “You don’t ask things like that.”
But I find myself almost smiling at the kid’s directness. “Maybe when you’re older, kiddo.”
For the next hour, I try to focus on construction details— timeline adjustments, material costs, the hundred decisions required to transform vision into reality. But my attention keeps drifting to Dénes, who chatters constantly while helping his father in ways that are more trouble than help.
The connection between them is obvious, unbreakable.
Péter’s patience when explaining why certain tools are dangerous.
Dénes’s pride when he successfully carries a small piece of equipment to the right location.
The easy affection that flows between them like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“You have kids, boss?” Péterasks during a break, wiping sweat from his forehead while Dénes examines a level with scientific intensity.
The question hits harder than I anticipated.
My chest tightens until breathing feels optional, memories rushing back with the force of a freight train.
Galina’s hand over our child in her belly.
The nursery I’d started planning. Tiny feet kicking against my palm when I talked to my unborn son in Russian, teaching him his first words before he was born.
“ Net .” I shake my head, the word coming out gruff. “It’s not a good idea for a man like me.”
“Oh man, it’s the best thing in the world,” Pétersays, his gaze following Dénes with unmistakable pride. “Hard work raising these little assholes, don’t get me wrong. But it’s worth it at the end of the day. Everything you do has more meaning when you’re doing it for them.”
The words cut deep.
Everything you do has more meaning.
I think about the empire I’ve built, the money I’ve accumulated, the respect I’ve commanded through violence and fear. All of it feels hollow without someone to pass it to, someone to protect, someone to love unconditionally the way Péterloves his son.
I stay for another thirty minutes, watching this father-son dynamic that should feel foreign but instead feels like glimpsing a life I was supposed to have. When I finally make my excuses and head back to my car, the weight in my chest has transformed into something sharper, more desperate.
Sitting behind the wheel in the parking lot, I close my eyes and let the memories crash over me.
Coming home that night. Galina on the cream sofa. The cord around her throat, professional and neat. And then—God, then—the movement beneath her dress. My son, still alive inside his mother’s corpse, fighting for a life he’d never get to live.
The paramedics working frantically while hope died in my chest. “Sir, you should stay here. There’s nothing you can do at the hospital now.”
Because they already knew. Had already pronounced her dead, had already determined that saving my child was impossible. I should have been holding my son right now. Should have been teaching him to walk, to say “Papa” in Russian, to be strong but never cruel.
Instead, I’m sitting in a parking lot in Budapest, remembering the weight of dreams that died with a cord around Galina’s throat.
But Péter’s words echo in my skull: “It’s the best thing in the world.”
The idea hits me like lightning.
I could try again. Could build the family that was stolen from me.
But with whom? Definitely not Anett— that bridge has been burned, and even before that, she never felt like mother material.
Too focused on herself, too calculating about what children could do for her image rather than what she could do for them.
Then, something, somewhere clicks.
A lightbulb goes off.
Ilona’s face invades my mind with sudden, overwhelming clarity.
Ilona, who talked about wanting children before her endometriosis made it difficult. Ilona, who has the kind of gentle strength that would make her an incredible mother. Ilona, who trusts me enough to surrender completely.
Blyad.
The temptation is so strong it leaves me shaken.
I could give her everything— financial security, protection. Could watch her belly grow round with my child, could hold my son or daughter, and know they were safe from the violence that claimed their half-sibling.
What are you thinking, you idiot?
The rational part of my brain— the part that’s kept me breathing through wars and betrayals— screams warnings.
It’s already fucked up that she’s living in my house.
Already twisted beyond repair that I killed her father and she has no clue I’m the man from Boston.
Adding a child to that equation would be…
Insanity.
Sheer insanity.
But the seed is planted now, growing with every goddamn heartbeat. The image of Ilona pregnant with my child, of teaching my son or daughter to be strong and honest and everything I failed to become. Of having something pure and clean to balance the blood on my hands.
I could make it work. Could protect them both from the truth, from the consequences of my past. Could be the father I never got to be.
The dangerous hope spreading through my chest feels like salvation and damnation wrapped in the same package.
Bozhe moy, what am I becoming?
But as I start the engine and head back toward the house where she’s waiting— probably cleaned up from last night, probably trying to pretend professional boundaries still exist between us— one truth echoes above all others:
I want this.
The only question is whether I’m strong enough to make it happen, or foolish enough to try.