Page 33 of Scarlet Thorns
“When exactly?”
“Thursday evening. I land at Logan around six. Is this urgent? Because if there’s an emergency with one of our clients—”
“Thursday works. At Deuxave, eight o’clock. We have business to discuss.”
Longer silence this time. I can almost hear his head ticking, trying to read the temperature of this conversation through my tone.
“Business? Osip, if this is about any administrative issues or scheduling conflicts, I’m sure we can sort everything out quickly. You know how these medical conferences can complicate scheduling—”
“Thursday. Eight o’clock. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll see you then. Should I… is there anything specific I should prepare? Financial records or client files?”
“Just yourself, Igor. That’s all I need.”
I end the call before he can respond, setting the phone down with the same deliberate care. Thursday gives me four days to calm the fuck down and plan this conversation. Four days to decide exactly how to handle a man who’s been stealing from me for years while presenting himself as my most trusted partner.
Four days to figure out whether Dr. Igor Shiradze walks out of that restaurant alive.
The thought should disturb me more than it does. But as I sit in my office, surrounded by the trappings of corporate success, all I feel is the familiar weight of necessity. Some problems can be solved with lawyers and contracts. Others require more direct solutions.
Igor Shiradze chose his path when he decided to steal from me. Now he gets to live with the consequences.
Or die with them.
Chapter Thirteen
Osip
The restaurant is exactly the kind of place an honest businessman would choose—expensive enough to project success, quiet enough for conversations that shouldn’t be overheard.
I arrive early, claiming the corner booth that gives me clear sight lines to every entrance. Old habits. In my world, paranoia keeps you breathing.
I order black coffee and check my Patek Philippe. Igor’s five minutes late, which is unlike him. The good doctor prides himself on punctuality, the same way he prides himself on his reputation, his charity work, and his fucking humanitarian facade.
Ublyudok!
All bullshit, as it turns out.
My secure phone holds the evidence— recorded conversations with clients who paid him directly, financial records that don’t match our books, a pattern of theft so systematic it took Radimir days to uncover. Igor Shiradze, the respectable gynecologist who gives our operation legitimacy, has been running his own empire while we handled the dirty work.
The betrayal tastes like copper pennies in my mouth.
When he finally appears, gliding through the restaurant like he owns the place, my blood pressure spikes. Designer suit, confident smile, the practiced charm that makes desperate couples trust him with their darkest desires. He looks every inch the successful doctor— except I now know he’s been buying that success with stolen money.
“Osip.” He slides into the seat across from me, immediately noting my expression. “You look like someone shot your dog.”
“Funny you should mention shooting.” I keep my voice level, controlled. “We need to talk.”
Igor’s smile falters slightly, but he maintains his composure. “About what?”
I get straight to the point. I place the manila folder on the table between us, thick with printed evidence. Financial records, transaction logs, copies of payments that went directly to his accounts instead of our shared operation.
“About the millions you’ve been stealing from our partnership.”
The color drains from his face, but he recovers quickly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t?” I flip open the folder, revealing highlighted bank statements. “Let’s go over it then. Mrs. Patterson in Greenwich. Four hundred thousand, paid directly to your private account. The Walkers in Connecticut— two hundred fifty. Should I continue?”
