Page 62 of Scarlet Thorns
I pocket the card and leave a generous tip— enough to cover her weekly wages, probably. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t question good fortune.
Outside, I pull out my phone and navigate to the family group chat. This decision feels significant in ways I can’t articulate— not just business, but transformation. A chance to build something clean from the ground up.
The video I send shows empty tables and rustic charm, traditional architecture that speaks of permanence. My brothers’ responses come quickly:
Melor:“Interesting. Location?”
Radimir:“Looks like a fucking fairy tale, brat. But maybe fairy tales can make money.”
I follow up with photos of the interior, the space that could be converted to private dining, the potential for something special. Each image builds the case for what this place could become.
Melor:“Kitchen would need work, but bones are solid. What’s the asking price?”
Me:“Haven’t called yet. Just found out it’s available.”
Radimir:“Well what are you waiting for? Call the mudak.”
Melor:“Agreed. But what’s the vision? Another restaurant? Club? Legitimate front?”
The question makes me pause. What is the vision? I stare at the traditional facade and see something that doesn’t exist yet— elegant without being ostentatious, exclusive without being elitist. A place where privacy matters, where conversations can happen without fear of surveillance or judgment.
Me: “Private club. Exclusive membership. The name stays.”
Radimir: “Scarlet Fox Budapest. Has a nice ring to it.”
Melor: “Legal business means legal taxes, legal oversight. You sure you want that level of scrutiny?
Me: “Time to go legitimate. All the way this time.
The words feel like a promise of something new. For years, I’ve straddled the line between criminal and civilian, using legal businesses to wash money earned through violence. But this feels different. Clean.
Maybe it’s the therapy. Maybe it’s the ghosts that won’t let me sleep. Maybe it’s the recognition that I can’t outrun my past by hiding in it forever.
Melor: “If you’re serious about going legitimate, you’ll need proper papers. Business licenses, health permits, insurance. I can handle the legal side.”
Radimir: “And I can design security systems that aren’t overkill for a restaurant. Keep it classy.”
Their enthusiasm surprises me. These are men who measure success in dollars laundered and territories controlled. But they’re backing my play without hesitation.
I dial the number on the business card, listening to it ring while studying the building that might become my future.
“Igen, László speaking.” The voice is tired, defeated.
“László, I’m Sidorov, Osip Sidorov. I heard your restaurant might be for sale.”
Long pause. “Who told you this?”
“One of your staff. I’m a regular customer, interested in making an offer.”
The conversation that follows is conducted in careful English supplemented by hope and desperation. László has owned the place for fifteen years, inherited from his father who built it in the seventies. But Budapest’s dining scene has evolved, and traditional Hungarian fare can’t compete with trendy fusion restaurants and delivery apps.
“I love this place,” he explains, his voice heavy with resignation. “But love doesn’t pay the bills.”
The price he quotes is laughably low— pocket change for someone with my resources. Either he’s desperate, or Hungarian real estate is cheaper than I realized. Probably both.
“I’d like to see the full property,” I tell him. “Books, permits, everything. When can we meet?”
“Today? Now?” The eagerness in his voice makes my chest tighten. This man is drowning, and I might be the life preserver he’s been praying for.
