Page 63 of Scarlet Chains
God…
I reach out blindly, my fingers digging into the upholstery. I need something real, something stable, because the entire foundation of my understanding is crumbling beneath me. My dad— gentle, caring Dr. Igor Shiradze, who dedicated his life to helping families— tried to kill someone? Was the mastermind behind some kind of criminal enterprise?
The baby business.
The phrase echoes in my skull. All those successful adoptions, all those grateful families who sent cards that made him smile with what I thought was professional pride. Jesus Christ, was it all… was it all built on stolen children and human trafficking?
But Stanley isn’t exactly the most trustworthy narrator. Jason’s warnings echo in my memory—people you don’t want to mess with. Stanley Morrison definitely qualifies. He could be bending the truth, shaping it to serve his own purposes. But why would he lie about this? What would he gain from painting my father as a criminal if it wasn’t true?
And Osip… Osip killed my father.
I already knew this, technically. Jason confirmed that Dad was murdered, and he said Osip was involved. But hearing it stated so baldly, so casually, makes it real in a way that steals my ability to form coherent thoughts.
My dad tried to kill Osip first. That detail changes everything, doesn’t it? It transforms murder into self-defense, makes Osip’s actions seem almost… justified? The twisted logic makes my head spin.
Stop thinking that way!
Stanley watches my internal collapse with obvious satisfaction, like an artist admiring his latest masterpiece of destruction. “I’m still two million short, because of your father. But luckily, I can get that two million off Osip.”
“What does this have to do with me?” The question scrapes past my dry throat. I can barely force the words out through the crushing weight of revelation and growing terror.
“You, my dear… you’re leverage. Or collateral damage. Whatever you want to call it.”
The casual way he discusses my potential destruction makes me go cold. There’s no emotion in his voice, no anger or passion— just cold, clinical assessment of my value as a tool.
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is, I’m going to show Osip what happens to those who owe me money and refuse to pay their debt. And you’re perfect for that purpose.”
He takes another step closer, and I can smell him now— expensive cologne layered over something darker. Sweat. Adrenaline. The metallic scent of barely contained aggression.
My panic rises like flood water, threatening to drown rational thought. I glance desperately around the room, searching for salvation that doesn’t exist. There are no cameras here— the club’s absolute discretion policy ensures complete privacy. No one will know what happens in this room unless I find a way to escape, find a way to get help.
“The beautiful thing about this place,” Stanley says, his voice cutting through my frantic mental calculations, “is that no one can see us. No witnesses, no recordings, no evidence. You’re going to help me get what I want. But first…”
He moves smoothly, closing the distance between us in two quick strides. His hand reaches out, fingers trailing along my jawline with mock tenderness that makes my skin crawl.
The touch is gentle, almost loving, but there’s something fundamentally wrong about it— like being caressed by a corpse. His skin is too cold, his fingers too steady, as if he’s disconnected from any normal human emotion.
“…first, we’re going to have a little reunion.” His other hand comes to rest on my shoulder, the weight of it somehow both light and crushing. I can feel the strength in those fingers, the barely restrained power that could snap my collarbone without effort.
“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you, Ilona.” The words are spoken softly, almost lovingly, but they carry the weight of a threat. His eyes never leave mine, boring into me like he’s trying to crawl inside my skull and make himself at home among my worst fears.
I want to scream, to fight, to run— but my body seems frozen in place, paralyzed by the recognition of just how completely fucked I am. Stanley Morrison has found me, cornered me in the one place I thought was safe from the outside world.
Whatever he has planned, whatever sick game he’s playing with Osip and my father’s ghost, I’m trapped at the center of it.
His thumb traces my lower lip with the gentleness of a lover and the possessiveness of an owner, and I can see in his eyes that this is only the beginning.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Osip
The Range Rover’s engine roars as I weave through Boston’s nighttime traffic, the speedometer climbing past eighty as I take risks that would normally seem insane.
Blyad.
What the fuck is she doing there?
