Page 138 of Scarlet Thorns

“Miss Ilona? Are you feeling well? Should I call—”

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

She nods quickly, backing away further as I make my way across the foyer to the staircase.

Behind me, I hear Melor’s car door slam. His footsteps on the gravel. The front door closing with a solid thunk. Normal sounds of a normal evening in this abnormal life.

The second floor hallway stretches before me, lined with family portraits that aren’t my family, expensive rugs that muffleevery sound. My bedroom door sits at the end, painted white, with brass fixtures that gleam like gold. A sanctuary within a sanctuary. Or a cell within a prison.

My bedroom door clicks shut. The sound echoes too loudly in the silence.

Finally.

I lean against the door, pressing my back to the solid wood as I fumble for my phone in my purse. The screen is cracked— when did that happen?— but it still works. I scroll for Jason’s number, pushing away from the door. Each ring stretches an eternity while I pace the space between bed and window, my heels sinking into the thick carpet.

“Jason—”

“Ilona, Jesus, I was worried sick. What the hell happened back there?”

“Nothing. I got interrupted,” I say, dropping onto the bed.

“Yeah…” He pauses, and I can picture him in his old office in Boston, probably working overtime, probably surrounded by case files and cold coffee. Real things. Honest things. “Well, maybe it’s a good thing, because—”

“Who did it?” The words rip out of me, raw and desperate. “Please, Jason. I need to know.”

I stand again, unable to stay still. Walk to the window. The gardens stretch out below, perfectly landscaped, every hedge trimmed to perfection. Even in the darkness, I can make out the fountain in the center, probably still running, probably still beautiful.

Another pause.

Long enough for my nerves to feel like they’re about to snap.

“I know you won’t let this go,” he says finally, and there’s defeat in his voice. “But you have to promise me— swear to me— that you won’t do anything stupid with this information.”

“I promise,” I lie again. It tastes like copper in my mouth. Like blood. “Just tell me.”

Through the window, I can see Melor’s car pulling around to the garage. The headlights sweep across the lawn.

“The person responsible for your father’s death… His name is Osip Sidorov. Former Bratva. Maybe current— hard to tell with these guys. That’s all I can give you, kiddo. But you need to be very careful. This isn’t some street thug we’re talking about, alright? Ilona? Are you still there?”

He keeps talking, but I’m not listening anymore. Can’t listen. The phone slips from my fingers, hitting the carpet with a muffled thud.

Osip Sidorov.

The name detonates in my chest as images reel through my head. Every touch, every whispered word in the darkness. Osip, holding me. Osip, making love to me. Osip, whose child I carried for five perfect weeks.

My father’s killer.

My knees buckle, and I grab for the windowsill, my fingers pressing against the cold glass.

“Ilona? Ilona, answer me!”

Jason’s voice floats up from somewhere near my feet, tiny and distant. Like he’s calling from another planet. Another universe where daughters don’t fall in love with their fathers’ murderers.

Finally, I manage to crouch down, retrieve the phone with trembling fingers. Hold it to my ear.

“I have to go.”

“Hey— this is serious. You need to listen to me—”