Page 13 of Volatile Waters

The guard lifted a brow. “Damn, you have a strong accent. Where’re you guys from?”

I snarled, “Russia.” Awareness crossed the man’s expression. “My name is Yury.” The fake name now tasted rancid on my tongue.

Beep! Beep! Another guard put a handheld radio to his mouth. “Sir, we have a visitor at the gate. Says his name is Yury.”

“Right now?” replied a stunned Harold Thompson.

“Yes, sir.”

“Jesus-fucking-Christ.” The guard tried to lower the volume of the radio, but I still heard, “Let him in. Stay out of his way. These boys don’t play nice.” The guard paled as he studied my annoyance. He quickly gestured to a man inside a tiny building next to him.

The gates rolled open as I got back into the SUV. I told my cousins—my men, “My opinion of Americans has not changed.” Their arrogance was thick and untamed.

Once the SUV rolled to a stop, another guard quickly greeted us by opening my car door. He said nothing and barely dared to take a glance in my general direction. I was pleased my presence was causing nerves to rise. I was in need of a boost of confidence.

Inside the house, I was satisfied to see that my family made far more money than Harold. I observed the rounding staircase with wood railings. Everything wasn’t white and pristine as in my own home. This house had more of a lived-in feel. I was surprised to suddenly be envious of the vibe exuding from picture frames on the walls. In Russia, I was accustomed to priceless artwork on our walls. Studying the numerous headshots of Junior, I instantly recognized Marina within him and wondered if he knew his biological mother was a sex slave.

The American, Harold, came from a side room he referred to as the den. “Why wasn’t I told you were coming to the U.S.?”

“Because I didn’t want you to hide Marina.”

His Adam's apple nervously bobbed. “I already told your father she’s dead.”

“How did she die?”

“Fucked to death.”

“Where is she buried?”

Harold’s body seized. “What does it matter?”

“Where?” I roared at the top of my lungs to make a statement.

“We burned her!” Harold yelled in return with lying wide eyes.

Composing myself, I asked, “Where?”

I watched as his mind raced, searching for a believable lie. “My backyard.”

“Show me.”

He winced. “Been years. Nothing left.”

“I will find bone fragments. Take me now.”

A female voice drifted down the stairs. “I had her sent away.”

Peering up, Harold groaned, “Babe, stay out of this.”

Ignoring her husband, this woman studied me intensely as she took each step with purpose and poise. “You are clearly not blind and know my husband had feelings for her.”

This woman was one like I had never seen before. She was very tall, elegantly so. Long legs expertly owned the high heels on her feet. Perfect toes with red nail polish shined from the floor. My eyes drifted up to admire the whole view. My mouth salivated as I dipped my chin. “Thank you for your honesty and observation.” I realized she was different from any of the slaves because she was strong. Her height alone would have made her a challenge to control. I got hard just thinking about how good it would feel to experience every ounce of her fight.

High heels clicked on the marble floor after leaving the stairs behind. Harold grabbed her elbow, but she yanked it away, demanding, “Don’t touch me.”

After a moment of locked eyes, silently reading each other and the anger pouring off her skin, he shook his head and stopped interfering.

Mrs. Thompson pushed her long, light brown hair back over her shoulder. Surprisingly, her hazel eyes then raked over my clothed body, as if wishing for a better view herself. “You are from Russia?”