Chapter Forty-Four
Osip
The mechanic’s words have been gnawing at me since his call an hour ago.
“Someone loosened the wheel nuts, boss. All four. Another few miles and they would’ve come clean off.”
Suka pizdets!
Someone tried to kill my woman.
Not your woman, mudak.
It’s business.
But business transaction or not, the fury builds in my chest, white-hot and razor-sharp. Whoever did this wanted Ilona dead— or wanted to send me a message written in her blood. Either way, they picked the wrong fucking target.
“Professional job,” the mechanic had said. “Knew exactly how to make it look like normal wear until the right moment. Your lady’s lucky she wasn’t on the highway when…”
He didn’t need to finish.
I can picture it now— Ilona’s car rolling at high speed, wheels separating, metal screaming as it flips across asphalt. Blood and glass and twisted wreckage. Another woman destroyed because someone wanted to hurt me.
Nyet.
Not happening.
Not ever fucking again.
My phone buzzes against the dashboard. Unknown number. I let it ring out— nothing good comes from calls like that. Not when someone’s already tried to put Ilona in a coffin.
Mudaki .
All of them.
Whoever thinks they can reach me through her is about to learn what happens when you threaten a Sidorov’s family.
She’s not fucking family, you fool!
Think straight, dolboyob!
The reminder tastes bitter. Contract wives don’t get the same value as blood ties.
But every fiber of my being rebels against that logic.
Family isn’t just DNA— it’s who you’d burn the world down to protect.
And I’d turn this entire city to ash before letting anyone hurt Ilona. I know it in my bones.
The construction site sprawls before me, a picture of scaffolding and raw potential. Clean money building something that’ll outlast the violence I left behind. PéterBokor stands near the entrance, weathered face serious as he points at blueprints, explaining something to his men.
The crew moves around the skeletal frame of what will become Budapest’s most exclusive private club. My brothers handled the permits, the connections, the complex web of legitimacy that transforms dirty money into clean investments.
Before I can reach Péter, something small and enthusiastic crashes into my legs.
“Mister Osip!” Dénes grins up at me, hard hat slightly crooked on his dark hair. Péter’s boy has his father’s sharp eyes but none of the world’s cynicism yet. “You’re here! Papa said you might come today.”
The kid’s smile hits different today— pure and unguarded in a way that reminds me how much innocence still exists in the world. His small hands press against my legs like he’s anchoring himself, completely trusting.
Despite the black mood eating at me, I find myself crouching down to the kid’s level.
“ Privet , little man. How’s the construction going? You keeping your father working hard?”
Dénes laughs, bright and uncomplicated. “Papa says I ask too many questions, but I want to know everything. Like, why do you need those thick walls in the basement? And what are all those special rooms for?”
Clever boy.
Too clever, maybe.
“The basement will store wine and supplies,” I tell him, which isn’t a complete lie. “The special rooms are for private business meetings. Important people need quiet places to discuss serious matters.”
“Business must be very serious if it needs soundproof walls.”
Yob tvoyu mat.
This kid sees everything.
“Very important,” I agree, ruffling his hair. The gesture feels foreign but natural, like muscle memory from a life I never got to live. “Your father taught you well about construction.”
“Mmhmm.” He nods. “Papa knows everything about building. He says you’re building something great. That it’s going to last forever.”
Forever.
The word carries a weight I wasn’t expecting. Most things in my life have expiration dates— alliances, enemies, partners, even businesses blown apart when they outlive their usefulness.
But this kid makes me feel like all of that could change.
“What do you want to be when you grow up, Dénes?” I ask.
“An architect! I want to design buildings that make people happy. Papa says the best buildings feel like home, even to strangers.”
“That’s a solid dream,” I tell him. “Work hard, and you’ll build whatever you want.”
My phone rings, pulling me from the moment. Dr. Varga’s name flashes on the screen. Every muscle goes rigid. He doesn’t call unless there’s a problem.
“Excuse me, little man.” I’m already moving toward the BMW. “Important call.”
Dénes waves as I slide into the car, but my focus locks onto the phone. Each ring feels like a countdown to disaster. Dr. Varga cuts straight to business.
“Are you sitting?” he asks. No pleasantries. No bullshit.
Blyad.
Doctors only ask that when the news will knock you off your feet.
“What is it, Varga? Something wrong with Ilona?”
“I suppose I should let her do the honours, but given the medical risks, I am going to go ahead and tell you: Ilona is pregnant.”
The phone almost slips from my grip.
Beremenna .
Pregnant.
“Mr. Sidorov? Are you there?”
“ Da .” My voice comes out rough, scraped raw. “I’m here.”
But I’m not really here. I’m a year in the past, watching paramedics wheeling Galina’s body away. I’m in the present, feeling impossible hope mixed with familiar terror. I’m in a future where I actually get to hold my child, teach them to walk, keep them safe.
Bozhe moy!
Dr. Varga continues, professional but not cold. “Because of her endometriosis, the risk of miscarriage is much higher than usual. She needs close medical supervision and bedrest. And sex is prohibited until she reaches week twelve.”
Miscarriage. The chances of losing another baby.
Not this time. Never fucking again.
“What else?” My voice comes out hoarse. “Best doctors? Specialists? Money’s no object.”
“She needs rest and minimal stress. Which means you need to keep her calm and safe. Can you do that?”
“ Da . Absolutely.”
Safe. Right. Someone just tried to murder her with loose wheel nuts, and now she’s carrying my child. Time to make some calls. Arrange protection. Send a message that touching my family means death.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of creating stress, of being the source of fear that keeps enemies awake at night. Now I need to become the opposite— shelter instead of storm, protection instead of threat.
The call ends. I sit in the car, staring at nothing, processing everything. A child. My blood, my legacy. And some mudak thinks they can use her to get to me.
Construction sounds filter through the windows— hammering, machinery, men shouting instructions. The building continues to rise despite everything else threatening to fall apart. Maybe that’s what I need to remember. How to keep building even when the world tries to tear everything down.
My child will never know hunger or fear or the sound of gunfire in the night. They’ll grow up in houses with gardens, not safe houses with escape routes. They’ll worry about homework and soccer practice, not whether daddy’s coming home or whether the cops finally caught up with him.
Whoever’s hunting me picked the wrong fucking moment to surface. I’ve got more to protect now than just my own worthless hide. I’ve got a family to defend.
I drive home like the devil’s chasing me, mind spinning between pure fucking joy and cold calculation. Need to call Melor, get him to arrange better security.
The Budapest streets blur past, familiar now after months of building a legitimate life here.
Traffic moves with typical European precision, orderly and predictable in a way that still amazes me after years of Russian chaos.
These people follow rules because they trust the system to work.
They don’t carry guns or check their cars for bombs or sleep with one eye open.
That kind of innocence died in me long ago, but maybe it doesn’t have to die in my child.
The house materializes through the trees— home. The word still feels foreign applied to anywhere I live, but Ilona’s presence has changed things. Flowers in vases. Cooking smells from the kitchen. The sound of her laughter echoing off walls that used to hold nothing but silence.
Now those walls are going to hear children’s voices.
Footsteps running up stairs.
The house feels charged when I walk through the front door— like the air before a lightning strike. Ilona stands in the living room, arms wrapped around herself, eyes wide and uncertain.
She’s changed clothes since this morning— traded the jeans and sweater for a soft dress that flows around her like water. The afternoon light catches the honey tones in her hair, and for a moment I forget about wheel nuts and death threats and the weight of secrets between us.
She’s here.
And she’s carrying my child.
“So you know the news,” she says quietly. My face must give everything away.
Her voice carries that particular tremor of someone delivering information that changes everything.
Instead of words, I cross the room and lift her off her feet, careful as handling nitroglycerine. She melts against me, arms sliding around my neck, and everything becomes about this— her warmth, her scent, the impossible miracle growing between us.
Her body fits against mine like we were designed for each other. I can feel her heartbeat against my chest, rapid but steady, keeping time with the life we’ve created together.
“Ilona.” I inhale as I speak, drawing her scent deeper into my lungs, storing it somewhere permanent.
The name carries more weight now. She’s the mother of my child. The second chance I never expected to receive.
Heat builds between us despite everything. Despite the doctor’s warnings, despite the danger circling outside, despite the secrets that could tear us apart. My body wants what it wants, and what it wants is to claim her so thoroughly that the rest of the world disappears.
But that hunger carries new complexity now. It’s not just about possession anymore— it’s about protection.
I force my grip to gentle, taking in the room around us with fresh eyes.
The living room suddenly feels too exposed. Too many entry points, too many sight lines from the street. Anyone with a rifle and decent training could take her out from the tree line.
“We need to talk about security,” I murmur against her temple, hating how practical concerns intrude on this moment.
Her body goes rigid in my arms. “The car…”
“It was a professional job.” I pull back enough to meet her eyes. “I don’t want to scare you, but you need to know what we’re dealing with.”
“Osip… who would do that?” Her voice stays steady, but I can feel the tremor in her hands as they grip my shoulders. “Why would someone want to hurt me?”
Blyad.
Because you’re mine. Because hurting you hurts me. Because in the world I come from, everything you love becomes a weapon someone else can use against you.
What the fuck do I say to that? How much of what I am can I share with her?
“I’m not sure yet,” I lie. “Could be related to the club, to business competitors. Could be someone… from my past looking for leverage.”
The half-truth sits uneasily between us.
She deserves better— honesty about who I really am, about what I’ve done, about the blood on my hands that reaches all the way to her father’s murder.
But not today. Not when she’s just learned she’s pregnant with a child medical science said was practically impossible.
“We’re going to be fine,” I murmur against her temple, already planning how to eliminate whoever thinks they can touch my family. “All three of us. I promise you that.”