Page 22 of Scarlet Chains
Stanley fucking Morrison.
What the fuck could that prick want after all this time? Last I heard, he was licking his wounds, crying about his lost millions like a spoiled child. My fingers drum against the desk’s surface, a steady rhythm that matches my accelerating pulse.
I let it ring twice more before answering, because fuck him if he thinks I’m eager to hear his voice. When I do pick up, I make sure every syllable drips with contempt.
“What do you want,pizda?” I snarl into the phone, not bothering to hide my irritation. The crystal tumbler sits heavy in my other hand, and I consider throwing it against the wall just to hear something shatter. My left knee bounces under the desk— a tell I haven’t had since I was seventeen and fresh off the Moscow streets.
“Is that how you greet an old friend?” His voice slithers through the speaker like oil on water, thick with venom and false familiarity. That same smugness that used to make me want to put my fist through his perfectly symmetrical face. “A friend who you owe money?”
My grip tightens on both the phone and the glass. The cut crystal edges bite into my palm, grounding me in physical sensation when my mind threatens to spin. “I told you already,pridurok,” I growl, letting my accent thicken with contempt. “I don’t owe you anything. Shiradze stole from us both.”
The muscles in my neck cord tight as steel cables. I roll my shoulders, trying to release some of the tension, but it’s like trying to stop a freight train with bare hands.
“Finally, something we can agree on,” Stanley snarls, and I can picture his thin lips curling into that predatory smile I remember too well. The same smile he wore when he watched other men’s businesses burn. “But that still doesn’t get me my money. Which is why I have a new plan.”
I set the tumbler down with a sharp thunk, the sound echoing through my office. My hand wants to shake— from rage, not fear— so I clench it into a fist and press it against my thigh. Outside my window, Budapest sprawls in the darkness, millions of lights twinkling like distant stars. My empire. My territory. My rules.
But Stanley’s voice has already poisoned the air in my sanctuary.
“Let it go, Morrison,” I say, forcing my voice into something resembling reasonable while my other hand reaches instinctively for the Makarov. Just touching the grip centers me. “It’s been a year. Shiradze’s dead. He took your two million to the grave with him. He took even more from me.”
More than money. He took my trust. My reputation. Nearly took my life when his betrayal came to light. But Stanley doesn’t need to know the details of how Shiradze’s blood looked against the asphalt in that parking lot. How it steamed in the cold Boston air. How his eyes went glassy as the life left him.
“Listen carefully, Osip,” Stanley’s voice drops to that register I remember— the one that means he’s about to sink his claws in deep. “I don’t give a fuck about reasonable. Do you think I don’t know you’ve been screwing my ex? And do you think I don’t know she’s Shiradze’s daughter? The bastard who stole from me?”
The world stops.
Every muscle in my body turns to stone. The air in my lungs feels like concrete, heavy and suffocating. Ilona’s name hangs between us, and I can feel Stanley’s satisfaction radiating through the phone. My vision tunnels, the edges going dark as rage builds like a tsunami behind my ribs.
How the fuck does he know?
My free hand shoots out and grabs the edge of my desk so hard the wood groans. I need an anchor, or I’m going to tear this room apart with my bare hands.
“Keep her name out of your fucking mouth,” I growl. Every word comes out roughly. For the first time in years, I feel something close to panic clawing at my throat. Not for myself— never for myself. But the thought of Stanley anywhere near her, breathing the same air, saying her name with that poisonous tongue—
“Oh, so youdohave a soft spot for her,” Stanley purrs, and I can practically see him grinning that shark’s smile. The same expression he wore when he took money from desperate parents who’d do anything for a baby. “How touching. The big bad wolf has found himself a little lamb. Which is why she’ll be perfect to get me what I want.”
Cold dread settles in my stomach. This isn’t about money anymore. This is about power. About making me bleed. About watching me break. My fingers start tapping against the desk in rapid succession— one, two, three, four— an old nervous habit I thought I’d killed years ago.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask, though part of me already knows. Part of me has been waiting for this call, this threat, since the moment I realized I’d gut anyone who looked at her wrong.
“Come on, Osip. Don’t be dense.” Stanley’s breathing changes, becomes heavier. Excited. “I have eyes on your little bird.”
Eyes?
The phone creaks in my grip. My knuckles have gone white, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I register the sound of plastic beginning to give way under pressure. The muscles in my jaw work like I’m chewing steel.
“You’re bluffing.” But even as I say it, uncertainty gnaws at my chest. Stanley’s many things— a coward, a snake, a worthless piece of shit— but he’s not stupid. And he’s patient. He’s the kind of man who would spend months setting up the perfect strike.
Is that what this is?
“Maybe I am. Maybe not. Hard to tell from here.” His laugh is like nails on a chalkboard, and I have to physically restrain myself from crushing the phone in my fist. “You always were too trusting, weren’t you? Even back in the old days. Remember how that worked out for you with Galina?”
The name on his lips makes something primal and violent unfurl in my chest.
“You piece of shit,” I whisper, and my voice carries more menace than any shout ever could. “If you so much as think about—”
“But I wonder,” Stanley continues, cutting me off like I haven’t spoken at all, “what your sweet little Ilona will think when she learns that you killed her old man.”
