Page 62 of Scarlet Chains
My eyes dart around the windowless room with increasing desperation, mapping escape routes that all seem to lead through him. The door is the only way out, and he’s positioned himself perfectly to cut off my path.
Stanley continues, his voice carrying the tone someone might use to discuss the weather— casual, conversational, utterly at odds with the menace radiating from his presence. “You see, we were three in the baby business. Your father, me, and Osip. Your father tried to fuck us over, by skimming our accounts with millions.”
I stare at him in absolute horror as I try to take in what he’s saying. My pulse isn’t just racing now— it’s hammering against my windpipe so hard I can barely breathe. The room seems to contract around me, the walls pressing closer.
What the actual hell is he talking about?
My father?
Working with Stanley and… and… Osip?
“What are you talking about?” I croak, wishing my voice was stronger.
But even as I ask the question, fragments of conversations with Jason begin reassembling in my mind. The strange mortgage. The unexplained success rates. The adoption records that didn’t add up. The growing certainty that Dad wasn’t the man I thought he was.
Stanley’s smile takes on an almost pitying quality, like he’s about to explain something simple to a child. His voice drips with contempt as he continues.
“Oh, you don’t know? Poor little Ilona, you have no idea who your father really was.” He pauses, savoring my confusion. “Dr. Igor Shiradze— respected gynecologist, pillar of the community. What a fucking joke.” He scoffs.
I can only shake my head, my mouth dry as sand.
“Your precious daddy was running a black-market baby operation that would make your head spin. We had a network spanning three countries— desperate birth mothers in Eastern Europe, wealthy couples in America willing to pay anything for a healthy infant. Your father was the medical face, the one who made it all look legitimate.”
Stanley begins pacing now, his movements calculated to keep me trapped on the couch while he delivers his poison.
“He’d identify pregnant women in vulnerable situations— poverty, addiction, family rejection. Then he’d swoop in like some fucking savior, offering medical care and a solution to their problems. Meanwhile, he had us matching them with couples who’d pay six figures or more for a baby, no questions asked.”
My stomach churns with each detail, but Stanley isn’t finished.
“The beauty of it was the medical records. Your dear old father would falsify everything— make it look like legitimate adoptions through proper channels. He had contacts in hospitals, government offices, even child services. Money talks, and we had plenty of it.”
“That’s impossible,” I whisper, but the words lack weight.
Stanley laughs, a sound devoid of any warmth. “Is it? Think about all those success stories he told you about. All those grateful families sending thank-you notes. You think that was just his medical brilliance?”
“He… he helped people,” I stammer, but doubt is already eating away at my certainty.
“He helped himself to fucking millions of dollars, is what he did,” he snaps. “Started skimming off the top, setting up his own side deals, cutting me and Osip out of transactions. We built that operation together, and the greedy bastard decided he wanted it all for himself.”
What?
Dad skimming accounts?
Cutting Osip and Stanley out?
The room spins around me as I try to process everything I’ve just heard. My father— the gentle man who taught me about compassion, who dedicated his life to bringing children into the world— was running some kind of criminal enterprise? Selling babies for money? The thought makes bile rise in my throat.
“He was a thief and a liar. He owed me over two million. When Osip confronted him, he even tried to kill Osip.” Stanley laughs darkly; the sound is ugly. “That was his next mistake, because Sidorov is a brutal fucker and took him out before he could.”
The world stops.
Just… stops.
Every thought in my head evaporates, replaced by a roaring silence that feels like standing inside a breaking wave. The information crashes over me in pieces— fragments that my mind can’t quite assemble into coherent understanding.
Oh.
My.
