Page 15 of Scarlet Chains
I end the call before he can respond and toss the phone onto the passenger seat. The construction site comes into view ahead, all scaffolding and exposed concrete, workers swarming over the bones of what will become Scarlet Fox Budapest.
If I can find the energy to give a shit about finishing it.
The concrete dust clings to everything at the construction site— my boots, my jacket, the inside of my fucking lungs. I stand in what will eventually be the main dining room of the restaurant, watching a crew of Hungarian workers install the custom walnut paneling I’d shipped from Germany.
Expensive as fuck, but it needs to be perfect. Everything needs to be perfect.
Not that it matters anymore.
“Mr. Sidorov!” Péter’s voice cuts through the hammer strikes and drilling. My construction manager approaches with that careful expression he’s been wearing around me lately— like I’m a wild animal that might snap. Smart man. “The electrical contractor has questions about the lighting fixtures for the private dining area.”
I grunt and follow him toward the back of the space, where Andor, the electrician, is squatting next to an open junction box with a frown creasing his weathered face. He launches into rapid Hungarian, gesturing at blueprints spread across a sawbuck.
“He says the specifications for the chandelier don’t match the electrical load capacity,” Péter translates. “We need to upgrade the wiring or choose different fixtures.”
“Upgrade the fucking wiring.” The words come out roughly, but I don’t give a shit. “I want those chandeliers.” They’re exact replicas of the ones in Boston.
Peter nods quickly and relays the message. Andor shrugs— another few thousand euros doesn’t bother him— and gets back to work.
I should care more about the money. Should be calculating profit margins and cost overruns like I always do. But the numbers feel meaningless now, just marks on paper that have nothing to do with the hollow ache in my chest.
“Osip!”
The small voice has my head snapping up. I turn to see Dénes racing toward me across the construction debris, his little legs pumping as he navigates around paint cans and electrical cables. Péter’s six-year-old son beams up at me with that gap-toothed grin that’s become familiar over the past few weeks.
“Look what I found!” He holds up a small wooden block, smooth and worn from handling. “It was buried under all the sawdust!”
I crouch down to his level, forcing my features into something that might pass for a smile. The kid’s eyes are bright with excitement, completely oblivious to the darkness eating me alive from the inside.
“That’s a good find, kid. You helping your dad build?”
“Yeah! Papa says I’m his best helper.” His chest puffs out with pride. “When I grow up, I’m gonna build houses just like him. Big ones! With secret rooms and… and towers!”
“Secret rooms, huh?” I ruffle his dark hair, and for a moment, the vise around my ribs loosens. “What would you put in the secret rooms?”
“Treasure! And maybe a dragon.” His expression turns serious, as if he’s revealing state secrets. “But a nice dragon. One that protects the treasure instead of stealing it.”
Bohze moy.
Péter walks over, wiping his hands on a rag. “The kid’s been talking about you all week, boss. Thinks you’re the coolest guy in Budapest.”
Dénes nods enthusiastically. “Osip has the fastest car and the biggest house, and he knows how to fight bad guys!”
The innocence in his voice sucks the wind from me. This kid looks at me like I’m some kind of hero, not the man who puts bullets in people’s heads for a living. Not the piece of shit who killed his surrogate’s father and drove away everyone who mattered.
“He’s the cool one,” I manage gruffly.
Péter chuckles and places a protective hand on his son’s shoulder. The gesture is unconscious, automatic— the way a father shields his child from the world’s sharp edges. The way I’ll never get to do.
Because men like me don’t get to be fathers. We’re the monsters parents warn their children about.
“Come on, Dénes,” Peter says gently. “Let’s let Mr. Sidorov get back to work.”
“But I want to show him my drawing!” The boy digs in his pocket and produces a folded piece of paper, crumpled from being carried around. He unfolds it carefully, revealing a crayon drawing of stick figures standing in front of a building. “This is you, and this is me, and this is Papa, and this is the restaurant!”
In the drawing, all the stick figures are smiling. Even the one representing me has a wide, crooked grin and arms outstretched like I’m about to scoop up the smaller figures in a hug.
Blyad.
