Page 17 of Scarlet Thorns
“Mrs. Patterson? This is an administrative follow-up regarding your recent adoption. We’re conducting internal audits of our payment processing.”
“Oh, certainly. Dr. Shiradze handled everything personally. Such a compassionate man, so dedicated to helping orphaned children find wealthy families.”
Each word drives the knife deeper. “Dr. Shiradze received payment directly?”
“Of course. Four hundred thousand, as we discussed. He was very thorough about explaining the fees— medical expenses, legal processing, facility costs. I never dealt with anyone else from your organization.”
My jaw tightens. “You didn’t?”
“Well, I assumed it was just Dr. Shiradze’s practice. Very boutique, very exclusive. I never heard any other names mentioned.”
I end the call before I say something that reveals the violence building inside me. Dial another client. Same story. Then another. Each conversation confirms what the numbers already told me— Igor has been running a shadow operation, collecting full payments while reporting a fraction to our partnership.
By the fourth call, I’m recording. Evidence. Documentation. Proof that will stand up in court or justify what happens next.
“Mrs. Callahan, this is regarding your recent adoption. For our records, can you confirm who processed your payment?”
“Dr. Shiradze, handled everything personally. Two hundred and fifty thousand, paid to his private account as instructed. He assured me the fee covered all legal and medical expenses.” Her voice carries the relief of someone who believes she avoided the seedy side of “off-the-books” adoption. “Very professional, very discreet.”
“Did Dr. Shiradze mention working with partners? Other associates?”
“No, just his practice. He made the whole process feel so personal, not like those terrible stories you hear about black market babies.”
The irony almost makes me laugh out loud. She thinks she avoided the black market by paying Igor directly. Doesn’t realize Igoristhe black market, just wearing a white coat and speaking with authority.
I end the recording and save it to encrypted storage. Six calls. Same fucking pattern. Every client thinks Igor runs a legitimate adoption service. Every payment went to his accounts. None of them ever heard the name Osip Sidorov.
The rage builds slow and steady, like a nuclear reactor approaching critical mass. Igor’s gentle bedside manner. His passionate speeches about helping families find hope, helping orphaned and disadvantaged babies find loving parents. His fucking gratitude every time I shielded him from the consequences of our business.
All performance. Calculation. A long con designed to position himself as the legitimate face while I remained the criminal in the shadows.
Pizdets!
I slam my fist on the mahogany desk, the impact reverberating through expensive wood. Pain shoots up my arm, but it’s nothing compared to the humiliation burning in my chest.
How long has this been happening? How much has he stolen? How many clients exist that I don’t even know about?
Trust is a luxury I can no longer afford. Vulnerability gets you killed in this world. Igor made me vulnerable by making me believe our partnership was built on shared principles of trust instead of mutual greed.
Rage burns like acid in my chest. A feeling I need to douse with something soothing. On impulse, I reach for my phone and dial again.
“Osip. Figured you’d call eventually,” says Jack from the Scarlet Fox.
“Do you know if she’ll be back?”
Long pause. “You know I can’t share details about members. Confidentiality is what keeps this place running. People trust us with their secrets.”
“How much?”
“Excuse me?”
“How much for information? When she comes in, what she asks, which room she takes.” I lean back in my chair, leather creaking. “Name your price.”
Longer pause. I can almost hear him weighing loyalty against opportunity. “This isn’t about money, Osip. It’s about trust. These people rely on discretion.”
“Fifty thousand.”
Silence stretches across the connection. The amount hangs between us like a challenge, more money than most people see in a year.
