Page 114 of Scarlet Thorns

“Excuse me, little man.” I’m already moving toward the BMW. “Important call.”

Dénes waves as I slide into the car, but my focus locks onto the phone. Each ring feels like a countdown to disaster. Dr. Varga cuts straight to business.

“Are you sitting?” he asks. No pleasantries. No bullshit.

Blyad.

Doctors only ask that when the news will knock you off your feet.

“What is it, Varga? Something wrong with Ilona?”

“I suppose I should let her do the honours, but given the medical risks, I am going to go ahead and tell you: Ilona is pregnant.”

The phone almost slips from my grip.

Beremenna.

Pregnant.

“Mr. Sidorov? Are you there?”

“Da.” My voice comes out rough, scraped raw. “I’m here.”

But I’m not really here. I’m a year in the past, watching paramedics wheeling Galina’s body away. I’m in the present, feeling impossible hope mixed with familiar terror. I’m in a future where I actually get to hold my child, teach them to walk, keep them safe.

Bozhe moy!

Dr. Varga continues, professional but not cold. “Because of her endometriosis, the risk of miscarriage is much higher than usual. She needs close medical supervision and bedrest. And sex is prohibited until she reaches week twelve.”

Miscarriage. The chances of losing another baby.

Not this time. Never fucking again.

“What else?” My voice comes out hoarse. “Best doctors? Specialists? Money’s no object.”

“She needs rest and minimal stress. Which means you need to keep her calm and safe. Can you do that?”

“Da. Absolutely.”

Safe. Right. Someone just tried to murder her with loose wheel nuts, and now she’s carrying my child. Time to make some calls. Arrange protection. Send a message that touching my family means death.

The irony isn’t lost on me. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of creating stress, of being the source of fear that keeps enemies awake at night. Now I need to become the opposite— shelter instead of storm, protection instead of threat.

The call ends. I sit in the car, staring at nothing, processing everything. A child. My blood, my legacy. And somemudakthinks they can use her to get to me.

Construction sounds filter through the windows— hammering, machinery, men shouting instructions. The building continues to rise despite everything else threatening to fall apart. Maybe that’s what I need to remember. How to keep building even when the world tries to tear everything down.

My child will never know hunger or fear or the sound of gunfire in the night. They’ll grow up in houses with gardens, not safe houses with escape routes. They’ll worry about homework and soccer practice, not whether daddy’s coming home or whether the cops finally caught up with him.

Whoever’s hunting me picked the wrong fucking moment to surface. I’ve got more to protect now than just my own worthless hide. I’ve got a family to defend.

I drive home like the devil’s chasing me, mind spinning between pure fucking joy and cold calculation. Need to call Melor, get him to arrange better security.

The Budapest streets blur past, familiar now after months of building a legitimate life here. Traffic moves with typical European precision, orderly and predictable in a way that still amazes me after years of Russian chaos. These people follow rules because they trust the system to work. They don’t carry guns or check their cars for bombs or sleep with one eye open.

That kind of innocence died in me long ago, but maybe it doesn’t have to die in my child.

The house materializes through the trees— home. The word still feels foreign applied to anywhere I live, but Ilona’s presence has changed things. Flowers in vases. Cooking smells from the kitchen. The sound of her laughter echoing off walls that used to hold nothing but silence.