Page 56 of Triplets for the Russian Boss

Kostin

My stomach sinks, when I read the address associated with the phone number I searched. The house is registered to Bonnie Summers, tucked in a somewhat downtrodden neighborhood in Florida. She’s been calling someone at her own house almost every night.

I swallow, but the lump that’s formed at the top of my throat doesn’t budge. My skin is prickling with heat, and I’m sweating - even though I haven’t moved an inch from my chair since reading the address.

I read it over and over, to make sure I got it right, then I Google the number until I’ve turned every link purple. That house belongs to Bonnie, without a shadow of a doubt, and I’m going to find out what she’s hiding inside of it from me.

I slam my fist on my desk so hard that my keyboard jumps up and clatters to the floor. I make no effort to retrieve it as I get up, instead crunching the keys under my foot as I walk over it toward the door. I’m going to Bonnie’s house today, even if it means taking a direct flight to Florida and putting myself in danger.

The desire to know what’s inside that house is crawling on my insides like heartburn, burning rage bubbling up in my throat at the thought of Bonnie having a boyfriend. I’d kill that man in a heartbeat, if it meant I’d have her all to myself, but she’d never forgive me. I still don’t think she’s forgiven me for killing Jerry and pushing her into this mess.

I open the door and fly out into the hall, each step revealing more of my fury as I quicken my pace. By the time I reach the front door, I’m in a full-on sprint, but as I reach for the handle, a sweet voice chimes from behind me.

Bonnie.

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