Page 35 of Scarlet Chains
“I’m on my way. I’ll call you as soon as I land.”
“Alright, Mr. Sidorov.” Simpson’s voice carries relief now, like he’s passed off a burden he never wanted to carry. “I’ll see you when—”
I don’t wait for him to finish. The phone clatters onto my desk as I’m already pulling open drawers, grabbing my passport, Certificate of Citizenship, marriage license… anything they might possibly ask me for. My hands move quickly, smoothly, but inside I’m fucking vibrating with energy.
My son.
My blood.
Finally, a chance to bring him home where he belongs.
The office feels too small suddenly, the walls closing in. I need air, movement, action. I grab my keys from the marble console, the metal warm from sitting in the afternoon sun streaming through the foyer windows. My footsteps echo through the empty house as I head for the garage.
This time, nothing will keep me from my boy.
The BMW’s engine responds with a roar, and I’m reversing out of the driveway before the garage door is fully open. The tires bite into the asphalt as I accelerate toward the airport, toward my plane, toward my son.
Hold on, Slava.
Papa’s coming.
Chapter Fourteen
Ilona
The clock in the Vorobevs’ foyer hasn’t stopped its relentless counting, but this morning each tick feels like a nail being driven into my skull.
I press my palms against the marble kitchen counter, the cold stone doing nothing to stop my hands from shaking. Two weeks and three days. That’s how long I’ve been here, and the Vorobevs should have returned yesterday. Should have called. Should have donesomethingother than vanish into thin air like smoke from one of Leonid’s expensive cigars.
My phone sits face-up on the counter, screen black and silent. I’ve called them six times since dawn. Six times straight to voicemail, Elena’s melodic voice promising to return my call soon. Empty words that grow more hollow each time I hear them.
Slava babbles from his high chair, mashing banana between his tiny fingers, little dark brows furrowed in concentration. The sun filtering through the kitchen windows is warm and golden, and the house should feel alive with morning energy. Instead, it feels like a mausoleum— beautiful, pristine, and utterly lifeless.
“Where are your mama and papa, little one?” I murmur, watching him work. He’s like a tiny wolf cub sometimes, all fierce determination wrapped in impossible softness. The thought makes me smile despite everything.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Nothing about this arrangement feels temporary anymore. Not the way Slava reaches for me when he’s scared, not the way I’ve memorizedwhich floorboards creak when I carry him to his room for naps, not the way my chest tightens at the thought of leaving him.
The silence stretches, broken only by Slava’s contented babbling and the rhythmic drip of the kitchen faucet that no amount of tightening seems to fix. I should call someone. But who? The Vorobevs never mentioned friends, family, business associates. Their world seemed to exist in a vacuum, sealed off from everyone except their mysterious “business trips” and carefully orchestrated social appearances.
My hand drifts to my belly, a nervous habit I’ve developed over the past few days. I have another doctor’s appointment tomorrow. Dr. Martinez will want to discuss next steps, options, the future I’m not ready to face. How can I explain that I’m trapped in limbo, caring for a child whose guardians have disappeared into the ether?
The landline’s shrill ring cuts through my spiraling thoughts. I freeze, staring at the cream-colored phone mounted on the kitchen wall. In two weeks, that phone has never rung. Not once. Elena and Leonid always used their mobiles, always kept their communications private and controlled.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Slava looks up from his banana massacre, eyes wide with curiosity. He tilts his head the same way he does when he hears a new sound, completely trusting that I’ll handle whatever comes next.
I move quickly across the kitchen, snatching the phone up. The receiver feels foreign in my hand, heavier than it should be.
“Hello?” I sound breathless.
“Good afternoon.” The voice is crisp, professional, already heavy with news I don’t want to hear. “My name is Cameron Simpson. I’m the director of the Beacon Hill Orphanage in Boston. I’m looking for the current caregiver of Slava Vorobev.”
Shit.
This doesn’t sound good.
“That would be me,” I say cautiously. “Is there a problem?”
