Page 37 of Scarlet Thorns
“That piece of shit stole from me too,” I continue, my voice low and menacing. “Millions, Stanley. And you think I’m going to pay his debts? Shiradze was a thief and a rat. I’m not paying a single cent of what he owes you.”
“You won’t get away with this.” Stanley takes a step back, but his jaw remains set in stubborn lines. “You will regret this, Osip. Mark my words.”
The threat hangs between us like smoke from a gun barrel. I walk around the desk, closing the distance until we’re close enough that he can smell the vodka on my breath from last night.
“Is that a threat?”
“Consider it a promise between old friends.” His smile is cold, calculating, nothing like the eager kid I used to know. “I’ll get my money, one way or the other.”
Stanley backs toward the door, maintaining eye contact like he thinks breaking the stare would show weakness.His transformation is remarkable— gone is any pretense of partnership or friendship, replaced by something harder and more dangerous.
“You have a week,” he says from the doorway. “You know where to find me. If you don’t pay, we’re done. All bets are off.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds like a countdown timer starting. I stand in the sudden silence, trying to process what just happened.
The cunt just threatened me.
Again.
Stanley Morrison— my former friend, my business partner, the spoiled rich boy I protected for years— just declared war over money he was never owed. Igor’s debt died with Igor, but Stanley’s too fucking stupid or too desperate to understand basic business principles.
Pizdets.
This won’t end well. For him.
I’m reaching for my chair when my phone buzzes against the desk.
Text from Jack:She is here. Masked night.
The words hit me like a shot of pure adrenaline. She’s there. The woman from Room Five, the one who’s been haunting my thoughts since our first encounter. After the darkness of the past twenty-four hours— Igor’s betrayal, his death, Stanley’s threats— she feels like salvation.
I grab my jacket and head for the door. The Scarlet Fox calls, and for the first time since Igor pulled that knife, I feel something other than cold rage spreading through my chest.
The drive to Back Bay passes in a blur of anticipation and need. Boston’s evening traffic can’t move fast enough, every red light a personal insult. By the time I park outside the familiar brick facade, my pulse is hammering against my collar.
Jack spots me the moment I walk through the entrance. His knowing look carries across the warm-lit space as he mouths the words that make my chest tighten: “Room Five.”
I slide a hundred-dollar bill across the bar without a word— a small payment for information, for discretion, for the kind of service that keeps places like this running. Jack palms the cash smoothly, his smile carrying just enough smugness to be annoying.
The corridor behind the bar feels different today. Not like an escape from reality, but like stepping into the only reality that matters. I strip off my suit in the changing room, letting hot water from the rainfall shower wash away the stench of violence and betrayal.
Igor’s blood is long gone from my hands, but I scrub them anyway. Stanley’s threats echo in my head, but they feel distant now, unimportant compared to what waits behind the door to Room Five.
The towel sits low on my hips as I walk down the hallway, each step bringing me closer to something I can’t name but desperately need. The leather mask transforms me somehow— not Osip Sidorov the criminal, not the man who killed his partner yesterday, but someone cleaner. Someone worthy of whatever forgiveness waits in that burgundy room.
I open the door to paradise.
She’s sitting in the same velvet chair, lace mask catching candlelight. But something’s different about her posture— not the broken desperation from our first meeting, but something deeper. Sadness mixed with determination, vulnerability wrapped in quiet strength.
“I was hoping you’d come,” she says, and her voice carries relief so profound it makes my chest ache.
I settle into the chair across from her, studying the way shadows play across her exposed mouth. This is a completelydifferent universe from the cold darkness where I ended Igor’s life. Here, soft lighting replaces harsh fluorescents, roses replace the metallic scent of blood, and this masked woman’s presence replaces the weight of violence.
This is another dimension of existence entirely.
For the first time in twenty-four hours, I can breathe.
Chapter Fifteen
