Page 10 of Scarlet Chains
This isn’t over,I tell myself, the words echoing in my skull like a prayer.
This can’t be over.
Because if it is— if she’s really gone for good, if Slava is really lost— then what’s the point of any of this? What’s the point of the money, the power, the fear I inspire in lesser men?
What’s the point of being Osip Sidorov if I can’t protect the people who matter most?
The answer settles in my bones like winter cold:
There isn’t one.
Chapter Four
Ilona
The wheels screech against Boston’s tarmac, and my stomach lurches— not from the landing, but from the hollow ache that’s been gnawing at me for thirteen hours straight.
My face feels raw, salt-crusted from tears that wouldn’t stop. The passenger beside me kept shooting worried glances, but I couldn’t care less about his discomfort.
Who the hell tried to take me?
The question claws at my mind as I shuffle through the terminal like a ghost. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, too bright, too harsh. Every face in the crowd makes me flinch. Every man in a dark coat sends ice racing through my veins.
Was it Osip?
Some enemy from his blood-soaked past finally coming for what’s his?
My hand instinctively moves to my belly. The baby. God, what if they know about the baby?
Or maybe it has to do with Dad.
With what Osip did to him.
The thought makes bile rise in my throat. I swallow it down, forcing my legs to keep moving toward the exit.
What if they found out about Jason?
What if he’s in danger because of what he told me?
A flash of movement in my peripheral vision makes me spin around, heart hammering. A tall man in a gray suit disappears behind a pillar. For a split second, I swear it looked like—
Stanley.
No. Impossible. I shake my head hard enough to make my vision blur.
You’re losing it, Ilona.
You’re seeing ghosts.
I dig through my purse with shaking hands, counting crumpled bills. Enough for a cab, at least. But first— I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a shop window and wince. My feet are still conspicuously bare, and I look like I’ve been through hell.
The airport gift shop smells like stale coffee and overpriced convenience. I grab the first pair of flats I see— black canvas slip-ons that’ll have to do.
“Rough day?” the cashier asks, eyeing me strangely. I’m still a mess.
“Something like that.” I hand over twenty dollars and don’t wait for change.
Outside, the Boston air hits me like a slap— chilly and sharp, carrying the familiar scent of car exhaust and sea salt. I slide into the first yellow cab in the queue, my new shoes already feeling like freedom.
