Page 10 of Scarlet Thorns
Maybe your faith in the good doctor is misplaced.
Fuckingpizdathinks he can storm into my office and question my judgment. Question my operation. Two years of partnership, and now he wants to cry about imaginary money.
Chert voz’mi.
But the bastard planted a seed. Igor’s weird behavior lately— the private meetings, the dodged questions, taking over more of the day-to-day shit. If Stanley’s right about anything, it’s that trust will get you killed in this business.
I pull into my driveway. The house screams old money— Federal-style mansion in Beacon Hill, the kind of place that makes tourists take pictures. Six bedrooms, original hardwood, price tag that would make grown men weep. All of it designed to say “successful businessman” instead of “criminal piece of shit.”
The door opens before I reach it. Galina stands there in a pink maternity dress, hand resting on her belly. Seven months pregnant and still moves like a dancer. No drama, no interrogation about where I’ve been or why I’m late. This is Galina— steady as stone, complicated as a glass of water.
“You’re late,” she says. Not angry. Just stating facts.
“Business ran long.”
She nods and locks the door behind me. “You must be tired, husband.”
I shrug. “I’ll live.”
The house smells like those lavender candles she burns constantly. Trying to make this museum feel like a home, I guess.
“Are you hungry? I kept dinner warm.”
“Not hungry.” I hang my jacket on the rack in the hall. “How was your day?”
“Productive.” She settles onto the cream sofa, careful with her belly. “I finished the nursery colors. Three greens that work for either a boy or a girl.”
She spreads paint samples on the coffee table like they’re treasure maps. The domestic shit feels surreal after today— choosing between sage and forest green while I’m wondering if my business partner is stealing from me. And where I’ll bury the body if he is.
“Green is fine,” I say, pouring vodka from the crystal decanter.
“Which green?” Patient as a saint talking to a slow child.
I glance at the samples without seeing them. “Your choice. You have good taste.”
It’s true. Galina turned this cold showpiece into something warm. She’s got a gift for making expensive things feel comfortable. But watching her arrange paint chips, I feel like I’m watching someone else’s life through glass. Here but not here.
“I thought about names today,” she says, rubbing her belly. “If it’s a boy, maybe Viktor? After your grandfather?”
Viktor. My grandfather died coughing blood at fifty-two, lungs destroyed by steel mill work. Good man who deserved better than life gave him.
“Maybe.”
Galina studies me with those calm eyes that never push for more than I’m willing to give. She’s learned to read my moods without starting fights— makes her the perfect wife for a man like me.
“Osip,” she says quietly, “you don’t have to pretend enthusiasm you don’t feel. I know this isn’t exactly your idea of fun.”
The honesty hits like cold water. We’ve never talked about it directly— the family conversations, the mutual benefits, the practical arrangement dressed up as romance. But Galina’s not stupid. She knows what this is. A marriage of convenience. A contract designed to give me respectability. And an heir.
“The baby will be loved,” I say. Truth. I might not have chosen this path, but I won’t punish a kid for adult decisions.
“I know.” She folds the samples with precise movements. “And you don’t need to stay celibate for my sake while I’m… unavailable. I understand men have needs.”
The words hang between us like a business deal. Practical. Reasonable. Cold as winter in Siberia.
“Galina—”
“I’m not naive, Osip. Our families brought us together because it was a good match. But I know how these marriages work. You’re discreet, you’re careful, and you come home to me.” She meets my eyes without flinching. “I won’t ask questions I don’t want answers to.”
