Page 119 of Scarlet Thorns

Osip

The shrill ring of my phone drags me from the few moments of peace I’d managed to steal while watching Ilona sleep.

Her honey-blonde hair spills across my pillow, one delicate hand curled beneath her cheek, and for just a heartbeat, I allow myself to imagine this is normal— that she belongs here, that the life growing inside her makes us a family.

“Sidorov.” I slip out of bed, careful not to wake her, padding to the hallway where my voice won’t disturb her rest.

“Boss, we have a problem.” Péter’s voice carries that rough edge when he’s rattled. In all the time I’ve known the Hungarian construction manager, I’ve never heard him sound this nervous. “You need to come to the site. Now.”

I go still. “What happened?”

“Someone hit us hard last night. Place is…” He pauses, searching for words. “Fuck, boss. It’s bad. Real bad.”

I’m already moving toward my closet, grabbing dark jeans and a black sweater. “Anyone hurt?”

“Nem, thank Christ. Night security found it this morning when they came to do rounds. But whoever did this, they knew what they were doing. This wasn’t some random vandalism.”

Pizdets!

First Ilona’s car, now the construction site. Someone’s sending me a message, no doubt about it.

“On my way. Don’t let anyone else on site until I get there.”

“Already done, boss. Sent the boys home. It’s just me and the security team.”

I end the call and finish dressing quickly, my mind racing through possibilities. Who the hell is trying to fuck with me? Stanley Morrison still had connections in Boston when I left— dirty cops, corrupt officials, men who’d sell their own mothers for the right price. But reaching out to Budapest would take resources and planning.

Or maybe it’s someone from my more distant past, someone who followed the breadcrumbs from the early Bratva days. The baby trafficking operation had tentacles reaching into places I’d rather forget. Medical facilities, legal offices, private adoption agencies. Any one of those connections could have led back to me.

Either way, someone’s escalating. And with Ilona pregnant, the stakes have transformed into something that makes my previous concerns seem trivial.

I check on her one more time before leaving— she’s still sleeping deeply, one hand unconsciously resting on her stomach. Something fierce and protective claws at my chest. Whatever’s coming, I’ll handle it. She’ll never need to know how close danger is circling.

The drive to the construction site takes twenty minutes through the winding roads of Buda Hills, but it feels like hours. My BMW purrs through the curves, but my teeth are grinding as I imagine what I’m about to see.

Nothing prepares me for the reality.

“What the fuck happened here?” I snarl as I take in the devastation. What should have been another day of progress toward opening The Scarlet Fox has become a war zone.

Windows are shattered, glass glittering across the torn-up ground. Construction equipment lies scattered and damaged— concrete mixers overturned, scaffolding bent and twisted. Someone took a sledgehammer to the interior walls we’d just finished, leaving gaping holes and exposed steel framework.

But it’s the graffiti that makes my blood boil. Spray-painted across the half-finished facade in jagged red letters: “DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES.”

Christ.

They couldn’t be more original?

Péterapproaches, his weathered face grim beneath his hard hat. “I don’t know, Boss. We found the site like this.” His accent thickens with stress. “Security cameras were spraypainted over. Gate was forced with some kind of crowbar or handlebar. I think it’s professional job— they knew exactly how to cause maximum damage in minimum time.”

I walk the perimeter slowly, forcing myself to think like the criminal I used to be instead of the businessman I’m trying to become. The tracks in the gravel are deep, wide-set. Not a car— something bigger.

“Judging by the tire thickness, it was a van or SUV,” I tell Péter, crouching to examine the patterns. “Multiple vehicles, probably. This would have taken a crew to execute this fast and quiet.”

The forced gate tells its own story. Clean work with a pry bar, no wasted effort. The kind of breaking and entering that speaks of experience.

“They threw bricks at the windows,” Pétercontinues, following my examination. “But look at the pattern— every impact is deliberate. Not random vandalism. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they wanted to send a message.”

Fucking right they did. And the message is crystal clear: we know where you are, we know what matters to you, and we can reach you anywhere.