Page 16 of Scarlet Thorns
Wrapping the towel around my hips, I leave the bathroom. The walk-in closet spans the length of the bedroom, organized precisely. Charcoal Armani, pressed and waiting. Italian leather shoes polished to a mirror gleam. Every piece chosen to project power, success, respectability. The uniform of Osip Sidorov, legitimate businessman.
Galina is awake when I emerge, sitting at her antique vanity in cream silk that makes her skin glow like alabaster. She catches my reflection in the three-way mirror but doesn’t comment on how long I was in the shower or the tension radiating from every line of my body.
“Good morning, husband.” Her voice is calm, serene, never demanding more than I’m willing to give.
“Morning.” I adjust my tie briskly, fingers steady despite the storm in my head. “Sleep well?”
“The baby was restless.” She touches her belly with maternal reverence, still studying her reflection instead of me. “Dr. Martinez says it’s normal at this stage.”
Normal. Everything about Galina is normal. Predictable. Safe. She’ll be an excellent mother— patient, nurturing, undemanding. Everything our child needs. Everything I should want in a wife.
So why does normal feel like suffocation?
“I’ll be late tonight. Business.”
She nods, applying lipstick with the same careful precision she brings to everything. Two years of marriage, and she’s never asked what kind of business keeps me out until midnight. Never questioned the secure phones or encrypted messages. Our arrangement suits us both— mutual benefit without messy complications.
Except now I know what messy feels like. Know that it’s masked with lace and willing to give everything to a stranger.
Get your head out of your ass, dolboyob.
I yank my thoughts back to the present. “Have a good day,” I tell my beautiful wife as I brush my lips over her forehead and then leave the room before she replies.
The garage houses my collection— Aston Martin, Bentley, Mercedes S-Class. I choose the BMW today, something understated that won’t draw attention. The engine purrs to life, German engineering at its finest. But even the familiar ritual of driving can’t quiet my thoughts.
Boston traffic crawls, and I get stuck in streets lined with history and hidden money. Brownstones that have housed four generations of the same families. Businesses built on handshake deals and old-world connections. This city runs on tradition, reputation, trust.
All things I’ve been systematically destroying for profit.
My office building rises thirty-two floors above the financial district, glass and steel reflecting clouds and ambition. The elevator carries me past floors of legitimate businesses—law firms, investment banks, consulting groups. People who earn money through intelligence rather than violence.
The thirty-second floor belongs entirely to my operation. Reception area decorated in mahogany and leather, projecting stability and success. My private office overlooks Boston Harbor, where ships once brought fortunes in tea and rum. Now they bring different kinds of cargo. More valuable. More dangerous.
More lucrative for me.
I pour coffee from the machine my assistant installed— single-origin beans from Colombia, ground fresh each morning. The ritual provides structure, clears my head.
The quarterly reports spread across my desk like accusations. Columns of numbers that should tell a story of profit and growth. Instead, they now speak of betrayal in languages I’m fluent in— missing payments, redirected transfers, accounts that don’t balance.
My fingers trace patterns in the data, connecting dots that form a picture I don’t want to see. At first glance, clerical errors. System glitches. But I’ve been in this business long enough to recognize theft when it’s wearing a three-piece suit and speaking with a medical degree.
Someone with access to client payments. Someone trusted enough to handle transfers without oversight. Someone who could convince desperate couples that their money was buying legitimate adoptions.
Igor Shiradze.
The realization has me grinding my teeth. I lean back in my leather chair, the mechanism creaking under sudden weight. Dr. Igor Shiradze, the respectable gynecologist who gives our operation legitimacy. The ‘Hope Merchant’ as they call him, who convinces wealthy couples that their money buys dreams, futures, the families they couldn’t create naturally.
My most trusted partner. The man I protected from the violent realities of our business.
I cross-reference payment schedules with client contact logs, fingers flying across the keyboard with increasing urgency. The Henderson delivery Stanley was screaming about yesterday? The payment went directly to Shiradze’s private account, never touching our books. Same pattern with three other recent transactions worth over half a million combined.
Suka!
My coffee mug shatters against the wall, ceramic exploding like my carefully controlled composure. Dark liquid stains the off-white paint, dripping down like black blood. The sound echoes in the empty office, sharp and final.
Fucking Stanley was right. Igor hasn’t just been skimming— he’s been building his own empire. Using our connections, our reputation, our blood money to establish himself as the sole faceof the operation. While I handled the dirty work, he collected the profits and the respect.
I grab my secure phone with hands that want to break things. Dial Mrs. Patterson in Greenwich, the socialite who adopted twin boys six months ago. My voice sounds steady when she answers, betraying none of the rage building in my chest.
