Page 56 of Scarlet Chains
And now, I’d trade every bullet in my clip to hear her say my name again. Not afraid. Notdisappointed.
But she’s across the city, freezing me out like I’m just another problem to shut a door on.
Fine.
I’ll kick the fucking door down.
My phone buzzes against the table, and I whip my head around to check the name on the screen.
Fuck. It’s not her.
As if she’d answer my last call when she’s ignored the million before it.
It’s Melor. I consider letting it go to voicemail, my black mood not fit for human consumption, but my brother doesn’t call unless it’s important. Maybe has answers for me.
“Da?” I growl into the phone.
“You sound like hell, Osip.” His voice carries that familiar mix of concern and exasperation that’s been there since Galina died. “How’s Boston treating you?”
“Like shit.”
“Still no word from Ilona?”
“Not since the orphanage. No.” The words come out gruffly. “And Simpson says the legal process for Slava could take months, if not fucking years.”
There’s a pause, then Melor’s voice turns sharp as broken glass. “Well, what the fuck did you expect? This is America, not Siberia. They don’t hand over children to single Russian fathers with pages of criminal records.”
Jesus Christ, does he have to keep on about that?
The glass in my hand shatters against the table before I realize I’ve thrown it. Vodka and crystal shards spray across the polished wood, and the sharp pain in my palm tells me I’ve cut myself. Good. Physical pain I can handle.
“I am not a criminal!” The words tear from my throat. “I am Slava’s biological father!”
“Okay, you’re not aconvictedcriminal— at least in the US.” Melor’s voice remains annoyingly calm. “But we both knowthat you’re far from innocent. Don’t you think the US court looks at men like us and sees the Bratva written all over them?”
“Yobani Urod!”I roar, surging to my feet so fast the chair tips backward. “Slava is my son,mudak! They have no right to keep us apart!”
The silence that follows stretches for a minute, filled with everything we can’t say over an international phone line. When Melor speaks again, his tone has softened to the voice he used when we were teenagers and the world was trying to break us.
“Look,bratok, I know this is eating you alive, but you need to think strategically. Getting angry solves nothing. Focus on going the legal way, for once. You can’t risk bribing an entire system when there’s this much at stake.” He pauses, and I can almost see him choosing his words carefully. “And if you seriously think Ilona is the best choice for a wife and for Slava’s mother, you need to prove it to her.”
I sink back down onto the bed, scowling down at my bleeding palm. “And how do you suggest I do that?”
“You’re smart, Osip. You just need a cool head and you’ll figure it out.”
The line goes dead, and I toss the phone onto the leather sofa with deliberate force. The silence in the room feels suffocating now, filled with memories of conversations I should have had and choices I should have made differently.
But dwelling on the past won’t get me what I need.
Won’t get meher.
My chest burns with frustration, but beneath that fire, something else simmers. Something that tastes like determination and feels like steel.
Fuck this. If she won’t pick up the phone, I’ll just go and find her.
I pull on my leather jacket, checking the weapon secured at my hip out of habit. The weight of it is comforting, familiar.Enough waiting. If Ilona won’t answer my calls, I’ll find her myself. I’ll tear down this fucking city brick by brick if I have to.
Boston’s a big place, but I’ve tracked people through bigger. I’ll start at the beginning, work my way through every connection, every lead, every shadow until I find her. And when I find her—when, not if— I’ll make her listen. Make her understand that we belong together, that Slava needs both of us, that this stubborn pride of hers is going to destroy the only good thing either of us has ever had.
