Page 63 of Scarlet Thorns

“Can you get here in an hour?”

It takes him less than that to get to the restaurant. The paperwork László shows me tells a story of steady decline— rising costs, falling revenues, loan payments that consume what little profit remains. He’s been hemorrhaging money for two years, surviving on credit and false hope.

But the bones of the business are solid. Proper licenses, health permits up to date, a lease that’s transferable. Everything I need to turn this place into something special.

“I’ll take it,” I tell him after reviewing the final document.

His face transforms, relief and disbelief warring for control. “Just like that? No negotiation?”

“The price is fair. You get to walk away clean, I get a chance to build something new.” I extend my hand. “Do we have a deal?”

His grip is firm, grateful, slightly desperate. “We have a deal.”

The transfer won’t be official for days— lawyers need to verify titles, banks need to process payments, bureaucrats need to stamp forms. But morally, spiritually, the place is mine now.

After László leaves— heading home to tell his wife they can finally pay off their debts— I sit alone in my new acquisition.

The silence feels different now. Like the building itself is waiting to see what I’ll make of this opportunity.

I pull out my phone and dial Melor.

“Congratulations,brat,” he answers before I can speak. “You’re officially a restaurateur.”

“Private club,” I correct. “Restaurant is just the cover.”

“Ah. Gangsters hangout.” He chuckles.

The suggestion sets my teeth on edge. This will be different. This will be clean.

“I want it done right,” I tell my brother. “Legal in every way that matters. If someone investigates, they should find exactly what they expect to find— successful businessman running exclusive club for discerning clientele.”

“Understood. What about staffing? You can’t run this alone.”

The question hadn’t occurred to me, but it’s crucial. The people I hire will shape the atmosphere, make sure this doesn’t become an expensive mistake.

“I’ll handle recruitment personally,” I decide. “Start small, build carefully.”

I look around the empty restaurant, trying to imagine it filled with the right kind of people. Not petty criminals or sycophants, but individuals who appreciate quality, discretion, authenticity. People who understand that the best things in life require patience and respect.

“You know,” I tell Melor, a slow smile forming, “this might actually work.”

After I hang up, I stay for another hour, mentally cataloging everything that needs to change. The kitchen requires modernization. The upstairs space needs complete renovation. The garden out back could become something spectacular with proper landscaping.

But underneath the practical considerations runs something more important— anticipation. For the first time since Galina died, I’m building toward something instead of running from something.

When I finally lock up and head back to my house in the hills, I’m already planning my next move. Because legitimate businesses need legitimate employees, and I’ll need to start interviewing soon.

Maybe building something clean will help wash away the blood on my hands.

Maybe this is exactly what I need to finally leave the past buried where it belongs.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Ilona

The attic room doesn’t feel like home yet, but it doesn’t feel like a prison anymore either.

After three days of scrubbing every surface with bleach and arranging my few belongings, I’ve managed to transform the space into something almost cozy. The smell of mildew has been replaced by lavender air freshener, and the single window now has actual curtains instead of the moldy sheet that was hanging there before.