Page 95 of Scarlet Chains
“While we…?”
“While we take care of something that’s been in the making far too long.” I turn back to find her studying me with that expression that means she’s trying to solve a puzzle I haven’t given her all the pieces to. “Now, come on. I have something I want to show you.”
“You’re really not going to give me even a little clue?” she asks.
“Net,” I respond, already sliding out of bed to get dressed.
The drive through Budapest feels charged, like the air before lightning strikes. Ilona sits beside me wearing soft blue that makes her eyes look like captured sky, but I can feel her curiosity burning like a fever. She’s given up trying to guess where we’re going— smart woman knows when I’ve made up my mind about something.
Blyad, I’ve been planning this for weeks. Every detail mapped out, because some things are too important to leave to chance.
We wind through the familiar streets of Buda, past the castle and down toward the river, but instead of turning toward home, I navigate the narrow roads that lead deeper into the hills. This part of the city is quieter, more residential, where old buildings nestle among trees like secrets waiting to be discovered.
When we pull up to The Scarlet Fox, her breath stops completely.
“Wait…” she starts, staring at the building like it grew wings and started dancing. “Is this…?”
Da.
This is everything I couldn’t tell her, everything I’ve been building while simultaneously tearing the world apart looking for her. And then, after I found her again, the need felt evengreater as I realized I was constructing her future one brick at a time.
The building that emerged from months of careful renovation is everything I envisioned when I first bought this place— contemporary glass and steel married to classic stonework, creating something that’s both timeless and thoroughly modern. The old pub’s bones remain, but everything else has been transformed into something worthy of the vision that’s been burning in my chest since the day I realized I was in love with Igor Shiradze’s daughter.
“Bozhe moy,” she breathes, stepping out like she’s afraid sudden movements might shatter whatever magic she’s seeing. “I can’t believe this is where I used to work. It looks completely different.”
Pride burns in my chest as I guide her to doors that were designed to be welcoming. Every detail has been chosen with the care I used to reserve for eliminating problems— the way morning light hits the facade, the balance between elegant and approachable, the sense that important shit happens here.
“You did all this,” she says. Statement, not question. Her fingers trace the brass nameplate like she’s reading braille.
“Péter and his crew did the work,” I correct, though we both know that’s not what she means. “I just knew what I wanted.”
And what I wanted was this— a place worthy of her, worthy of us, worthy of the future I plan to build with my bare hands, if necessary.
The inside smells like money and possibility. Rich wood, expensive coffee, something that might be fresh bread. The kind of place where power changes hands over handshakes, where anonymity comes from understanding rather than masks.
A waiter materializes like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment, carrying enough food to feed half of Budapest.I watch Ilona’s face as she takes it all in— the way light catches crystal, how every surface gleams like it was polished this morning.
We settle into the corner booth I specifically chose for this conversation. She sips coffee prepared exactly how she likes it— because I pay attention to details that matter— and studies the space with the eye of someone who understands restaurants from dishpit to front door.
“Okay, Osip,” she finally says, setting down her cup with care. “This is beautiful, the food’s incredible, but what’s this about? Why bring me here?”
Here we go.
I lean back, letting the moment stretch until anticipation builds in her eyes. “Because I wanted to show you your new place.”
She jolts like I just told her the building’s on fire. “Mynew place?”
The words barely make it past her lips, like speaking too loud might break whatever’s happening here.
“If you want it.” I keep my voice steady even though my heart feels like it’s bracing to explode. “We can hire someone else to manage it, but you’re the best choice for the job.”
Her mouth opens and closes without sound. I can see her mind racing, trying to process what I’m offering and what it means for everything we’ve built.
“Plus,” I continue, reaching across to cover her hand with mine, “it’s where we first met. I know the original was in Boston and this one’s in Budapest, but…” I shrug because some things don’t need explaining. “You understand.”
Laughter bursts out of her— startled, delighted, slightly hysterical. “You’re serious?”
“Dead fucking serious.” I squeeze her fingers, feeling warmth and the slight tremor that means emotions barely heldin check. “It’s family business now. Symbol of everything I want for us— something stable, something lasting, something that belongs tous.”
