Page 117 of Scarlet Thorns
The words sound hollow, especially when unwelcome thoughts about today’s tire incident creep into my mind. My hands are shaking so badly now that I have to grip the phone with both hands to keep from dropping it. Was Dad really involved in something shady? If so, could my tire incident be linked to my father somehow?
Maybe… my dad was not the man I thought him to be?
After we hang up, I stare at my phone, the device suddenly feeling foreign against my palm. My entire body feels cold despite the warm evening air, and I can’t seem to stop myself from shaking. My father— the gentle man with healing hands who brought babies into the world— potentially involved in something illegal? It doesn’t make sense.
But then fragments of memory surface: how secretive he became just before his death, that massive unexplained mortgage Mom mentioned, the tension between my parents that I’d chosen to ignore.
I press both hands against my stomach, where nausea rolls in waves. The baby inside me seems to flutter, as if responding to my distress, and the sensation makes me want to cry. It hurts to think that my father may not have been the angel I thought him to be.
But Jason’s words echo in my mind, refusing to be silenced: “These aren’t people you want to mess with.”
My breath comes in short, shallow pants, and I force myself to take deeper breaths before the panic can fully take hold.
What the hell has Dad done that I don’t know of?
And… what if his past has followed me here?
Chapter Forty-Six
Osip
I settle deeper into the leather chair, watching my brothers make themselves at home in my living room.
Melor’s sprawled across the couch like he owns the place, his feet propped up on my coffee table— expensive Italian leather boots leaving scuff marks I’ll hear about from Ilona tomorrow. Radimir sits rigid in the opposite chair, nursing his vodka like it’s communion wine, still wound tight from our last conversation.
“So we’re good,da?” I ask, trying not to sound too gruff. The reconciliation after our blowout feels fragile.
Melor raises his glass in mock salute. “Good as gold,bratishka. Unless you plan on being a dickhead again.”
“Me?” I bark out a laugh. “You two were the ones acting likesvolochi. I told you both— pull that shit again, and you’re out on your asses. I don’t care if we share blood.”
Radimir’s mouth quirks up at the corner. “Threatening to kick out your own brothers. How verypakhanof you.”
“Someone has to keep youdurakhiin line.”
The familiar rhythm of our banter settles over us like an old coat. This is how it’s always been— we tear each other apart just to build each other back up again. Three brothers forged in the same fire, shaped by the same violence. We know exactly where to hit to make it hurt, and exactly how to patch up the wounds after.
Three drinks in, the vodka loosens something in my chest. Four drinks, and the words start forming before I can stop them.
“I have news,” I say, swirling the liquid in my glass.
Melor raises an eyebrow. “Good news or ‘hide the bodies’ news?”
“I’m going to be a father.”
The silence that follows is so complete I can hear the ice melting in our glasses. Both my brothers stare at me like I’ve just announced I’m joining the circus. Melor’s drink hovers halfway to his lips, forgotten. Radimir goes completely still, which for him is more unsettling than if he’d started shouting.
“Blyad…”Radimir finally breathes. “After… you know… I didn’t think you’d want a child anymore.”
The reference to Galina hits like a knife between the ribs, but I keep my expression neutral. They’re the only ones who know the whole truth about what happened. About what I lost.
“Who’s the mother?” Melor asks, setting down his glass carefully.
“Her name is Ilona.”
“What?” Radimir’s voice shoots up an octave before he catches himself. “Your housekeeper? How romantic.”
I want to tell him it’s not like that, but the vodka has made my tongue heavy and my thoughts scattered. Instead, I grunt and take another drink.
