Page 34 of Scarlet Chains
“What?” The word comes out sharp, edged with panic. “Is my son okay?”
Bozhe Moy.
Please, God.
“He’s fine, but…” Simpson pauses, and I can hear him swallow hard through the phone. The sound makes my skin crawl. In that silence, I hear my own heartbeat thundering in myears, the distant hum of traffic far below, the tick of the antique clock on my mantel marking seconds that feel too fucking long. “His adoptive parents, Elena and Leonid Vorobev, were involved in a plane crash. Their private jet went down over the ocean. Neither of them survived.”
Blyad!
My gaze snaps to the TV screen, still showing that broken white plane. The pieces slam together in my mind in an instant. The remote falls from my numb fingers, clattering onto the floor with a dull thunk.
The Vorobevs’ plane.
My son’s adoptive parents.
Dead.
I lean against the window, the glass cool beneath my palm. The city below continues has normal— cars crawling through streets like ants, people living their meaningless lives while my world restructures itself.
“He’s fine, but…?” I press. My voice cracks, betraying me. I clear my throat, force steel back into my tone. “But what, goddammit? Was he on the fucking plane?”
The question hangs in the air as images flash through my mind— my son’s small body among that wreckage, his dark hair floating in the waves, those serious gray eyes closed forever. My chest constricts until I can barely breathe.
No.
Not my boy.
Not Slava.
The seconds stretch like hours. I can hear Simpson breathing, can hear my own pulse roaring in my ears.
“No, Mr. Sidorov,” he says at last, and the relief that crashes through me nearly buckles my knees. I lean heavily against the window frame, my forehead touching the glass. The coolness seeps through my skin, grounding me to this moment,this reality where my son still breathes. “The child was at the family home with his nanny while the parents were traveling for business.”
Thank fuck.
I release a breath slowly, watching it fog the window in front of me. My reflection stares back— wild-eyed, desperate, a man hanging onto sanity by his fingernails. The relief is overwhelming, but underneath it, rage builds in my chest.
Business travel?
Without their son. Withoutmyson. Without the child they fought me for, claimed they’d love and protect. They left him behind with hired help while they jetted off to whatever the fuck rich people do when they want to play at being important.
I should’ve known. Ididknow, the moment I saw them driving off that day. Elena with her cold smile and designer clothes. Leonid with his calculating eyes and perfect fucking English that couldn’t hide his accent— new money trying to buy respectability. They didn’t want a son— they wanted a pretty addition to their perfect fucking life. A trophy to show their friends at dinner parties.
My eyes drift back to the screen, watching rescue boats circle the wreckage. The debris field looks smaller from this height, just scattered white dots on an endless blue canvas. If Simpson hadn’t called, I’d be sitting here drinking coffee, completely unaware that my world had just shifted on its axis.
The silence stretches between us, filled only by Simpson’s nervous breathing and the distant drone of helicopter rotors from the TV. I can picture him in his cramped office— the same one where I pleaded with him to let me see Slava— probably sweating through his cheap suit, wondering how to navigate this legal minefield.
“Mr. Sidorov,” Simpson continues, clearing his throat. His voice has gained strength now, like he’s found hisfooting on familiar ground. This is what he does— deals with broken families, lost children, impossible situations. “As Slava’s biological father, I think you can make a strong case for taking Slava under your care… provided you still want to—”
“Yes!” The word explodes from me before he can finish. I push off from the window, already moving toward my office, my mind racing through logistics. Lawyers. Papers. Flights. “Tell me what I need to do.”
“I’m no lawyer, Mr. Sidorov.” Simpson’s tone becomes more careful, professional. “I’m just a guy trying to help. This is a very unique case and I’m sure there will be some bureaucracy involved, but if you agree—”
“I agree.” I grip the phone tighter, my hand trembling with adrenaline. Every second we waste talking is another second my son is alone, confused, probably scared. “I will do anything for my son. Where is he now?”
“He’s at the Vorobev residence, just outside Boston.”
Boston. My pilot can have us airborne within the hour. I stride through the hallway, past the gallery wall lined with expensive art that means nothing, toward my office where I keep the important things— documents, contracts, the legal papers that could bring my son home.
