Page 99 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

“And my mother?” I follow up.

“She’s in the kitchen, sir.”

Makes sense. I step away from the butler to head toward the back of the home, but stop near my father’s office at the volume of the voices inside.

“I said I handled it, Charles.” Lakeland’s voice makes me want to start stabbing things, but the menace in his tone forces me to take a step closer.

“Why?” My father asks, his voice just as hard. “You trustthose peoplelike they wouldn’t hesitate to eat your Black ass alive.”

Lakeland makes a low, amused sound.

“You weren’t saying that when I got your lame ass onto Isla Cara. How many models did you?—”

“You will leave Storm alone. Leave himoutof this,” Dad says.

Lakeland actually laughs. “Or what?”

My father’s silence says more than anything.

“The FBI won’t be bothering you or your precious son anymore. You’re welcome,” Lakeland says.

“No,” Dad replies. “I don’t want any favors from you…or fromthem. You’ve done enough, and their help doesn’t come without a price. You know this.”

Dad makes an agitated sound.

“You need to get out, Lakeland. As your brother?—”

Lakeland hums, cutting Dad off.

“Why would I stop? I’m just getting started. And you could be just getting started, too, if you kept cool and played along.”

“Those people?—”

“Watch it,” Lakeland snaps. “Those people aren’t anyone to fuck with, Chuck. And you know that.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Or have you forgotten about Rainn?” Lakeland adds.

What?

I nearly jump out of my skin when my mother’s hand lands on my shoulder.

“Woah,” she says with a laugh and a smile. “What are you doing standing out here? And where’s my hug?”

I blink to clear the thoughts off my face and bend down to hug her. Her head goes to my chest, and I’m sure she can hear my heart racing.

“Storm?” she asks, pulling back with a frown.

“Ah, the man of the hour has arrived.” Lakeland’s tone leads me to sneer immediately. My father and Lakeland leave the office, all of us congregating in the open space outside the doors.

“What were you talking about?” I ask my father. Lakeland grins, but Dad looks angry.

Buttoning his suit jacket, Dad says, “Don’t worry about that. Everyone ready for dinner?”

My father slides on a slick smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes, and my uncle leads the way toward the dining room.

“I’m always hungry, Charles. You know this,” he says in what I’m sure anyone else would have seen as a friendly tone.

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