Page 18 of Volatile Waters

CHAPTER FIVE

Shameful Threats

In front of Harold, I gave Mrs. Thompson my burner cell number. I made it very clear to her husband that she was to experience no repercussions for our actions, then kissed her hand. “It was an honor meeting you.” I stood upright. “I never would have chosen her over you.”

She opened her mouth to speak but was silenced when we heard, “Mom! You’re home!” Junior, a.k.a. Harry, was only thirteen when I met him for the first time. He happily ran down the stairs for his mother’s embrace.

“How was camp—” She held him tight while staring at me from over the top of his head, “—my son?”

I wonder if I could’ve changed all that was to come had I only took a second to feel our lives intertwine. But I didn’t take the time. I had a number in my pocket, and I needed to dial it.

Back in the SUV, Adrian laughed. “Smells like a fuck-factory in here.”

Pulling my cellphone to my ear, I faked my amusement, continuing the banter in our native tongue. “She couldn’t get enough of Yury. Anyone blame her?” Through all the laughter and comments, I heard “Hello?” over my cell. I motioned for them to go silent. “Is this Mr. Summers?”

“It is. Who am I speaking with?”

“The owner of property you have acquired.”

“I’m sorry? Property?”

“Miss Whitney.”

Click!

Calmly, I placed my cell in my pocket. “He asked us to come over for a visit.”

As more laughter erupted, I handed Adrian, sitting in the front passenger seat, a piece of paper with an address on it. “Mrs. Thompson was useful in more ways than one.”

Facing me, Mr. Summers grumbled about needing neighborhood security. At the time, there was none present to prevent us from entering his privileged neighborhood. Sitting inside the office of his residence, I glanced about, studying my surroundings. “Unlike you, Mr. Summers, I do not have a security issue.” I gestured to my men standing behind the chair I was presently lounging in.

Mr. Summers appeared to be in his forties and was in the beginning stages of greying, noticeable through his dirty blond hair. He had dark green eyes, not the frosty shade of Seafoam’s.

Frustrated, Mr. Summers sat down heavily behind his desk. “A bunch of lowlife thugs.”

I raised a hand, stopping Kirill as he took a step forward, not appreciating the insult. “As much as I enjoy Americans’ sense of humor, let’s get down to business, shall we?”

Behind Mr. Summers was a huge open window showing off the lake he lived next to. He responded, “I have no business to discuss with you.”

Beyond the lake was a massive white home I would come to know well, but that isn’t what caught my eye. It was the two boys treading water. One looked to be an older teen and the other younger.

Condescendingly, I teased, “Oh, this is where you are mistaken.” In his suit, Mr. Summers stubbornly crossed his arms, so I picked up a picture frame to explain I was fully aware of his lies. “Your wife is beautiful.” She had brown hair and brown eyes—also no relations to Whitney.

“Thank you.”

“Where does Whitney get her vibrant red hair?”

Mr. Summers coughed. “Uh, my mother’s side of the family.”

I set the frame back on the desk. “I see,” I gestured to him, “we like to play games.” Making a smacking noise with my lips, I leaned back in the chair. “Unfortunately, that is not my forte. So, let’s get back to business. Your illegally adopted daughter is my property.”

“My wife gave birth to her.”

“And the hospital bill is where?”

Silence.

“Return her to me.” This child needed to be placed with Harold again and be sold properly.