Page 137 of Scarlet Thorns
The sound of his tiny hands clapping together as he celebrated his own steps.
Slava Vorobev will grow up safe and loved… and distant.
And Osip Sidorov will carry the weight of that like a cross for whatever years he has left.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Ilona
The leather seat is firm against my spine as Melor takes another sharp turn.
My phone weighs nothing in my palm, but the echo of Jason’s voice makes my fingers cramp around it.
I know who killed your father.
The words loop in my head like a broken record. I dig my nails into my thigh, trying to ground myself in something concrete. Something true.
“Who were you talking to back there?” Melor’s question is innocent enough, but for some reason, I feel a surge of guilt in response. In the rearview mirror, his pale eyes find mine. Hold them.
“Just an old friend from Boston.” I’m relieved that I can say the words without my voice trembling.
He nods. Once. But those eyes don’t move.
Does he think I’m lying?
Oh, for God’s sake, Ilona, why would he think that?
My conscience is turning everything into a drama.
But Melor doesn’t ask questions without reason. Doesn’t speak without purpose. Every word from him costs something.
“American friend?” he presses.
“Yes.” I glance away, focusing on the passing streetlights that streak gold across the rain-slicked pavement.
“Business or pleasure?” The questions come soft, conversational. Like we’re discussing the weather. But there’s something else underneath— a careful probing that makes my stomach clench.
“Personal.”
He hums. Turns back to the road.
Breathe.
Whatever Jason has to tell me can’t be that bad, surely?
The house appears through the windshield, and as always, I’m in awe of how grand it all is. Towering stone walls, perfectly manicured grounds, windows that glow like jewels in the darkness. My sanctuary. My prison. The words taste the same now.
The circular driveway crunches under the tires as we approach the main entrance. Security lights activate automatically, flooding the car with harsh white light that makes my eyes water. Or maybe that’s something else entirely.
“I’m tired,” I mumble as we park. “Going straight to bed.”
“Da.Rest well.” Melor’s voice carries that same careful neutrality, but his reflection in the side mirror shows eyes that miss nothing.
I fumble with the door handle, my fingers suddenly clumsy. The evening air hits my face— cool, crisp, carrying the scent of autumn leaves and the faint diesel smell from the car’s engine. Normal smells. Innocent smells.
Everything feels tainted now.
The front door opens before I reach it— Katya, one of the staff, her face creased with concern. She takes one look at me and steps back, her hands fluttering uselessly.
