Page 34 of Scarlet Thorns
“Those are legitimate medical fees—”
“Cut the shit, Igor.” My patience evaporates like alcohol in fire. “I’ve spoken to the clients. They all think you run an independent adoption service. None of them know my name or Stanley’s.”
He opens his mouth to deny it again, but I’m done with his lies. I pull out my phone, queue up one of the recorded conversations, and press play without a word.
Mrs. Callahan’s voice fills the space between us: “Dr. Shiradze handled everything personally. Two hundred and fifty thousand, paid to his private account as instructed. Very professional, very discreet.”
Igor’s facade cracks like ice under pressure. His hands tremble slightly as he reaches for his water glass, and I know I’ve got him.
“That proves nothing,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction.
“It proves you’re a thievingmudakwho’s been playing me for a fool.” I lean forward, voice dropping to the tone that makes grown men need a change of underwear. “How long, Igor? How long have you been running private deals?”
Sweat beads on his forehead despite the restaurant’s aggressive air conditioning. “You don’t understand the pressure I’m under, Osip. The medical board is asking questions. There’s a journalist sniffing around, rumors about my involvement in questionable adoptions. A birth mother in Bulgaria is threatening to go public.”
“So you decided to steal from us?”
“I’m the face of this fucking operation!” His voice rises before he catches himself, glancing around nervously. “The coverups aren’t cheap. Payoffs to officials, hush money to potential witnesses—”
“That’s Melor’s department. You know that.” I study his face, watching for tells. “This isn’t about expenses, you greedypizda. This is about building your own business while using our infrastructure.”
Igor’s desperation transforms into something uglier— cornered animal aggression. “Fine. You want the truth? The payoffs are getting more expensive. Officials want more money. Birth mothers want more. Everyone wants their cut, and I’m the one they come to because I’m respectable. I have a reputation to protect.”
“Reputation.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re a criminal, Igor. Same as me, same as Stanley. The only difference is your crimes wear a white coat.”
“I’m nothing like you.” His voice turns venomous. “I help families. I create hope. You’re just a thug with expensive suits.”
The insult hits exactly the nerve he intended. I feel the familiar ice spreading through my veins, the cold calculation that comes before violence. But I maintain control. This isn’t some street corner in Vladivostok— this is a public restaurant where witnesses have smartphones.
“You betrayed us, Igor, but I’ll give you a chance.” I say quietly. “Pay back what you stole. Every fucking kopeck. Do that, and you walk away breathing.”
Igor’s expression shifts, fear replaced by something more dangerous— arrogance. He leans forward, eyes narrowing as his voice drops to a whisper.
“Betray you? That’s rich coming from a Bratva criminal, Osip. I’ve been in this business long enough to know where you buried all the bodies from your past— figuratively and literally.” His smile turns cold, calculating. “Don’t think I don’t know about the things you’ve done. I’ve got proof too. So before you start throwing around accusations, remember: I can bring down your entire fucking life with a single phone call.”
The threat sets my teeth on edge. Igor knows about Vladivostok. About the men I took care of to earn my reputation. About the graves that would link me to cases the American authorities would love to solve.
But instead of backing down, something harder crystallizes in my chest. Igor just declared war. He chose this path.
“Fine,” I say, keeping my expression stone cold. “Forget about it then.”
“As I thought.” His smirk radiates satisfaction, the look of a man who thinks he’s won. “Smart boy.”
Boy?
The condescension ignites something murderous in my chest, but I don’t let it show. Igor’s revealed his true nature— not the compassionate doctor I thought I knew, but apizdawho’s been playing a longer game than I realized.
I stand, pushing my chair back with deliberate force. “We’re done here.”
“You bet we are.”
I ignore his comment. I pay the bill without another word, walking through the restaurant with Igor trailing behind. The summer night air hits us like a wall of heat as we exit into the parking lot.
Our cars are parked side by side— my BMW and his pristine Mercedes, both symbols of success built on blood money. I stop beside my driver’s door, keys in hand, but I don’t open it.
“Igor.” My voice carries across the empty space between us. “One last chance. Pay back the money you stole and walk away. Then we never see each other again.”
He looks confused, like he can’t believe I’m still pushing after his threats. “I thought we just went through this.”
