Page 6 of Scarlet Thorns
The possibility has occurred to me recently, though I’ve been dismissing it as paranoia. Igor Shiradze is everything I’m not— charming, respectable, genuinely caring about the families he claims to help. He’s the perfect front for our operation precisely because he believes his own justifications. In his mind, we’re providing a valuable service, connecting loving families with orphaned children who need homes.
But if Igor has been playing games behind our backs, making side deals while maintaining his innocent facade…
“You have proof?”
“I have suspicions. And missing money tends to support suspicions, doesn’t it?”
Stanley leans forward, placing both hands flat on my desk in an aggressive posture meant to intimidate. It’s a calculated move designed to establish dominance, but he’s forgotten who he’s talking to.
I’ve killed men for less disrespectful gestures.
“Here’s what I think happened,” Stanley continues, his voice gaining confidence as he builds his bullshit story. “I think Dr. Do-Good has been skimming fucking deliveries for months now. Maybe telling himself it’s for the greater good, maybe just getting greedy like the rest of us. And I think you’ve been too blinded by his sterling reputation to notice the obvious fucking signs.”
I stand slowly, my chair rolling backward on its expensive casters. Stanley straightens but doesn’t back away from my desk— a mistake that reveals either incredible courage or terminal stupidity.
“You call me naive.” My voice is still low. Dangerous. Everything about me is very fucking dangerous right now.
“I’m calling you trusting. Sometimes they’re the same fucking thing in our line of work.”
The insult hangs between us like a loaded weapon. In my world, questioning someone’s judgment is questioning their competence. Questioning their competence is questioning their right to lead. And questioning my right to lead is a mistake Stanley can only afford to make once.
“You burst into my office. Accuse me of theft. Suggest I’m too stupid to manage my operation.” I walk around the desk to close the distance between us. “That takes courage or stupidity. Which one,pizda?”
Stanley’s bravado wavers slightly, but he doesn’t back down. “I just want what’s rightfully fucking mine.”
“What’s yours is what we agree is yours. What we don’t agree doesn’t exist.”
“Fuck that corporate doublespeak, Osip. I’m not your fucking employee. I’m your partner, and partners don’t get fucked over by other partners.”
“Partners don’t make accusations without evidence. Partners don’t disrespect each other. Partners don’t forget their place.”
“Their place?” Stanley laughs, the sound filled with bitterness and mounting frustration. “What fucking place? We’re all criminals here, remember? None of us is better than the others when it comes right down to it.”
Wrong answer.
Completely fucking wrong.
I step closer, close enough that Stanley has to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. Close enough that I can smell the expensive cologne he wears and he can see the scars on my face from fights he’s never had to participate in.
“Some criminals are smart. Some are careful. Some understand reputation and respect are the only currencies thatmatter.” I pause, letting the words sink in. “Some are just thugs with expensive suits.”
Stanley’s face cycles through white and red like a traffic light. “Are you fucking threatening me?”
“I explain reality. If I owed you money, you would have it. You accuse the wrong man. That’s a mistake you can make only once.”
For a moment, I think he might actually swing at me. His hands are clenched into fists, his breathing has gone shallow and rapid. The muscles in his shoulders are coiled tight with suppressed violence. But even Stanley isn’t stupid enough to start a physical fight with me in my own office, surrounded by my security and thirty-one floors above the street.
Instead, he straightens his wrinkled suit jacket and heads for the door with as much dignity as he can salvage. Which isn’t much, now that he’s blown his load on bullshit and bluster.
“This conversation isn’t fucking over, Osip.”
“Yes. It is.” I fold my arms over my chest.
The door slams behind him with enough force to rattle the windows and disturb the carefully arranged items on my bookshelf. I listen to his footsteps disappearing down the hallway toward the elevator, then return my attention to the quarterly figures that suddenly seem far less important than they did twenty minutes ago.
Stanley’s accusation about Igor nags at me like a splinter working its way deeper under the skin. I’ve always prided myself on reading people accurately, on seeing through deception and identifying threats before they become critical. But what if I’ve been wrong about the good doctor? What if his genuine concern for families has been covering something more self-serving?
Blyad.
