Page 136 of Fuckboy Psychos (Scarlett Force 1)
Alexei, focus, I remind myself, and, rather than use the code to get in the back door, I use my key. I don’t want any of my father’s guests to know that I’m here. Most especially, I don’t want them to know that I’m in the house or that I plan on eavesdropping on their conversation.
I notice several things right away.
First off, there are no staff members here. None at all. Someone—maybe my father, maybe not—must’ve dismissed them. The lights down here are off, leaving the first floor cloaked in darkness. I also notice as I pass the front door that it’s partially open. Cigarette smoke wafts in as I pause in the foyer.
There was nobody out there when I passed by in the car, but I’m starting to wonder if that wasn’t sheer, dumb luck. When I cautiously move forward and peer past the sheer curtains bordering the front windows, I see two men in suits outside.
Hmm.
I don’t like that, not at all.
A cold chill creeps down my spine as I tap the middle finger and thumb of my right hand together, nervously toying with the poisoned thimble. I’d best be careful not to stab myself with it—the batrachotoxin would kill me within ten minutes.
I move silently through the downstairs, past the main staircase and into a separate hallway, around the corner, and then up the narrow ‘servants’ staircase at the back of the house. It’s hidden behind a bookshelf door so as not to be unsightly, and therefore not something one would notice if they didn’t think to look for it.
I make sure that it’s closed behind me before easing my way up the steps. I crack the second bookcase door at the top of the stairs and peer out into a well-lit hallway. Already, I can hear my father’s booming voice, speaking in English rather than Russian.
After several minutes of listening and watching, I slip out and close that door as quietly and carefully as I can. The voices seem to be coming from Papa’s office which gives me few options for spying on him and whoever it is that’s paying us a visit this late at night.
There’s the panic room at the end of the hall, but I’m concerned that whoever this is might’ve covered up the security cameras, so even though it’s possible that I could view the office from the safety of that room, I decide against it.
Instead, I use one of the guest rooms along that same hall, leaving the lights off as I head for the window. I lift it up and crawl onto the roof, shivering at the idea of dirtying my custom-made suit on the filthy roof tiles.
As particular as I am, I’m also not entirely impractical.
Whatever’s going on tonight, it might be dangerous.
I can’t allow my phobias to shift my good judgment.
Crouched low, and with my poisoned thimble held carefully away from me, I make my way over to the wall between the guest room and the office, putting my back to it and closing my eyes.
When we first moved in here a few months ago, I stuck a very small piece of metal into the track of the window. It keeps it from closing fully, but it looks as if it’s closed, and that’s what matters.
While it’s not easy to hear what’s being said in the room, it’s possible. I open my eyes and take my phone out, ensuring first that it’s still set to silent and that the brightness is fully turned down, and then I turn the camera on. I make sure it’s not only facing me but also recording, and then I tilt it to the right so that I can see into the room without exposing myself.
“You haven’t bid on a single contract in the last several weeks, why is that?” a man asks, and I recognize him almost immediately. His name is Ernest Bolin, the Springfield Chief of Police. He’s here with several other men, all of them dressed in suits, none of them recognizable.
Hired guns. Goons. Lackeys.
I grit my teeth as my father tries to stand up from his desk and then is abruptly pushed back into a seated position, one of the goon’s meaty hands on his shoulders. He’s clearly still drunk but sobering up quickly.
What is the police chief doing here in the middle of the night? And why would he give any fucks about whether my father bids on development contracts? What business is it of his?
The chief’s reason for being here in the middle of the night?
As I said, nefarious.
So fucking nefarious.
“My son,” Papa starts, looking between the men pleadingly. “He wants me to step back, downsize my business, start spending more time together. I’ve been trying to rein things in.”
I grit my teeth.
“You expect me to believe that?” Ernest asks, putting his hands on the front of my father’s desk. “That you want to spend time with your son? Over running a company with assets totaling in the billions? That seems absurd, Pavel.”
