Page 1 of Scarlet Chains
Chapter One
Osip
The jet’s leather seat feels cold against my back as I settle in for the flight to Budapest.
My clothes are still damp from standing in the rain, but I can’t be bothered to change them. Through the oval window, Boston’s skyline shrinks into gray distance, taking my son with it. Slava’s face is burned into my retinas— the way he looked at me through the car window before his new parents carried him away.
Forever.
I press my palms against my thighs, feeling the tremor in my hands that I can’t seem to stop. The flight attendant approaches with her professional smile.
“Something to drink, Mr. Sidorov?”
“Vodka. Double.”
She nods and retreats. Smart woman— she can probably smell the violence rolling off me in waves. I’m barely keeping it together, and everyone around me seems to sense it.
The vodka slides down my throat like liquid fire, but it doesn’t touch the ache in my chest. Nothing will. I have unlimited resources, connections in every major city, enough money to buy politicians and judges. But I couldn’t buy my way into that orphanage. Couldn’t buy the right to hold my own fucking son.
He’s better off without you, mudak.
The thought slides through my mind like poison.
Look what happened to Galina.
Look what you do to everyone you touch.
I down the rest of the vodka and signal for another. The alcohol sits heavy in my empty stomach— I haven’t eaten since yesterday, maybe the day before. Food feels pointless when your world has been carved hollow.
My phone sits powered off in my jacket pocket. I don’t want interruptions. Don’t want to deal with whatever crisis my brothers think needs my immediate attention. This flight is mine— a few hours of numbness before I have to face reality again.
A reality that rips my heart to pieces.
Slava will call someone else Papa. Will take his first steps toward another man’s outstretched arms. Will never know that his real father is a killer who destroys everything he claims to care about.
But there’s someone else. Someone waiting for me in Budapest who doesn’t know about the blood on my hands.
Ilona.
The thought of her softens something inside my chest. I can picture her in my kitchen, humming while she makes coffee, sunlight catching the gold in her hair.
I need to tell her about Slava. About Galina. About the son I’ll never get to raise. She’ll understand— she knows what it’s like to lose family, to have pieces of yourself torn away without warning.
I’ll tell her everything.
Almost everything.
Some secrets have to stay buried. Like the fact that I put a blade in her father’s heart. Like the fact that I was the masked stranger who touched her in that Boston club, who made her come apart in my hands before either of us knew each other’s real names.
Those truths would destroy whatever fragile thing we’ve built together. And I’m selfish enough to want to keep her, even if it means living with lies between us.
The plane touches down in Budapest with a soft bump that jolts me from my vodka-induced haze. My legs feel unsteady as I disembark— too much alcohol, not enough sleep, and the weight of everything I’ve lost pressing down on my shoulders. The jet bridge smells like industrial cleaner and recycled air.
I power on my phone as I walk through the terminal. The screen lights up with a cascade of notifications. Seven missed calls, all from Melor. A few texts from Radimir about some business matter. My thumb hovers over Melor’s contact info.
What the fuck could be so urgent?
He knew I was flying. Knew I’d be unreachable for hours. Whatever the fuck he thinks he’s dealing with can wait until I’ve had a chance to process what happened in Boston. I slide the phone back into my pocket without returning the calls.
