Page 77 of Scarlet Thorns
“To look into your father’s death. The police closed the case, called it suicide, but you and I both know that’s impossible. Igor Shiradze did not kill himself.”
The conviction in her voice mirrors my own deepest certainty, the truth I’ve carried like a stone in my chest since that horrible day. Dad wouldn’t abandon us. Wouldn’t choose to leave rather than fight for his family. But still, I can’t help worrying about how this would affect her.
“Mom… are you sure? The investigation, the questions— it might bring up painful things.”
“More painful than believing my husband chose to leave us?” Her voice breaks slightly, but underneath the emotion runssteel. “More painful than wondering if someone hurt him and got away with it?”
The questions ring true because I’ve asked them myself, night after night, staring at ceilings in hostel rooms and cramped apartments across Europe.
“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” I admit quietly. “Something about the official story never felt right.”
“Exactly. Your father had flaws, financial troubles we’re still uncovering, but he would never abandon his family. Never.” She takes a shaky breath. “I need to know what really happened. We both do.”
The seed she’s planted takes root immediately, growing into something that feels like purpose. For a year, I’ve been running— from grief, from questions, from the weight of a future that looked nothing like what I’d planned. But maybe it’s time to stop running and start looking for answers.
“What can I do to help?”
“Just knowing you support this means everything. I’ll keep you updated.” Her voice softens with maternal concern. “But promise me you’ll be careful, Ilona. If someone did hurt your father, if there are dangerous people involved…”
“I’ll be careful,” I promise, though the words feel hollow given my current situation— living with a man whose very presence suggests danger and violence lurking beneath expensive suits.
We talk for another hour about lighter things— her new coworkers, Budapest’s beauty, anything but the growing certainty that Dad’s death hides secrets we’re not prepared to face. When we finally hang up, I sit in the gathering darkness and let the implications wash over me.
Someone might have killed my father. Might have staged his death to look like suicide, destroyed my family for reasons I can’t begin to fathom.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it brings a clarity I haven’t felt in months. Purpose beyond mere survival.
But first, I need to handle my own circumstances. Living in close quarters with a man who makes my body sing and my common sense evaporate, working for someone whose carefully controlled violence suggests depths I’m afraid to explore.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I’m seeking answers about dangerous men who might have hurt my family while putting myself under the protection of a different dangerous man.
One who feels familiar in ways that make no sense.
One whose presence fills spaces even when he’s not in them.
One who spent this morning acting like he’s never seen me before in his life.
I close my eyes and let the Budapest evening air cool my heated skin, trying to ignore the way my body responds just to thinking about him.
Professional boundaries, I remind myself.
No complications.
But even as I repeat the mantra, I know it’s already too late.
The pull between us is magnetic, undeniable, dangerous.
Even if he’s determined to pretend it doesn’t exist.
Chapter Thirty-One
Osip
The vodka burns down my throat, but it doesn’t touch the restlessness eating through my chest.
Melor and Radimir sprawl across my leather furniture like they own the place, which they basically do— blood gives you that kind of privilege. The empty bottles on my coffee table tell the story of our evening: three brothers getting drunk enough to forget why we left Moscow in the first place.
“Remember when you used to smile?” Radimir says, his words slightly slurred as he refills his glass. “Back before you became this broodingmudakwho buys restaurants and pretends to be respectable.”
