Page 68 of Scarlet Thorns

And thissukathinks he can assault my employees.

“What the fuck is going on?” I roar. Tibor jerks away from the woman so fast he nearly falls, his face cycling from shock to guilt to desperate calculation. His hands fumble with his pants, trying to stuff himself back inside while manufacturing explanations.

“Mr. Sidorov! This isn’t— I mean, we were just—”

“Just what?” I step into the office, my presence filling the small space with the kind of controlled menace that should make the fucker turn and run for his life. “Just sexually assaulting your coworker?”

“No, no, you don’t understand.” Tibor’s voice climbs toward panic as he finally manages to button his pants. “Ilona and I, we have an arrangement. She wanted extra shifts, and—”

“An arrangement.” I spit the words out. I’ve heard this bullshit before— powerful men explaining away their crimes with euphemisms and victim-blaming. “That why she was telling you to stop?”

The woman— Ilona— hasn’t moved from where she’s pressed against the desk. Her chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, tears tracking down pale cheeks. But there’s something about her voice, something familiar that tugs at memories I can’t quite reach.

“She’s emotional,” Tibor continues, desperation making him look stupid. “Women, you know how they are. They say one thing but mean another—”

My fist connects with his jaw before conscious thought intervenes. The impact sends him sprawling across his cluttered desk, scattering papers and knocking over a coffee mug that shatters against the floor.

“You’re fired.” I lean over him, voice dropping to the tone that’s preceded executions. “Pack your shit and get out. Now.”

“Fired? You can’t fire me! I built this place, I know every customer, every supplier—”

“Iownthis place.” I emphasize each word. “Which means I own your employment contract. Which I’m terminating. Immediately.”

Tibor struggles to his feet, holding his jaw where my knuckles split his lip. Blood trickles down his chin, but his eyes burn with the kind of entitled rage men feel when consequences finally catch up with them.

“This is insane! Over some little waitress who—”

The second punch drops him completely. He hits the floor hard, his head bouncing off cheap linoleum with a sound that brings back memories of Moscow alleys and men who learned respect the hard way.

“You have ten minutes to clear out.” I straighten my jacket, flexing fingers that ache pleasantly from impact. “Or I handle this my way.”

The threat hangs in the air, the meaning painfully clear. Tibor’s eyes go wide with the kind of recognition that says he’sheard stories about Russians who buy restaurants with cash and don’t flinch from violence.

Smart pizda.

Finally understanding the situation.

He scrambles to his feet, blood still flowing from his busted lip, and begins shoving papers into a briefcase with shaking hands. “This isn’t over,” he mutters, but there’s no conviction behind the words. Just the empty bluster of a coward who’s finally met someone more dangerous than the women he preys on.

“Yes, it is.” I check my watch. “Nine minutes.”

Tibor flees like the rat he is, clutching his briefcase and his wounded pride. The office door slams behind him hard enough to rattle the windows, leaving me alone with the woman he was assaulting.

She’s still pressed against the desk, arms wrapped around herself like armor. Her dark hair falls in waves around a face that’s beautiful despite the tear tracks and terror. Something about her features tugs at my memory— delicate bone structure, pale skin, the kind of ethereal quality that belongs in art museums rather than restaurant back offices.

“Are you alright?” I keep my voice gentle, though every instinct screams to hunt down Tibor and finish what I started.

She nods without speaking, but her hands are shaking.

“Did he hurt you?”

Another nod, then a shake of her head. “Not… not physically. But he was going to…” Her voice breaks on the words she can’t finish.

Rage builds in my chest like a nuclear reactor approaching critical mass. If I’d arrived five minutes later, if I hadn’t heard her voice through that door…

“Let me give you a ride home,” I offer, forcing calm into my tone. Violence solved the immediate problem, but this woman needs safety, not more intimidation.

“No, thank you.” The refusal comes quickly, automatic.