Page 32 of Scarlet Thorns

“Morrison was right about the missing money, wrong about the cause. That Henderson delivery he was screaming about? Igor took the full payment and reported it as a failed placement. Client got their baby, Igor got his money, and we got fucked.”

Everything slots into place with sickening clarity. Stanley’s rage wasn’t about imaginary money— it was about real theft that I was too blind to see. While I dismissed his accusations as paranoia and jealousy, Igor was systematically dismantling our partnership from the inside.

“How long have you known?” Radimir asks quietly.

“Suspected for a few days. Had confirmation yesterday.” I scrub my free hand over my face. “Stanley came into my office making wild accusations. I thought he was losing his shit, looking for someone to blame for his own failures.”

“Stanley Morrison is a lot of things, but he’s not stupid about money.”

True. For all his faults, Stanley has always been good with numbers and client relationships. If he noticed irregularities, I should have taken him seriously instead of dismissing him as a paranoidmudak.

“So what do we do?” Radimir asks. “This kind of betrayal… in the old country, there would be no question.”

In the old country.

In Siberia, where I learned that trust is a luxury that gets you killed. Where betrayal is answered with violence so swift and brutal that it serves as a lesson for anyone else considering disloyalty.

But this isn’t Siberia. This is Boston, where I’ve built a life based on respectability and careful distance from my past. Where I’m a legitimate businessman, not a killer figuring out the best way to eliminate a problem.

“Leave it to me,” I tell my brother.

“Osip—”

“I said leave it to me.”

The line goes dead, and I set the phone down with deliberate care. The office falls silent except for the hum of air conditioning and the distant murmur of traffic thirty floors below.

Seven million dollars.

Fourteen stolen clients.

Taking regular payments anyway.

Three years of systematic betrayal.

Igor Shiradze has been playing me for a fool while positioning himself to inherit everything I’ve built. The compassionate doctor who talks about helping families find hope, the respected professional who convinced me that our business was about more than money— all performance, all calculation.

I lean back in my leather chair, letting the familiar calm settle over me. The cold calculation that’s kept me breathing through wars, prison, business deals that could have ended with bullets instead of handshakes. When violence becomes necessary, emotion is a luxury I can’t afford.

But underneath the professional fury, something else burns. Personal betrayal. The sting of being made to look like a fool in front of my brothers, my partners. Igor didn’t just steal money— he stole my reputation, my judgment, my ability to trust my own instincts.

That’s not business.

That’s personal.

And personal betrayals require personal consequences.

I pick up my phone and dial Igor’s number, my fingers steady despite the rage building in my chest. The phone rings four times before his familiar voice answers, warm and concerned as always.

“Osip? This is unexpected. Everything alright?”

The fake concern in his tone makes my teeth clench. “Igor. We need to talk.”

“Of course. What’s on your mind?”

“Not over the phone. Dinner. Tomorrow night.”

A pause. “Tomorrow? I’m actually in New York for a medical conference. Very last-minute invitation— I literally flew out this morning. But I’ll be back early next week if—”