Page 70 of Scarlet Thorns
Because I know this woman from somewhere.
And whatever buried memory is trying to surface feels significant in ways I’m not ready to understand.
But first things first. Get her somewhere safe. Deal with the familiar ghosts later.
The restaurant feels different as we walk through it— less like a business opportunity and more like a responsibility. These people, this place, they’re mine to protect now. Starting with the dark-haired waitress whose voice carries echoes of a half-forgotten dream.
A dream I thought I’d left buried in Boston.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Osip
The drive to my house in the Buda Hills passes in silence.
Ilona sits in the passenger seat of my BMW, staring out the window at Budapest’s evening lights with the kind of exhaustion that seems bone-deep. Every few minutes, she shifts in her seat, and I catch the subtle tremor in her hands that speaks of adrenaline crash.
When we pull through the gates of my property, she straightens slightly. The mansion looms before us, its façade a mix of modern architectural lines and traditional Hungarian motifs, crafted to evoke history while still feeling contemporary. Towering stone pillars frame the entrance, offering an imposing welcome beneath an intricately tiled roof that glints in the twilight. Money can’t buy happiness, but it sure as hell can buy security.
“This is your house?” Her voice carries wonder mixed with uncertainty, like she’s not sure she belongs in a place this luxurious.
“Da.” I cut the engine and study her profile in the dim light. “It’s too big for one person, but it’s secure. Safe.”
She follows me through the front entrance, and I watch her take in the space— the crystal chandeliers, the artwork I barely notice anymore, the kind of wealth that screams success to anyone who enters.
For some reason, seeing her impressed by what I’ve built makes something warm uncurl in my chest. Pride, maybe. Or just the simple pleasure of offering something beautiful to someone who’s had too much ugliness lately.
“Tea?” I ask, leading her toward the kitchen. “Food? You look like you haven’t eaten today.”
“Tea would be nice.” She settles onto one of the bar stools, her movements careful and deliberate. “Thank you. For all of this. I know you didn’t have to—”
“Stop thanking me.” I fill the kettle, grateful for the mundane task. “I’m your boss now. That makes your safety my responsibility.”
While the water heats, I study her more closely. The familiarity keeps gnawing at me— something about the way she holds herself, the cadence of her voice. But the memory stays frustratingly out of reach.
“Tell me about yourself,” I say, settling across from her with two steaming mugs. “How did you end up working for thatpizda?”
She wraps her hands around the ceramic, seeking warmth or comfort. “It’s a long story.”
“I have time.”
Ilona’s eyes fix on the steam rising from her mug. “I built a content writing business after everything fell apart back home. Thought I’d found the perfect escape— laptop, passport, complete freedom.”
“And then?”
“Then AI happened.” A wry smile tugs at her lips. “Turns out clients prefer paying five dollars to a robot instead of five hundred to a human. My business died in just a few months.”
The kitchen’s warm lighting softens her features, but can’t hide the shadows under her eyes. She sips her tea, fingers still trembling slightly.
“Why Budapest?” I keep my voice neutral, professional.
“My mother’s Hungarian. She used to tell me stories about growing up here.” Her gaze drifts toward the window, wherecity lights sparkle against the darkening sky. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought. That I’d feel connected to something.”
“Did you?”
“For a few weeks. Then my savings ran out.” She laughs without humor. “Turns out nostalgia doesn’t pay rent.”
I lean against the counter, watching her. There’s a quiet dignity in how she recounts her failures without self-pity.
