Chapter Fifty-Four
Ilona
The leather seat is firm against my spine as Melor takes another sharp turn.
My phone weighs nothing in my palm, but the echo of Jason’s voice makes my fingers cramp around it.
I know who killed your father.
The words loop in my head like a broken record. I dig my nails into my thigh, trying to ground myself in something concrete. Something true.
“Who were you talking to back there?” Melor’s question is innocent enough, but for some reason, I feel a surge of guilt in response. In the rearview mirror, his pale eyes find mine. Hold them.
“Just an old friend from Boston.” I’m relieved that I can say the words without my voice trembling.
He nods. Once. But those eyes don’t move.
Does he think I’m lying?
Oh, for God’s sake, Ilona, why would he think that?
My conscience is turning everything into a drama.
But Melor doesn’t ask questions without reason. Doesn’t speak without purpose. Every word from him costs something.
“American friend?” he presses.
“Yes.” I glance away, focusing on the passing streetlights that streak gold across the rain-slicked pavement.
“Business or pleasure?” The questions come soft, conversational. Like we’re discussing the weather. But there’s something else underneath— a careful probing that makes my stomach clench.
“Personal.”
He hums. Turns back to the road.
Breathe.
Whatever Jason has to tell me can’t be that bad, surely?
The house appears through the windshield, and as always, I’m in awe of how grand it all is. Towering stone walls, perfectly manicured grounds, windows that glow like jewels in the darkness. My sanctuary. My prison. The words taste the same now.
The circular driveway crunches under the tires as we approach the main entrance. Security lights activate automatically, flooding the car with harsh white light that makes my eyes water. Or maybe that’s something else entirely.
“I’m tired,” I mumble as we park. “Going straight to bed.”
“ Da. Rest well.” Melor’s voice carries that same careful neutrality, but his reflection in the side mirror shows eyes that miss nothing.
I fumble with the door handle, my fingers suddenly clumsy. The evening air hits my face— cool, crisp, carrying the scent of autumn leaves and the faint diesel smell from the car’s engine. Normal smells. Innocent smells.
Everything feels tainted now.
The front door opens before I reach it— Katya, one of the staff, her face creased with concern. She takes one look at me and steps back, her hands fluttering uselessly.
“Miss Ilona? Are you feeling well? Should I call—”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
She nods quickly, backing away further as I make my way across the foyer to the staircase.
Behind me, I hear Melor’s car door slam. His footsteps on the gravel. The front door closing with a solid thunk. Normal sounds of a normal evening in this abnormal life.
The second floor hallway stretches before me, lined with family portraits that aren’t my family, expensive rugs that muffle every sound. My bedroom door sits at the end, painted white, with brass fixtures that gleam like gold. A sanctuary within a sanctuary. Or a cell within a prison.
My bedroom door clicks shut. The sound echoes too loudly in the silence.
Finally.
I lean against the door, pressing my back to the solid wood as I fumble for my phone in my purse.
The screen is cracked— when did that happen?
— but it still works. I scroll for Jason’s number, pushing away from the door.
Each ring stretches an eternity while I pace the space between bed and window, my heels sinking into the thick carpet.
“Jason—”
“Ilona, Jesus, I was worried sick. What the hell happened back there?”
“Nothing. I got interrupted,” I say, dropping onto the bed.
“Yeah…” He pauses, and I can picture him in his old office in Boston, probably working overtime, probably surrounded by case files and cold coffee. Real things. Honest things. “Well, maybe it’s a good thing, because—”
“Who did it?” The words rip out of me, raw and desperate. “Please, Jason. I need to know.”
I stand again, unable to stay still. Walk to the window. The gardens stretch out below, perfectly landscaped, every hedge trimmed to perfection. Even in the darkness, I can make out the fountain in the center, probably still running, probably still beautiful.
Another pause.
Long enough for my nerves to feel like they’re about to snap.
“I know you won’t let this go,” he says finally, and there’s defeat in his voice. “But you have to promise me— swear to me— that you won’t do anything stupid with this information.”
“I promise,” I lie again. It tastes like copper in my mouth. Like blood. “Just tell me.”
Through the window, I can see Melor’s car pulling around to the garage. The headlights sweep across the lawn.
“The person responsible for your father’s death… His name is Osip Sidorov. Former Bratva. Maybe current— hard to tell with these guys. That’s all I can give you, kiddo. But you need to be very careful. This isn’t some street thug we’re talking about, alright? Ilona? Are you still there?”
He keeps talking, but I’m not listening anymore. Can’t listen. The phone slips from my fingers, hitting the carpet with a muffled thud.
Osip Sidorov.
The name detonates in my chest as images reel through my head. Every touch, every whispered word in the darkness. Osip, holding me. Osip, making love to me. Osip, whose child I carried for five perfect weeks.
My father’s killer.
My knees buckle, and I grab for the windowsill, my fingers pressing against the cold glass.
“Ilona? Ilona, answer me!”
Jason’s voice floats up from somewhere near my feet, tiny and distant. Like he’s calling from another planet. Another universe where daughters don’t fall in love with their fathers’ murderers.
Finally, I manage to crouch down, retrieve the phone with trembling fingers. Hold it to my ear.
“I have to go.”
“Hey— this is serious. You need to listen to me—”
I end the call. I can’t hear any more. Can’t process any more truth. I’m thinking of Osip. His hands on my face when I told him about the baby. The way his eyes went soft when he thought I wasn’t looking. The taste of his mouth when he kissed me.
Did he know?
The question burns through my veins like poison. When he offered me the job? When he kissed me that first night? When he held me after the miscarriage, his strong arms wrapped around me as I sobbed for what we’d lost?
My stomach lurches.
I sprint to the bathroom, skidding on the polished marble. I barely make it to the toilet before my body convulses, trying to purge itself of the impossible truth. Everything comes up— dinner, coffee, the lies I’ve been swallowing for weeks.
The floor is cold against my knees as I collapse. Real. Solid. More honest than anything else in this house. I press my palms flat against the stone, trying to ground myself in something that won’t shift beneath me.
When the retching stops, I sit back on my heels. Wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. The taste of bile coats my tongue— bitter truth in a world of sweet deceptions.
I can’t stay here.
The thought cuts clean through the fog. I can’t breathe his air for another second. Can’t pretend this is home when my skin crawls at the memory of his hands. Can’t sleep in the bed where he made love to me while knowing what he’d done to my family.
Did he know?
I don’t even know what’s keeping me anyway. The baby is gone. The contract is meaningless. I’m nobody’s surrogate now— just a shattered woman living with her father’s murderer.
Boston.
I need my mother. Need to hold her and let her hold me while I figure out how to survive this. She can’t know the truth— it would destroy her completely— but I need her presence. Her love. Something real in this carnival of lies.
After splashing my face with cold water, I walk numbly back to the bedroom.
I retrieve my phone from where I dropped it, and check my bank account.
The screen blurs as I stare at the numbers.
The money sits there, mocking me. Blood money.
Payment from my father’s killer for the privilege of using my body to create new life.
Money he deposited while knowing exactly who I was, exactly what he’d stolen from me.
He had to know who I was.
Had to.
I have to get out of here.
I switch to a travel app, scroll through airline options with desperate fingers.
The next flight to Boston leaves in a little over three hours.
Business Class is my only option at this short notice.
Costs more than I’ve ever spent on anything.
I don’t care. I’d pay anything to escape this beautiful prison.
The booking confirmation appears on my screen— seat 12B, departure in three hours. Real. Concrete. A way out.
I move through my room like a sleepwalker, pulling a suitcase from the walk-in closet and stuffing it with clothing— designer dresses, silk blouses, cashmere sweaters.
Each item feels contaminated as I throw it into the suitcase. The emerald dress he said brought out my eyes. The black cocktail dress he couldn’t stop touching when I wore it to dinner. The white sundress from our weekend in the countryside, when he held my hand and talked about baby names.
All of it rotting from the inside out.
I grab toiletries from the marble bathroom, pack them into a travel bag without looking. Toothbrush, face wash, the prenatal vitamins I haven’t been able to throw away. Physical evidence of dreams that died before they could live.
From the bedroom window, I can see lights in the main house’s other wings.
The house bustles with the sounds of the staff who’ve been going about their business since my return.
Footsteps in the hallway, muffled conversations in languages I don’t understand, the distant sound of classical music from the kitchen radio.
Caregivers he brought in to help me after my stay in the hospital. Nurses, a therapist, a nutritionist— all meant to help me heal from losing the baby. They’ve given up on bothering me, though. I haven’t wanted their care.
No sounds of Osip’s return either. I still have no idea where he’s gone to.
Should I leave a note? But what the fuck would I say?
Thanks for the job, sorry about the dead baby, figured out you murdered my dad?
What do you say to someone who destroyed your world while making you believe he was rebuilding it?
Nothing, that’s what.
Let him wonder. Let him lie awake trying to piece it together, the way I’ve been doing since the day my world imploded. Let him feel what it’s like to have reality shift beneath his feet.
Leave.
Leave now.
The hardest part of the entire exercise is getting out without running the gauntlet of Osip’s security team. But they, too, have learned to give me my space since the miscarriage. The polite fiction that I need time to grieve gives me freedom to move through the house without questions.
Nobody’s openly mentioned it, but I know the lost pregnancy is probably spoken of among them. Whispered conversations in corners, worried glances, the careful way they’ve all started treating me like I might break.
They’re not wrong.
I drag my suitcase to the door, pause with my hand on the brass handle. This house has been my world for weeks. The place where I dreamed of building a family, of creating something beautiful from something that started as business. The place where I fell in love with my father’s killer.
The irony would be funny if it didn’t feel like dying.
The hallway is empty when I peer out. Most of the staff will be downstairs or in the service areas. My heels are loud on the marble, but I can’t help that. Each step echoes too loudly, announcing my departure to anyone listening.
But nobody comes. Nobody bothers me when I step out the door and head toward the main gates, dragging my suitcase behind me.
Thankfully, Melor is nowhere in sight, because I doubt he’d let me go. His questions in the car proved he suspects something. Men like him and Osip don’t survive by ignoring instincts.
Keep walking, Ilona.
Walk away.
Beyond the front gates, Budapest spreads out in all directions— lights twinkling in the distance, traffic moving along distant highways, life continuing as if nothing has changed.
But everything has changed.
The taxi idles outside when I drag my suitcase through the gate. I called ahead, grateful that my voice didn’t shake when I gave the address. The driver— a middle-aged man with kind eyes— doesn’t ask why I’m crying. Just loads my luggage without comment and asks me what airport gate I’m heading to.
“Terminal 2,” I manage. My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else.
As we pull away, I don’t look back. Can’t look back. Because if I do, I might remember the good moments. The laughter. The tenderness. The way his eyes lit up when I told him about the baby. The way we planned to create a new living soul together.
I might remember that I was falling in love with my father’s killer.
It doesn’t matter. Whatever game we were playing is over now. The rules have changed. The board has been cleared.
I know who he is.
And that changes everything.