Page 88 of Scarlet Thorns
I broke my own fucking rule.
No attachments.
No complications.
Keep business separate from pleasure, and never let anyone close enough to become a weakness. But one look at her in my secret room, surrounded by weapons and cash and toys I’d never used with anyone else, and my control shattered like cheap glass.
How the fuck did you get yourself into a shitshow like this, dolboyob?
At least Anett is out of my hair. That’s something. Breaking up with her before touching Ilona means I didn’t technically cheat, though the distinction feels meaningless when I’ve been wanting Shiradze’s daughter since the moment I saw her in that room back in Boston.
The cosmic joke keeps getting more twisted.
I can already feel myself getting attached to her. Can see it in the way my chest tightens when I think about her sleeping in my house, the way my body responds just to the memory ofher voice saying my name. She’s wildly pulled to me too— I felt it in every arch of her spine, every breathless moan, the way she surrendered to my touch like she’d been waiting her whole life for someone to take her properly.
But this can only end in catastrophe.
She has no idea I’m the man from Boston. No idea that the stranger who met her in Room Five is the same man who showed her what real pleasure looks like in my bedroom. And what’s worse— much fucking worse— she has no idea I murdered her father and covered it up as suicide.
The weight of those secrets sits in my chest like swallowed lead, growing heavier with each mile toward the construction site. How long can I keep hiding the truth from her? How long before she starts asking questions? Because shewillask questions, of that, I have no doubt. It’s only a matter of time before the pieces fall into place.
The Scarlet Fox comes into view, surrounded by scaffolding and construction equipment that transforms it from rustic charm into something promising. My vision taking shape one beam at a time. Clean money building something legitimate for the first time in my adult life.
PéterBokor stands near the entrance, his hard hat catching the morning sunlight as he discusses blueprints with one of his crew. Mid-forties, weathered hands that speak of decades working construction, the kind of man who takes pride in building things that last. His English carries a thick Hungarian accent, but it’s clear enough for business.
“Jó reggelt, boss,” he calls when I approach.
“Yes, it’s a good morning.” I study the progress, noting how the interior walls are already being reconfigured according to my specifications. “How are we looking on timeline?”
“Good, very good. Maybe two weeks ahead of schedule if the weather holds.” He gestures to where workers are installingnew electrical systems. “The kitchen renovation will be the tricky part, but—”
A blur of motion catches my eye. A small figure darts between the construction barriers with the fearless confidence only children possess.
“Dénes!” Pétershouts, but there’s more affection than anger in his voice. “Gyere ide! Come here, you little monkey.”
The boy who emerges from behind a stack of lumber makes my breath catch. Six years old, gap-toothed grin, dark hair that sticks up despite obvious attempts to smooth it down. He bounces toward us with energy that seems to vibrate through his small frame.
“Sorry, boss,” Pétersays, one hand settling protectively on his son’s shoulder. “School holiday today, his mother is working, so I brought him here. Hope that’s okay.”
“It’s fine.” But my voice sounds strange, hollow. Something about watching this father and son together makes my chest feel like it’s caving in.
“Dénes, this is Mr. Sidorov. He owns this place.”
The boy looks up at me with curious eyes that hold no fear, just open interest. “Are you Russian? Papa said you’re Russian.”
“Da. I am Russian.”
“Cool! Do you know any Russian swear words?”
“Dénes!” Péter’s face flushes red. “You don’t ask things like that.”
But I find myself almost smiling at the kid’s directness. “Maybe when you’re older, kiddo.”
For the next hour, I try to focus on construction details— timeline adjustments, material costs, the hundred decisions required to transform vision into reality. But my attention keeps drifting to Dénes, who chatters constantly while helping his father in ways that are more trouble than help.
The connection between them is obvious, unbreakable. Péter’s patience when explaining why certain tools are dangerous. Dénes’s pride when he successfully carries a small piece of equipment to the right location. The easy affection that flows between them like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“You have kids, boss?” Péterasks during a break, wiping sweat from his forehead while Dénes examines a level with scientific intensity.
