Wednesday, June 8
“You bloody bastard.”
“Come on, Saira. You can do better than that. Not even a hello?” I laughed into my phone.
“How can you do this to me? I swear I’ll find out why you’re doing this.”
“I’m doing this for Damian, love.”
“Love? Don’t you dare use that word, you rotten shit. You never loved me. If you take Damian from me, I’ll give you hell.”
“You’re not the first person to promise me hell. What do you want?”
“I want you to leave me alone. Why did you sic the police on me?”
“Oh, I wonder why,” I drawled. “Maybe because you’re busy screwing the mafia on a mattress stuffed with dirty cash. How’s business these days? Drugs still moving? Girls still unregistered? And those little sex parties—where the rich pay to play andyou’re the perfect hostess, serving cocktails and cocaine? Sounds like someone’s been very bad.”
“Guess what, you mongrel?” Saira snapped. “The police showed up at my door this morning. No warrant, no search. Just their endless bullshit questions. I missed a meeting because of it. Does that make you happy?”
“No. First, I want my son safe. You know what I promised after what happened to him at your place. Second, there’s a man—Julian Richland. University professor. You know him.”
“He’s my business.”
“He’s mine now. Touch him, and you’ll deal with me.”
“What do you want, Alistair?”
“Leave Julian alone. And for once in your life, try being a mother.”
“And if I do, will you stop siccing the police on me? A record doesn’t suit me. And I’m not giving up Damian. He’s my son, too. I love him.”
“Then keep your distance from Julian.”
“Why? Do you want him for yourself?” Her laugh cut sharply. “Does he stir your cock? I could set a price. You’d get your taste.”
“Cut it out, Saira.”
“Oh, please. You’ve always had a thing for pretty men. Remember when I caught you and Nick in bed with his whore draped across you both? You were lovers?—”
“You had your own affairs, so what difference does it make? Besides, Nick is dead.”
“Yes. A boating accident in Italy. Five years ago. Such a pity.” Her voice dripped with mock grief.
“Your father’s been dead for years. Nick inherited most of his money, and you’re still bitter about the will. Did you really think he’d leave it all to you?” I bit into an apple, slow, savoring it. Nick had style—even in death. Leaving his fortune to the Scott Charityfor Kids had been the perfect parting shot. All Saira got was the family company. To her credit, she’d turned it into a gold mine.
“I hate you with every breath,” my ex-wife hissed.
“I’ve heard it before. So let me be clear—stop circling Julian. Or I’ll unleash the dogs and bleed you dry.”
“You cold, heartless bastard?—”
“Manners, Saira.” My voice cut clean. “Leave Julian alone, or I will crush you. Do we understand each other?”
Her pause stretched, then: “Fine. Agreed.”
“Good. Now piss off with your empty threats. I’ve got better ways to waste my time.”
Vera
