Page 95 of Silver Fox Daddies

What the hell?

I step closer, minding a puddle of water on the floor to get closer. The language on the boxes isn’t English. I squint, trying to search for a word I recognize in the light. The language looks Slavic or something. I’m not quite sure.

One thing is certain, though—whatever these boxes contain, it can’t be legal.

I stick a hand into one of the boxes to investigate the contents. Glass clinks, jars of something knocking together. I pull one out and bring it into the light, inspecting. They’re small containers, things you’d expect to find in a lab, the glass so fragile I feel as though it might break between my fingers.

I spin the label around: FENTANYL CITRATE.

The glass smashes to the floor in thousands of pieces and I spring back, in disbelief of what I was holding.

Fentanyl?That’s what killed Bishop’s father, right? Reaper Sons sold it to him.

That story would add up, given Daddy has a century’s supply of it stored down here. I scan the piles of boxes, estimating how many there are.Thisis how he’s making all of his money.Thisis why it was never a problem for me to order the most expensive meal on the menu whenever we went out for dinner. One of these containers probably covers the cost of one glazed golden bracelet alone.

My body shudders, blood cooling. Even my heart slows down at the thought. It’s not like he’s selling weed. This is fentanyl, a class A drug.

The basement is huge, but somehow I suddenly feel suffocated, the walls closing in. This is living, breathing evidence. Daddy has no soul. If he did, he’d think twice about selling people a drug that can result in death.

I feel sick. What’s funding the house he lives in? The one I called home for almost nineteen years of my life? The roof, the cement glueing each brick together…all of it is blood money.

I take a step back from the pallets, willing my legs to get me out of here before I freeze up any more and lose all ability to move. On the way back to the staircase, I catch sight of something else. Another room. The light doesn’t quite reach it, but it’s an entrance, I can tell from the way the shadows partition around the opening.

I peer in, the floor disappearing underneath me.

Another set of stairs? Seriously? Forget the basement. This place is an underground lair.

I take a deep breath and take my first step down. This time, an automatic light turns on, flickering on and off a few times as if gaining power to remain fully on. When it does, I see a clear view of the stone steps that descend almost vertically down a narrow walkway. It feels like I’m entering a cave.

Diesel’s voice echoes in my ears.“You need to get out of there right this instant.”His voice was cold with warning. If he was afraid of me raiding Daddy’s office—a placeupstairswith a clear exit, I dread to think what he’d say now if he knew that I was venturing underground.

The light emits the same weak glow as the other, turning the concrete walls a sort of brown. It’s a warm light, but it feels anything but, especially the further down I go.

A sudden crackling sound stops me dead in my tracks.

I hold my breath, hoping I’m just hearing things, but it rings again, echoing from down below. I stop, debating whether to head back upstairs or not. I have no sense of time—Daddy could be heading home.

But there’s a voice inside of me, telling me I must continue. I’m so close, and I might not be presented with this opportunity again.

Do it for Cash, Diesel, and Bishop.

Do it for your unborn child. Do you really want to raise them alone?

Fear takes hold of my vision, the edges of it starting to blur.

I plant the sole of my foot on the next step, slowly easing my way down.

I hear a wince, like a small grunt. It’s a male’s voice. I concentrate on the sound, hearing it again. It sounds like someone’s in pain.

Shit.

I pick up the speed, descending faster until the ground levels out. A room materializes at the bottom of the stairs. It’s not as big as the one above, but it’s big enough for two ropes to hang from the ceiling.

Air wedges itself in my throat. I can’t breathe. I start to cough, but realize I’m actually choking. Something doesn’t smell right in here. It’s a pungent smell, like rotting human waste.

I peg two fingers over my nose and investigate, feeling slightly better that the room is empty…but not one hundred percent better. I can only imagine what Daddy uses this room for if it’s the furthest underground.

Something way worse than selling fentanyl…

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