Page 28 of Volatile Waters

CHAPTER SEVEN

Accountable Actions

Chain reaction…

My father had sent me on this wild goose chase to snuff out any threats, but it only strengthened Seafoam’s curse. Chain reactions had begun with such a force; nothing would end the madness until I stopped what I had started. But the true power behind Seafoam’s curse was yet to be in my personal care, so I freely continued to inflict life-altering damage to all those unlucky enough to cross my path.

I had a young man murdered.

Chain reaction…

Now, a broken mother was on a warpath because of her surviving son’s shattered heart and determined promise.

Chain reaction…

Knock! Knock! Knock! After looking through my hotel room’s peephole and seeing Mrs. Thompson in her long black trench coat, I willingly opened the door. Intrigued, I did not expect the knife she shoved into my chest. I fell back against the wall with a heavy enough thud to alarm my men in the next room. The shallow blade in my skin—my flesh—didn’t compare to the burn her evil stare seared against my soul. Eye to eye, while she was pulled away by my men, she growled, “Now, my son is fulfilling a promise. He’s searching for a little girl, unaware that his mother sold her!”

Chain reaction…

Another threat…

Another demise…

Hatred seethed off her body, and her expression was like steam from a boiling kettle on a lit gas stove. Fighting Adrian’s hold, she growled again, “You are the devil’s spawn. Killing that boy made you just as horrid as your father when he killed my son.”

My throat tightened. Stunned, I stood there, hearing her confirm my suspicions.

Kirill was yelling in Russian, trying to gain my attention, as he pushed a hotel hand-towel against my stab wound, after removing the blade. But I couldn’t pull my eyes from hers. I was entranced by her revulsion. It was that intense—that absolute.

Even though I was having more than a glimpse of a notion that my actions had been horrid, I couldn’t bring myself to admit it. I should have opened my mouth to say how her loathing cut me deeper than her knife, but instead, my mouth—my training—told her, “I should order your death for this.” I gestured to Kirill, who was trying to stop the bleeding she had brutally, and justifiably, caused. It was a standoff, her daring me to make my next move. But, cruelly, I decided she had served her purpose. Her dilated eyes spoke of the drugs rushing through her system, one I had personally rebooted her to crave. Then I sighed because I had another problem. I couldn’t have Harry investigating, searching for my illegal property, so cruelty prevailed over compassion. “But, instead, I shall scar you, as you have me.”

Mrs. Thompson stilled in Adrian’s firm hold as if just realizing the magnitude of her actions. Her eyes spoke of awareness to the impact of the dangerous animal she had provoked.

In Russian, I told one of my men, “Grab a syringe.”

He didn’t ask questions. He went to retrieve the vial I would need in mere seconds.

Still leaning against the wall, where Mrs. Thompson’s slice had sent me, I told her, “Harry will travel with me to Russia.” She paled, and her mouth fell open. “I will train him myself,” I licked my teeth, “so he can be of more use to your husband’s growing business in the sex trade.” Her shocked mouth tried to speak, but I had stolen her breath and her reason for existing. She could only shake her head no, so I continued, “He will be returned as deadly…” I pulled the white towel, now red, from my chest, “as his mother,” and held it up for her to see. Before the woman had a chance to react, I nodded my head. “Drug her.”

I couldn’t go to the hospital and draw attention to myself from authorities. My best chance was to close the wound and go home. As Mrs. Thompson’s body went limp from the effects of the syringe emptying a drug into her veins, I directed, “Lay her in my bed.” She wouldn’t die. She’d merely slipped into unconsciousness. It was a merciful thing to do.

Breathless from pain, I pointed to Adrian and my men. “Go. Retrieve her son. We leave tonight.” As they left without another word, I swallowed, then told Kirill, “Heat a blade and stop my bleeding.”

When Mrs. Thompson finally awoke, my men and I would be in the air, flying home with her son. This would bring about another chain reaction that would come with heavy consequences. Mrs. Thompson was going to have to explain to her husband why we took his child and how she knew where I had been staying. How, when the drug dealer thought more danger had ended, his wife had actually stirred the hornet’s nest. Their marriage would not recover from this blow. Mrs. Thompson would fall deeper into her addiction and would never be fully drug-free again.

She was right. I was just as evil as my father.

In the private jet, Harry appeared petrified, buckled in an ivory leather seat. Sitting across from me, he stared at my chest. Even though Kirill had cauterized the wound, there was still seepage. Blood lingered on my shirt. I didn’t bother to tell him his mother was the one who inflicted my injury. I only said, “You will be staying with me for a while.”

He peered around at my men. “In Russia?”

I nodded.

“Do I get to go back home someday?”

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

A surprisingly daring glare shot from blue eyes that mimicked his father’s. “Because I recognize you from that little boat. You killed my friend. I thought maybe you would kill me, too.”