Page 35 of Scarlet Thorns
“I won’t say it again. Be smart and walk away without consequences.”
“Be smart?” Igor’s arrogance returns full force, transforming his features into something ugly and unfamiliar. “No,yoube smart, you fucking cunt. Threaten me once more and I’ll expose you to the cops and ruin your life. You understand? There won’t be anything left of your miserable existence. No pregnant wife at home, no child. I can take it all away from you in an instant.”
The mention of Galina and my child flips a switch I didn’t know existed.
My hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around his throat as I slam him against the side of his Mercedes. His eyes bulge with shock and terror, the arrogant mask finally slipping completely.
“Please, Osip,” he gasps, clawing at my grip. “I have a family, a wife, a daughter—”
I consider loosening my grip for a moment, but his bleating pleas are nothing but a mask for what he has in mind. The movement in his pocket almost doesn’t register through my rage. By the time I see the glint of steel, the blade is already arcing toward my neck. Prison instincts take over, reflexes honed in cells where hesitation meant death.
I catch his wrist mid-strike, our faces inches apart as we struggle for control. Igor’s eyes are wild with desperation and fear, his breath coming in panicked gasps. The knife trembles between us, sharp edge gleaming in the moonlight.
He’s weaker than me.
Always has been.
I twist his wrist with brutal efficiency, redirecting the blade’s angle. The steel slides between his ribs like it was meant to be there, finding his heart with anatomical precision.
Igor’s eyes go wide with shock and disbelief. Blood blooms across his expensive shirt, dark red spreading like spilled wine. He tries to speak, but only gurgling sounds emerge as crimson bubbles at the corners of his mouth.
His knees buckle, and I release him. He slides down the side of his car, leaving a smear of blood on pristine white paint. His knife remains buried in his chest, his hands fluttering weakly around the handle as life drains from his eyes.
The final breath leaves him with a soft sigh, and Igor Shiradze— respected doctor, loving father, thievingpizda— becomes just another body in a parking lot.
Chert voz’mi!
This wasn’t the plan. I came here hoping for strong conversation, maybe threats at worst. But Igor forced my hand when he pulled that blade, when he threatened Galina and my unborn child.
Blyad!
I check my watch. Two minutes since we left the restaurant. I scan the parking lot— empty except for heat shimmer rising from asphalt. No witnesses, no security cameras visible. Just me and Igor’s cooling corpse.
My phone is in my hand before conscious thought intervenes. First call goes to my cleanup crew— professionals who specialize in making problems disappear.
“Yes, boss,” the voice answers on the first ring.
“Parking lot behind Deuxave on Commonwealth. One body, minimal blood. How fast?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Make it fifteen.” I end the call and immediately dial Melor.
“Brat,” my brother’s voice carries its usual dry humor. “Please tell me you’re calling about something legal.”
“Igor Shiradze is about to commit suicide.”
Long pause. “Osip—”
“How long to make it official?”
Another pause, longer this time. Melor understands the implications without explanation— suicide means no murder investigation, no scrutiny of our business arrangements.
“Blyad.That won’t be easy,” he says finally. “Shiradze is a well-known gynecologist. Respected in the community. Suicide will raise questions.”
“You’re the legal guy in our operation,” I remind him. “Pull some strings.”
“I’ll do my best, but it won’t be cheap,brat.”
