Page 113 of Scarlet Thorns

My phone buzzes against the dashboard. Unknown number. I let it ring out— nothing good comes from calls like that. Not when someone’s already tried to put Ilona in a coffin.

Mudaki.

All of them.

Whoever thinks they can reach me through her is about to learn what happens when you threaten a Sidorov’s family.

She’s not fucking family, you fool!

Think straight, dolboyob!

The reminder tastes bitter. Contract wives don’t get the same value as blood ties. But every fiber of my being rebels against that logic. Family isn’t just DNA— it’s who you’d burn the world down to protect. And I’d turn this entire city to ash before letting anyone hurt Ilona. I know it in my bones.

The construction site sprawls before me, a picture of scaffolding and raw potential. Clean money building something that’ll outlast the violence I left behind. PéterBokor stands near the entrance, weathered face serious as he points at blueprints, explaining something to his men.

The crew moves around the skeletal frame of what will become Budapest’s most exclusive private club. My brothers handled the permits, the connections, the complex web of legitimacy that transforms dirty money into clean investments.

Before I can reach Péter, something small and enthusiastic crashes into my legs.

“Mister Osip!” Dénes grins up at me, hard hat slightly crooked on his dark hair. Péter’s boy has his father’s sharp eyes but none of the world’s cynicism yet. “You’re here! Papa said you might come today.”

The kid’s smile hits different today— pure and unguarded in a way that reminds me how much innocence still exists in the world. His small hands press against my legs like he’s anchoring himself, completely trusting.

Despite the black mood eating at me, I find myself crouching down to the kid’s level.

“Privet, little man. How’s the construction going? You keeping your father working hard?”

Dénes laughs, bright and uncomplicated. “Papa says I ask too many questions, but I want to know everything. Like, why do you need those thick walls in the basement? And what are all those special rooms for?”

Clever boy.

Too clever, maybe.

“The basement will store wine and supplies,” I tell him, which isn’t a complete lie. “The special rooms are for private business meetings. Important people need quiet places to discuss serious matters.”

“Business must be very serious if it needs soundproof walls.”

Yob tvoyu mat.

This kid sees everything.

“Very important,” I agree, ruffling his hair. The gesture feels foreign but natural, like muscle memory from a life I never got to live. “Your father taught you well about construction.”

“Mmhmm.” He nods. “Papa knows everything about building. He says you’re building something great. That it’s going to last forever.”

Forever.

The word carries a weight I wasn’t expecting. Most things in my life have expiration dates— alliances, enemies, partners, even businesses blown apart when they outlive their usefulness.

But this kid makes me feel like all of that could change.

“What do you want to be when you grow up, Dénes?” I ask.

“An architect! I want to design buildings that make people happy. Papa says the best buildings feel like home, even to strangers.”

“That’s a solid dream,” I tell him. “Work hard, and you’ll build whatever you want.”

My phone rings, pulling me from the moment. Dr. Varga’s name flashes on the screen. Every muscle goes rigid. He doesn’t call unless there’s a problem.