Page 10 of Single Mom's Daddies
VICTOR
The driveto Renner’s office takes thirty-five minutes, most of it spent with my phone off and the windows down. Milwaukee’s still waking up—delivery trucks blocking lanes, traffic lights blinking amber, fog clinging to the lakeshore. I keep one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my thigh, index finger twitching in time with the potholes.
I take the long way through the industrial district, past the train yards and quiet warehouses. The sun glints off barbed-wire fences, casting spidery shadows across pavement slick from overnight rain. The black SUV hums beneath me—new, registered, washed and rotated weekly. All our cars are. No stickers. No personalizations. Just reinforced steel, glass, and control.
Renner’s gallery sits near the edge of the Third Ward, a block of old brick buildings reclaimed by money. The kind of place with valet service, staged flowers, and coffee so expensive they serve it in paper-thin porcelain. Inside, everything is matte and deliberate. Walls the color of snowmelt. Floors that don’t creak. Track lighting angled to make you forget the price tags.
I hate it here.
The receptionist—a girl with platinum hair and a buttoned blouse too crisp for this hour—buzzes me in without speaking. I pass two blank canvases mounted under spotlights, because “negative space” sells better than truth. I take the stairs instead of the elevator. It’s muscle memory now.
Renner’s office is behind a frosted glass door marked “Private.” He’s already inside when I walk in. So is Uncle Max.
Renner jumps to his feet the second the door shuts. “Victor.”
“Morning.”
He gestures at the pair of leather chairs across from his desk. Max is already parked in one, legs spread, arms slung wide. I take the other, letting the weight of the silence sit a beat longer than needed.
Renner’s desk is polished walnut with nothing on it but a tablet, a cup of coffee, and a paperweight shaped like a coiled snake. The blinds behind him are closed, casting stripes across his pale face. His suit’s the same brand he always wears—tailored, charcoal, single vent. He sweats in it anyway.
Max is wearing a shirt two decades out of date and boots older than the intern who opened the gallery this morning. The toothpick between his teeth looks like it’s been in his mouth since Tuesday. He doesn’t acknowledge me.
Renner clears his throat. “I appreciate you both coming on short notice.” He’s trying to sound composed, but his fingers twitch as he fidgets with the tablet.
I nod once and say nothing.
Across from me, Max exhales hard through his nose, like he’s already bored. “Let’s get to the meat of it, son. I didn’t come out here to hear about gallery lighting or your new intern’s pronouns.”
Renner flinches.
I speak before he can start stammering. “We got your message. You said there was pressure.”
“Yes.” Renner hesitates, then glances toward the door before continuing. “There’s been…interest. Not from a buyer.”
Someone higher on the food chain.
Max leans forward slightly. “You get a call or a visit?”
Renner swallows. “A visit.”
That’s when I sit up straighter.
Max grins, as if this is entertainment. I don’t. I say, “I assume this wasn’t someone asking about shipping times.”
“No.” Renner shakes his head. “He was…informed. He knew about Svet. Knew too much, frankly. The kind of specific that doesn’t come from casual curiosity.”
“You get a name?” Max asks.
Renner swallows. “Agent Charles Ruger.”
Well, shit.
I hold up a hand. “Stop. Let’s go back. Start from the top.”
Renner takes a breath and sets the tablet down. “He came yesterday afternoon. Asked to speak with me privately. Said his name, showed credentials.”
“You let him in?”
