Suddenly Rich Kid

Suddenly Rich Kid

 

Peter Argonis

 

Copyright© 2023, 2025 by the author

 

A coming-of-age story. Danny, the son of a former porn actress, has to move in with his wealthy father's family. Danny has some trouble adjusting and leaving behind the stigma of being the illegitimate son of his notorious mother. Danny's rocks in the surf are his new half-sister and her girlfriend while his life is in a constant turmoil due to the relationships with troubled classmate Helen and with social media darling Lucy.

 

Chapter 1: Running on Fumes

Chapter 2: Custody

Chapter 3: At Triple-P

Chapter 4: Acceptance

Chapter 5: Junior

Chapter 6: Caitlyn

Chapter 7: Senior

Chapter 8: Prom Night

Chapter 9: Lucy

Chapter 10: A Perfect Fling

Chapter 11: The Apple Never Falls Far From the Tree

Chapter 12: Pregnancy

Chapter 13: Parenthood

Chapter 14: Old Haunts

Chapter 15: Sophomore

Chapter 16: Old Rivals

Chapter 17: Moving on

Chapter 18: Lucky Bastard

Chapter 19: Hereditary Slut

Chapter 20: Look Who's Coming for Dinner

Chapter 21: Having a Ball

Chapter 22: Together

Chapter 23: Roots

Chapter 24: Opportunity

Chapter 25: A wedding

Chapter 26: Moving

Chapter 27: Tinseltown

Chapter 28: Strange Bedfellows

Chapter 29: New Directions

 

 

Chapter 1: Running on Fumes

Irina Berusova nervously sipped from the Coke Zero in front of her. Whenever the door of the diner opened, her eyes came up, but the man she expected had not entered yet. Once more, the hinges squeaked and she looked up again. She exhaled with relief. There he was. He saw her too and came over.

"Hey, Iris!" he greeted her using her stage name.

"Hey, Sly," she answered, her throaty accent more audible than usual. "Have you got something for me?"

"I just may," he said cryptically while sitting down. The waitress showed and Sylvester ordered a Grappa. Then he looked at Irina.

Irina, a.k.a. Iris Angel, had come from St. Petersburg, Russia, to the US right after the fall of the iron curtain. She was young, she was gorgeous, and she was willing to do absolutely anything to be part of the American dream. She was an instant hit in the adult movie business, and she had made money hand over fist at first. When she became pregnant however and gave birth to a boy, her career went to shit. She never regained the coltish figure which had attracted her fans, yet she had not the body for the mature themed flicks. A boob job to overcome that problem went terribly wrong, stalling her career for another year until the damage could be fixed, and by then there were hundreds of skinny, desperate — and younger — Russian and Ukrainian girls happy to fill her niche.

Sylvester knew that she had headlined as a hooker in legal Nevada cathouses, milking her name recognition for what it was worth. Then she moved to Philly joining an escort service under DiRosa protection until Old Man DiRosa divested himself of yet another potentially compromising investment.

Now she was 35. She had filled out a little and she was actually good looking, now in a woman sort-of way. Sylvester had a soft spot for her since the old days when he had "auditioned" her a few times. That was before her pregnancy. Unfortunately, with the market being as it was, he had no decent offers for her anywhere on the East Coast.

"Listen Iris, things are not easy these days, with the damn internet stealing our stuff. Mainstream doesn't pay shit anymore. You need to diversify."

Irina closed her eyes. "You mean kinky stuff?"

Sylvester nodded heavily. Truth be told, he did not like this one bit, but Iris had called him three days before, and she was desperate for money.

"Yeah. That stuff still has a market and pays well."

"I can do BDSM," Iris nodded. "I have done it before."

"That was the rope stuff, and the net is full of rope stuff. Even the amateurs do it for kicks. No, kiddo, what I mean is real kinky shit."

She hugged herself and shivered. "Not needles?" she pleaded.

"God, no! It's ... Oh, shit! You know, with that creamy skin of yours, they want to hire you for a caning scene."

"Caning? I don't understand."

"Riding crop. Maybe a hazel switch. They'll want to whip your ass, Kiddo, for kicks. It's not that bad. You'll take four ibuprofen an hour before the scene and keep taking it for a few days, but it'll pay real well."

Iris closed her eyes for a moment. "How well?" she asked tonelessly.

"Five Gs. It'll take an hour or so. Think about it! Five Grand for two hours max of shooting."

He could see the effect of that offer. He knew that Iris was in dire straits, owing money left and right. He could see this as something with a promise. Iris was growing into a real MILF, and with a little luck, this might jump start her into mainstream smut again.

"I know this isn't easy. Look, I'll only take five hundred as commission. Four and a half Grand for you. How much do you owe for rent and utilities? Twenty-five hundred? You'll have something left over. If this works out, I can easily get you a second gig, maybe with a bit of variation. Think of it! Four-and-a-half big ones!"

He could see that Iris was almost convinced.

"Hey, Kiddo! I like you. I looked hard to find something for you. This is the best I can get. Look at it this way: at least you won't be catching something."

"So I get 4,500?" Iris asked. "Cash?"

"Cash. I wouldn't accept checks from those creeps. In fact, they have to pay up front, and if you do your job, I'll pay you. Come on, Iris. If you can't trust me, who can you trust?"

"When is this supposed to happen?"

"Week from now, Tuesday. They're only in town for a week. If they like you, maybe I can get you a second gig with them."

—————

For the umpteenth time, Iris stared at her mirror image in the makeshift wardrobe. The producers, two middle aged twerps who actually jerked off during the shootings, really liked Iris. So much that they'd called her in a second time, again for 5 Gs. The second shooting had been a little more involved, if that was possible at all, with a bit of water sports mixed in. That was something that even Iris with fifteen years in the business had never done.

Today would go even farther. Larry and Ellis, the producers, had postponed their return to New York for yet another clip. Tonight Iris would have to take a huge black dildo into her anus while her barely healed ass would be paddled. Though not her favorite, she could do anal all right, but she'd been warned about the size of the prop. She had taken 1,600 milligrams of ibuprofen to numb herself.

"Ready, Iris? Let's roll!" Ellis told her.

She had to bend over a padded table and a black hood was pulled over her head. The dildo was of the inflatable variety and it went in without too much troubles. Even inflated, it did not hurt too badly. The whipping however was more severe than ever. Even through the massive dose of painkillers she felt the stinging pain of every single hit. This was exacerbated by the blindfold. She could not see anything and the crop hit her without warning. They would go through fifty strokes making Iris count them loudly and she could hear that both men were getting excited over the beating. Suddenly, at around Nº 40, two hands closed around her throat and choked her. She panicked. She was laid over a padded table with her hands tied to the legs, she was blindfolded, and the man was throttling her. With a violent twist of her head, she was able to break the hold briefly.

"Sly!" she screamed with what little air was left in her lungs before the hand closed around her throat again.

Thank God, Sylvester had not left! He was in the next room and now he burst through the door.

"What the fuck!" he roared.

Suddenly, the pressure around her throat went away. She could not see, but she heard the scuffle, the grunting and even a cry of pain. Then the hood was pulled off her head and she saw Sly standing in front of her. Blood was trickling from his mouth, but she could also see that his knuckles were raw.

"Let's get you out of here, Kiddo," he said hoarsely.

He untied the straps that fastened her hands to the table legs and let her stand. Pain lanced through her behind and her throat was hurting.

"Jesus God!" Sly hissed when he saw her ass. "You sick shits!"

Sly started kicking the two curled-up men on the concrete floor and she felt like helping him with it, but for the pain in her butt. She deflated the butt plug and pulled it out carefully. There was a little blood on it and she flinched.

"How bad is it, Iris?" Sly asked with concern.

"I don't know. There's blood on that plug."

"Probably from the cuts. Your skin broke and the cuts are bleeding. I'm going to kill those fucks!" Sly roared the last words, accompanying them with another series of vicious kicks. Slicking back his hair, he took a deep breath to control his fury. "Let's get you to a doc."

"I want my money!" Iris stated stubbornly.

Sly grinned. "Sure you do. Hey, Ellis! Where's the dough? Don't make me look for it!"

"My satchel! Stop kicking me!" Ellis wheezed with fear in his eyes.

Sly opened the bag and found a bankroll. He counted off five grand and then another.

"Throttling is another 5 G, you fucks," he announced. "Let's split, Kiddo!"

Sly drove her to the office of a discreet doctor who examined her wounds and closed two cuts before dressing them. On the drive back to her little apartment, Iris did a lot of thinking. She could not go on like this, yet she needed income. There was only one option — she had to contact her son's father.

Almost seventeen years ago, at the height of her 'fame' she had accepted special 'promotional events' She had escorted wealthy men to public functions, but she had also slept with men who wanted to live their dream of doing what they had seen in her videos. The money was always good, and the clients were carefully vetted by her agent.

Tyler Westbrook had not hired her, but one of his friends did. She was the headliner for Tyler Westbrook's bachelor farewell party. She took an Amtrak train to Philadelphia where she was stashed away at a decent hotel. Come the evening, she climbed into a huge, fake cream cake and upon a prearranged signal burst out of it in all her naked, nineteen-year-old glory. Then she had to sit on the bridegroom's lap and sing I wanna be loved by you. She had practiced the song for two days, and the rowdy crowd of middle-aged, drunk rich guys was suitably impressed with her throaty rendition.

As was the bridegroom. Admittedly, Tyler Westbrook had imbibed heavily, but he knew what he did when he kept her on his lap and escorted her to her hotel after the shindig broke up. It was actually a very nice experience for her because Westbrook took his time to enjoy his bachelor's gift. He let her wrap his dick in a condom without protest, something she insisted on because she'd had her IUD taken out in the week before, and her patch would not be effective yet. She fell asleep in his arms and woke up with a $1,000 tip on the nightstand and a friendly, handwritten note thanking her for the company. She returned to New York with a smile.

That good feeling went out of the window eight weeks later when Iris could no longer deny that her period was way overdue. A quick test from a drug store confirmed the catastrophe, and for a few days she did not know what to do. Her career had just taken off, and she was acutely aware of the numerous Russian and Ukrainian girls who were just as hungry for success as she. Strangely, she never contemplated an abortion, although her agent offered to front the money for one.

After thinking it through, she located Tyler Westbrook. He had returned from his honeymoon, as the Philadelphia papers dutifully reported, with his beautiful new wife, a former fashion model, Marja Wisniewski, a.k.a. Marsha. Iris took the train to Philadelphia again and tried to contact him at his headquarters. Naively, she told the receptionist her name and her wish to speak to the big boss of Westbrook Retail Inc. about a private matter.

They let her wait at the reception for almost thirty minutes before somebody showed. It was a man in a charcoal suit who identified himself as a member of the legal staff. She did not even get an opportunity to explain her reasons. She got a dressing down instead, threatening her with the police and the INS if she ever tried to shake down Mister Westbrook again. A beefy security goon then escorted her out to the street, leaving her upper arm bruised and hurting.

She was scared to death. Her worst fear was to be sent back to Russia before her child was born as an American. She did not dare to make another attempt.

For the next months she took all the work she could get, even shooting pregnancy fetish clips. She was surprised at how good the pay was for those, and her spirits lifted for a while. All in all, she had put away almost thirty-thousand bucks. She moved out of her pricey Manhattan studio and took a larger and cheaper apartment in Queens. She found a Catholic Church-run hospital nearby with an emergency room. She planned everything, and everything went according to plan. On July 15, 1991, Daniel Berusov was born at the St. Peter and Paul Hospital. Iris had opted for the economy package and she settled for a payment plan that would leave her with some room to breathe.

Daniel was healthy, and Iris enjoyed a robust health as well, allowing her to recuperate quickly. It took her a little longer than anticipated to lose the extra pounds, and to her dismay she found that her once perky teeny breasts had filled out. Her hips, once boyishly narrow, had also widened, meaning that her niche as skinny Russian teeny was not an option anymore. She still had name recognition, and she managed to get back into the business after eight months, but the checks were smaller now.

Her agent talked her into having a boob job. Her breasts had filled out during her pregnancy, but once she dieted herself back to her old weight after the birth, they lost their firmness and sagged slightly. The agent found her a cheap surgeon's office to do the job. Iris invested $5,000 of her savings, and came away from the surgery with a hack job. The implants were not centered on her nipples, one was half an inch higher than the other, and the sutures got infected. The young surgeon who had performed the job refused to see her, and Iris was forced to sue the office.

It took almost one year to get a hearing, and during that time, she had to perform with a bra or a blouse, for her breasts looked horrible. Finally, a judge heard her case, and awarded her restitution, both for the surgery costs and the documented loss of income. The senior surgeon in the office, once he became aware of the sloppy work of his junior associate, offered to repair the damage free of charge. He kept his word. It took two operations, but then Iris had a chest that she could show to paying customers again. She even became the surgeon's mistress for a few months during which he took care of her rent, until his wife found out and he had to break up the relationship.

She found better jobs after that, and for a while she and Danny moved over to the West Coast. A production company named Viral Video gave her a lucrative two-year exclusive contract, but after that, she became a free agent again.

By then, there were other and younger Russian blondes available, and the jobs became fewer and longer in between. Still, due to her strict economizing, she could pay her rent and her bills while tucking away money for rainy days. She made some extra money as an escort, but she was careful not to cross the line into hooking. She dated a rather close circle of men, and they all knew better than to offer her money for sex. Instead, she was invited for a weekend in Las Vegas or San Francisco, and her "host" would reimburse her for travel, babysitter, and clothes.

One "host" was particularly useful. He was a US senator, aged 68, and Iris gave him his first natural erections in years during a weekend stay at the Belmont Hotel. Facing upcoming elections, he could not take her out to dine in public. With his wife controlling most of their money, he could not make expensive presents either. Yet, he was a US senator, and when they met again three months later, he presented her with the completed paperwork for her naturalization. This ended her fears of deportation for good, and Iris did not mind giving him two freebie visits in the next months.

When Danny was six, a Nevada businessman whom she had met while on a 'date' in Las Vegas made her an offer to be the headliner in his legal brothel. It was a big step for her, but she accepted and spent almost a full year in Nevada. The Raunchy Ranch Bordello was a well organized operation. Drunks were not allowed in, condoms were mandatory, and the bruisers kept order during line-ups and beyond. In over eleven months, Iris used the panic button in her room only once, when a customer showed signs of a cardiac arrest.

She made good money, almost $120,000, but the solitude and the sometimes claustrophobic atmosphere in the brothel got to her. Also, Danny was close to seven at that time, and Iris realized that she had to settle somewhere for her son to attend a decent school. The small rural communities that allowed brothels did not boast much in the way of education.

In the end she moved to Philadelphia of all places. Through a colleague she heard of an escort ring there. It was supposedly mob-operated, or at least under mob protection, and her colleague said the conditions were fair. For the next five years, Iris was an attraction for the Silver Star agency. She had to practice her English and learn conversation skills to pass for an escort, but also the rules of the business and the legal framework in which to operate. The DiRosa family who supposedly owned the business had strict rules, but the share she received was fair and the organization was sharp. Silver Star Limousine Service drove them to their 'dates' and picked them up after the conclusion. The customers were mostly civilized men and women who wanted more than a quick roll on the mattress. Iris learned to fit in, and she enjoyed the work mostly.

This all came to a halt when the DiRosa decided to exit the business. Another investor took over, but he lacked the personality to keep the women and clients in line. After two years, he sold the agency to a family of Albanian thugs and things really went to shit. They brought in a slew of freshly imported girls from their old country and lowered the share of the women. They were bad news, and Iris tried to get out while the going was still good. She did not understand the mindset of the Kaçani family. They did not accept a resignation, even from a veteran such as Iris. Two days after she quit, she was plucked off the sidewalk in broad daylight. For two days they worked her over, first threats, then slapping her around, and when she still refused to return to Silver Star, they broke her arms, her cheek bone and her nose, and they busted her left knee. Like a broken doll she was thrown out of a van in front of an emergency ward.

Whatever Iris had saved over the preceding ten years was eaten up by the horrendous costs for repairing her face, arms and knee. She was out of commission for almost four months, and when she was finally released from the hospital, she was still facing a pile of debt. Daniel had been looked after by a neighbor who also expected some compensation.

Worse was the mental damage. Iris had been optimistic all through her life. She had even defied the Kaçanis early on, but the feeling of helplessness and the terrible pain of the beatings had wounded her soul. She was terrified of her shadow in the first months. She contemplated complaining with the DiRosa about the beating, hoping for some help and support. She had worked for them for years after all and paid her dues. Yet, she hesitated. Then, three months after her release from the hospital, she saw the newspapers with the three-inch headlines, Massacre at Olympic Gym.

With a mix of grim satisfaction, relief and disappointment she followed the news for the next days and weeks. The Kaçanis had murdered a DiRosa cousin and his wife. Less than three days later, the entire male side of the Kaçani family was dangling from a basement water pipe in their huge gym, their headquarters in Philadelphia.

In the aftermath, the cops went over the Kaçani operations with a fine comb. Iris was called in for an interview, and they questioned her for three hours about her involvement with Silver Star. She maintained that she had only been an escort, but the records at Silver Star said she had done more. She was called in again by Vice a few days later. The detective in charge had found out about the beating she had received, and he gave her the chance to testify against Silver Star against dropped charges.

In her dilemma, she found the offices of DiRosa Security, knowing that they had provided the limousine drivers for Silver Star. Wonders over wonders, Felix DiRosa spoke to her in person. She told him of her dilemma and asked for advice. He was really nice to her. When she was finished with her story, he gave her the telephone number of a fancy law firm, and told her to make an appointment.

Indeed, Mister Elliston of Stansfield, Lipton & Croft, attorneys at law, received her immediately and heard her case. He looked like an old fuddy-duddy, but he knew his business. Within an hour, the Vice Squad backed down when Mister Elliston pointed out the inadmissibility of some key pieces of evidence against Iris. Another hour later, Elliston had filed a lawsuit for damages against the Kaçani estate, fortified with an affidavit from Iris and a certified copy of her hospital bills.

A month later, the Kaçani family or what was left of them settled the lawsuit with Iris out of court, and Iris received two Lincoln Town Cars from the limousine service in lieu of cash. She cleared over forty-thousand dollars from their sale, enough to pay the rest of her hospital bills with forty-three hundred left over. After paying off her credit cards, she was debt free but back at square one.

Any thought of re-entering the escort business was soon forgotten. Her old clients got burned badly when the cops paid them visits to determine their involvement with Silver Star and the Kaçanis. There was a slew of divorces in the following spring, and the Johns were gun shy. By chance, Iris reconnected with an old partner from her early days in porn, Sylvester "Sly" Damiani, who was now a half-assed producer and talent agent. Sly found her some roles, and for the next three years Iris made weekly trips to locations all over the East Coast. It was enough to pay the bills, but she was thirty-four now and the roles became fewer. The adult movie industry was feeling the impact of free internet porn, and the shoots paid much less than in her heydays.

The final blow came when Iris contracted chlamydia. She had to pause for weeks, and even when she wanted to start again, the producers and fellow performers were leery of her. With an adolescent son, her expenses were considerable with no fresh money coming in. Soon she had maxed out one credit card, and she was behind with the rent. Eviction was looming when Sly had offered her that accursed opportunity.

She returned to the here and now. Sylvester was slowing down and turning into their street. He let her out and followed her up to the small apartment. Danny was in his room asleep, so Iris and Sylvester stayed in the small kitchen.

"You've done some heavy thinking, Kiddo?" he asked.

Iris nodded. "Yeah. This shit must end. I'm running on fumes." Suddenly she had an idea. "Say, Sly, you told me something the other day, about your ex-girlfriend hitting you for child support. How you get out of that?"

"They made me give my DNA. Turned out I wasn't the father."

"They made you?"

"Yeah. Standard procedure. A woman thinks you're the father and hits the courts, and you have to give your DNA. Why?"

"I'm done being afraid. I'm done running. I'm done letting everybody fuck me over! Sly, where do I file for DNA thing?"

"Family court. Why again?"

"Danny has father. I know who he is. He had me run off then, but I'm done being scared."

"Anybody I might know?"

"Tyler Westbrook."

"No shit, Iris?"

"No shit. It's time he contributes. I've got money now; I can find lawyer."

"Well, good luck, Kiddo. You're gonna need it."

Chapter 2: Custody

Jerome Washington checked his image in the glass door ahead. He was wearing his best suit for the occasion and he made sure that his tie was centered. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door and entered the foyer of the Westbrook Tower. He strode over to the reception. The receptionist looked up.

"How can I help you, sir?" she asked politely.

Jerome liked that. Receptionists were not always polite when they saw a black man. This girl had manners.

"Jerome Washington, attorney at law. I need to deliver papers to one Tyler Westbrook. I believe that he has his offices here?"

"Let me check whether he is available, Sir," came the answer.

The girl typed rapidly into a computer and then pressed enter. It took a few minutes, but then she looked up.

"Mister Westbrook is currently in a meeting, but somebody will be down here presently to discuss your business with you."

"Thank you," Jerome smiled. They were trying to run him off, probably by some fancy suit from legal.

The man who approached Jerome was a surprise. He was a Latino, and his suit was from the rack much like Jerome's.

"Mister Washington? I am Santiago Echeveria. I am a junior associate in our legal department. Miss Wistar sent a note that you have some paperwork to drop off?"

"Maybe. Are you Mister Westbrook's personal legal representative?"

"No, I am employed by Westbrook Corporation."

"Then I am afraid that you came down here for nothing, Mister Echeveria. This is a personal matter that concerns Mister Westbrook, not his company. I thought it better to deliver it here rather than at his home."

"A personal matter you say?"

"Yes. Private."

"Let me make a quick phone call then," Echeveria said and walked to the opposite side of the foyer. He gave his cell phone a thorough workout before he joined Jerome again. "Mister Westbrook's personal assistant will see you. Ms Carling is authorized to act for Mister Westbrook."

Jerome shrugged. At least he would get in now. Echeveria led him to an elevator which they entered. He pressed the button for the 25th floor and the elevator shot upwards. Less than 20 seconds later, the door opened again and Echeveria guided Jerome to a desk where an elderly matron sat.

"Mister Washington, Ms Carling," Echeveria told her. "Good day, Mister Washington."

"Thank you, Mister Echeveria," Jerome answered and turned to Ms Carling handing her his card. "Jerome Washington, attorney at law, Ma'am."

"I see, Mister Washington. Could you state your business, please?"

"I am here to serve Mister Westbrook with papers. It is a private matter and I chose to do it here rather than at his private residence."

Ms Carling's eyes narrowed. "You can leave those papers with me, Mister Washington."

"Yet I need Mister Westbrook to sign this receipt in person," Jerome answered unperturbed.

"I see. Can you wait for a minute or two? I am sure Mister Westbrook can sign the receipt. May I have those papers?"

Jerome nodded and handed them over. The lady then put the entire envelope into some high-tech scanning device. A green light blinked and she took it out again and went to a door across the reception area. Before she reached it, a grey-haired man stepped out.

"Olivia, I need the Wentworth contract. Can you ... Is anything the matter?"

Ms Carling held the envelope and the receipt form.

"Mister Washington over there is an attorney. He claims that these papers concern you personally."

Jerome distinctly heard the whispered question, "Ambulance chaser?", to which Ms Carling judiciously shook her head. Shrugging, Westwood signed the receipt and ripped open the envelope. Jerome could see his eyes going wide but then he started to read. After reading through all seven pages he looked up at Jerome.

"Mister Washington, I presume?"

Polite. Jerome nodded. "Indeed. Mister Westbrook?"

"Yes. Would you mind stepping into my office with me so I can get the whole story?"

Jerome nodded. Be polite. "It will be my pleasure, Sir."

"Coffee, Tea or soda, Mister Washington?"

"Thank you, Sir. Tea, with cream, no sugar, if that is possible."

"I'll see to it," Ms Carling declared while Westbrook led the way back to his office. Once inside he indicated a plush visitor's chair and sat down behind his cluttered desk.

Westbrook pressed an intercom button. "No interruptions, please." Then he turned to Jerome. "Mister Washington, if I interpret this correctly, a Miss Irina Berusova claims that I am the father of her — what? — fifteen-year-old son Daniel. I am confused. I have never met an Irina Berusova. Please enlighten me."

"Very well, Mister Westbrook. It is likely that you knew Miss Berusova under her stage name, Iris Angel. She was part of the entertainment during your bachelor farewell and she claims that you and she retired to her hotel room afterwards. She also claims that you and she had sexual intercourse during that night. Miss Berusova became pregnant and she is certain that the child is from you, Sir. She asks for a paternity test to settle the matter."

Westbrook had turned just a little pale. "Iris? Iris. Rather lanky if I remember, pale blonde and with a thick Russian accent?"

"Miss Berusova provided me with an old photograph that depicts her sixteen years ago," Jerome said smoothly and handed over the print.

Westbrook looked at it and Jerome could see the recognition in his eyes. "Good God! Is that why she tried to come here a few weeks later?"

"Indeed. One of your people threatened her with the police and the INS according to her statement."

"Good God! I had no idea obviously. These papers state that you demand a DNA test to establish paternity?"

"Yes, Mister Westbrook. It's the standard procedure."

"I see," Westbrook sighed rubbing his temples. "I admit to my surprise and my dismay. If this claim is justified, then I have indeed shirked my responsibilities." He opened a drawer and handed a card to Jerome. "This is Mister Halloway's card. He is my personal legal adviser. Please contact him to set up the necessary steps. If I am indeed that boy's father there will be no need for a lawsuit."

"I am delighted to hear that, Mister Westbrook. I assure you that my client is not seeking publicity."

—————

Not three days later, Danny and Irina's blood had been drawn for comparison, and Jerome Washington could report that Tyler Westbrook had undergone the same procedure. Two certified laboratories, one in New York and one in Chicago, were tasked with running the tests. Results could be expected within two weeks and Jerome expected a speedy conclusion of this case. Whatever settlement Irina would get, he would get his 25 percent. Westbrook seemed to be a decent enough dude.

He was preparing to leave his office for lunch when his wife/receptionist stuck in her head.

"Urgent call, Jerry. Ms. Berusova. She's being held by the police."

Jerome picked up. "Yes, Irina. What's the problem?"

The accent was heavier than usual betraying her nervous tension.

"I am at 3rd District headquarters. I'm held for manslaughter. The men I told you about, they came after me and I had to shoot them."

Jerome thought quickly. "Where's your son?"

"At school. I don't know what to do."

"Irina, just take it easy. I'll be over in twenty minutes. Don't talk to the cops. Wait for me. Tell them you won't talk without your lawyer being present. You know that from the cop shows, right?"

"Right. But what..."

"One of the things you'll have to do is give me temporary custody for Danny. I can present that at school to pick him up. Let me talk to Doris about taking him in for a few days." He looked up and Doris was giving him the "OK" sign. "Just relax, Irina. I'll see you in a few!"

When he had put his coat on, Doris was already printing out the temporary custody form.

"I'll ready the attic room, Hon," she declared. "Is it bad?"

"She apparently shot two guys. Let me get the full story first."

"Sure, Hon. I'll put a notice on the answering machine that you won't be available this afternoon."

"You're the best, Doris."

"I know," she smiled. "Just help the woman. She doesn't deserve any more shit in her life." Of course, Doris had seen Iris's file.

When Jerome arrived at the police station he was directed to an interrogation room where Irina was facing two detectives. Jerome could see that their notepads were empty.

"Hi, Detectives! I'm Jerome Washington, Ms. Berusova's attorney and for the time being my client will exercise her right to refuse answering. Let me get the story first, okay?"

They left the room and Jerome sat down opposite Irina.

"Tell me what happened!"

Irina looked at him. "I was at home, cleaning. I heard doorbell and I went to open, but I looked through spy hole first. I saw Ellis and Larry, two men I had worked for. I knew they were bad. They paid me for whipping scenes. They hurt me. Then they choked me with hands around my throat. My agent, Sly, I mean Sylvester, was in next room and heard me when I was able to cry for help. He came in and beat them up. He brought me to doctor for wounds. I have pictures."

"That's good. So those two guys were standing in front of your door. What happened next?"

"They knocked on door, really loud. They shouted for me to open and called me nasty names. I went to bedroom to bring my gun. Sly had given it to me, after the Kaçanis had beaten me up, for protection. Larry and Ellis were really beating on door now and I was afraid door would break. I raised gun and fired through door. I just wanted them to go away. I was afraid."

"Was that gun legal, Irina?"

Irina shook her head. "Who would give me gun permit?"

"Okay, we have a problem. You fired through the door. Were they trying to break the door?"

"They banged hard against it. It was shaking. I was afraid. They had guns."

"Did you see that?"

"When I looked through spy hole, I saw Larry had gun in waistband."

"Okay, a big point in your favor. Let's hope the cops found it. Now, the doctor who treated you: can I have his name?"

"Dr Slesac. He has office on Woodmont Avenue."

"All right. I'll check with him. Now, this Sylvester, does he have a last name?"

"He is friend. I can't rat on him."

"Irina, you need to beat a manslaughter rap."

Irina shook her head. "He helped me. He is friend. Leave him out of this." Then she smiled. "Gun is not from him. I found it in limo I got as compensation from Kaçanis and kept it. It must have been the Kaçanis'."

"Be careful, Irina. Once they catch you in a lie, things will be much harder."

"This is how I got gun."

"Oh, well. Let's see what the cops have."

Jerome went to the door and asked the detectives to come back in.

"Can you give me an idea what you have on my client?"

The older detective shrugged. "Tenants in Ms. Berusova's apartment building called in about shots being fired. When the first unit arrived on the scene, the officers discovered two dead males on the third floor landing. The victims were identified as Ellis Danning and Larry Goldwater. The apartment door had five shot holes in it. Inside the apartment they found Ms. Berusova kneeling on the floor with a gun in her hand. She surrendered the gun to the officers."

"Did the door show damage apart from the shot holes?"

The detective nodded. "It looked like somebody had been trying to break it. Our techs are examining it."

"My client claims that at least one of the men was armed."

The detective nodded. "Danning was carrying heat. So, will Ms Berusov give a statement?"

Jerome thought briefly. So far Irina's story was checking out. She could only win if the detectives were pointed in the right direction.

"I think you should tell them what happened, Irina."

Irina nodded and exhaled deeply. "I am porn actress, okay? Larry and Ellis, they produce porn. SM stuff, like spanking, whipping, caning. They hired me, three times. They whipped my ass until it was bleeding, but the money was good. Third time I worked for them, they beat me much harder and I screamed. One guy, Ellis, he started choking me. I was tied up, but I could scream once more. My agent, he was waiting outside and he heard me scream. He came in, they fought, and he beat them. Then he freed me. We took the money they owed me and left. Maybe they wanted revenge? Maybe they wanted to throttle me some more. I don't know. They banged on door. I looked through spy hole and I saw Larry having a gun. I did not dare to open door. They were beating against it and it was shaking. It is old door and I was afraid it would break open. I went to my bedroom and took gun. I shouted for them to go away, but they screamed at me and banged against door harder. So I shot, I don't know, four, five times. Must have been five, because gun was empty then."

"You admit to shooting through a closed door?"

"I was afraid. They were bad men. I shot so they would go away."

The detective scratched his head. "I need to get the DA involved. I see at least an illegal possession charge plus manslaughter. Miss Berusov, can you prove that they hurt you before?"

Irina nodded. "My agent drove me to doctor. Dr Slesac on Woodmont. We took pictures too. I have them at home. I have doctor's bill."

"Your agent, does he have a name?"

Irina exhaled. She looked trapped. Her shoulders sagged. "Sylvester Damiani, Sly. He is good man. He saved me."

"I see. To be honest, we know Mister Damiani, just not as a good man. Where did you get the gun?"

Irina sat straight and her Russian accent receded as she concentrated.

"Last year, I was abducted by goons, by the Kaçanis." The detective looked up with interest. "I had quit the Silver Star agency after they took over. They beat me up, broke my cheekbone, my knee, my arm, because I would not work for them.After they were killed, I sued estate for my medical bills and injuries. Their family settled and gave me two limousines which I sold to pay my hospital bills. When I cleaned cars, I found gun under seat in one of them. I kept it. I was very afraid then, after the beating. I kept it at home, hidden, so my son cannot find it. I never carried it outside."

Again, the detective nodded. "We'll run that gun through the databases."

"So, Detectives, what now?" Washington asked.

"As I said, we're holding Ms Berusov for 24 hours or until the DA's office had a chance to view the case. I suspect the DA's office will want to charge her for illegal firearms possession. Right now, we'll interview that doctor and Mister Damiani to check out her story. Now, Ms Berusov has a child?"

Irina nodded. "My son Daniel. He's at school."

"I'll take him in for the night," Jerome said. "My wife is preparing the guest room."

"Okay with me," the detective shrugged. "Ms Berusov will stay in custody, but you can confer with her some more."

"I'd like that, detective," Jerome answered.

The detectives left them alone then and Irina grabbed Jerome's sleeve.

"You must call Danny's father. If they charge me, he must look after Danny!"

That was actually a good idea. If Irina was being charged, somebody had to look after the boy. Jerome went out to make a phone call.

It took only five minutes to get through to Tyler Westbrook. Jerome explained the events of the day in brief sentences before he described the situation they were facing. Westbrook asked a few questions and then seemingly made a call on another line. Ten minutes later, he came on again and made his offer. Independent of the outcome of the paternity testing, he would place Daniel in a private boarding school, the Peter Parker Preparatory School, in the boonies north of Philadelphia. They were specialized in problem cases and offered excellent teaching combined with therapeutic care. Admittedly, they mostly housed the poor rich kids who had fallen afoul of narcotics laws, but it was the best such institution in the State.

It is amazing what a millionaire can achieve, Jerome thought when not thirty minutes later, a distinguished looking lawyer showed up with a stack of papers. He made his proposal to Irina.

"Ms. Berusova, I have prepared a custody transfer agreement that will place your son, Daniel Berusov, under the temporary custody of Mister Tyler Westbrook, his alleged father. You will receive monthly reports about his life and his development until you will be able to take care of him again. Is that agreeable?"

For the first time that afternoon, Iris smiled. "I agree. Please tell Mister Westbrook that I thank him. Where do I sign?"

"Iris, that's a big step," Jerome warned. "You want to sleep over this?"

Iris shook her head. "I want Danny safe. I am not a good mother for him. I don't count. Giving him to his father is the best thing I can do for my Danny."

That settled things with regards to Daniel Berusov. Before Jerome could bundle up his client, Hendershot pulled him aside.

"Counselor, with the paternity suit pending, Mister Westbrook cannot interfere in this case. My firm cannot be involved for the same reasons, but I can refer you to a seasoned criminal defense lawyer who will take the case on a pro bono basis."

He handed a business card to Jerome who nodded.

"That's kind of you. I can certainly use some help with this case. My background is family law and I'm not really versed in criminal proceedings."

"Yes, I see where you are coming from. Let's hope that you'll get this mess cleared up."

Iris spent the night in the lock-up. Her apartment was a crime scene anyway and would not be given back to her for days. She seemed completely at ease now that she knew that her son would be looked after.

Jerome brought a few necessities, enough for Iris to dress decently before they met the DA at 10 o'clock in the next morning. They also met the criminal defense specialist whom Jerome had contacted and who would call the shots for them. Jerome was happy to sit in the passenger seat for this.

An assistant DA named Maureen Darling and another assistant DA named Dennis Alvarado conducted the interview for the State. Jerome was impressed with Darling. She had every little detail of the case pat and she pulled the entire story from Iris, including all the sordid details. Iris held back nothing. She knew enough of the business to have understood the veiled comments and remarks that Larry and Ellis had made during the shooting of the videos and she could name three more people who were involved. The only thing she held back on was Sly's involvement.

A search had been performed at Larry and Ellis's Camden addresses where the police had found a hoard of hard core smut complete with the video equipment and various props. At first look, some of the material was illicit and the Vice squad was following the leads now to identify the distribution channels but also possible crime victims. Darling was eager to tie in all the loose ends before the Federal authorities could swoop in and take over. Therefore she was willing to consider a plea deal in return for Iris's testimony.

The real bomb was the information that the cops had found Sylvester Damiani in his apartment, shot to death with a 9 mm handgun similar to the one found on Larry Goldwater. It was clear to all of them that, if confirmed, this changed Irina's situation decisively. Still, Irina would be arraigned under illegal weapons charges that afternoon. The defender had already arranged for bail if needed, but at least the manslaughter case against her was rapidly falling apart if Goldwater was indeed Sly's killer.

They had to stop for a lunch break, but they continued afterwards, and by four o'clock everybody was more or less happy. Iris would probably get off with a suspended sentence under probation for the weapons charge. Jerome and Andrew Morton, the criminal defense man, could chalk up another success when the DA's office tentatively agreed to treat the double shooting as self-defense, pending the ballistics analysis of Goldwater's suspected murder weapon. If she could abide by the probation conditions, Iris would be off the hook.

—————

The housekeeper was clearing the table after the last course of the dinner and Tyler Westbrook leaned back and sighed. Ashley, his daughter, had already left the table to continue a coast-to-coast phone call with a girlfriend and Tyler was sitting alone with his wife Marsha.

"What's bugging you?" she asked into the silence. "You've been awfully quiet in the last days."

No time like right now, Tyler decided.

"Yes, I've got something on my mind, or rather on my conscience."

"Well, out with it! What did you do?"

"Well, let's just say that I committed an indiscretion before our marriage, and it's come back to bite me."

"Explain!"

"Well, you know that Terry Shultz organized my bachelor's farewell, right? He really outdid himself. We had live music, excellent food and even better booze. I was as drunk as a sailor."

"Yes, you looked awful the next day."

"Well, towards the end, they brought in a huge cream cake and I was to cut it. As soon as I started, the cake popped open and there was this girl jumping up. She was cute. She helped me put cake on the plates and then she sang a song for me, some old Marilyn Monroe piece. Well, there is no use to sugar-coat this. I fucked up. I dropped her off at the hotel where she was staying and went up with her."

"You cheated on me two days before our wedding?"

"Yes. I still don't understand it. She was skinny and blonde and you know that's not my type. Anyway, she claims that her son is from me. He's fifteen, so the timeline fits. Right now, the DNA tests are under way."

Marsha looked at him keenly. "Is that why you never go to parties without me?"

Tyler nodded unhappily. "I don't trust myself. Marsha, you're the only woman in my life, the only one I care for. Well, there's Ashley too, but you know what I mean. I couldn't stand to lose you over this."

"Tell me more. What are your plans?"

Tyler launched into telling her about the events of the last days, plus the background. He could see the incredulous look on Marsha's face when he told her about Iris's porn shoots.

"How desperate that woman had to be!" she suddenly interrupted him. "Why didn't she ever come forward? I mean, you could have easily slipped her enough money to get by, even without me knowing."

"I screwed up," Tyler admitted. "She tried to contact me, but I let somebody scare her off. I was afraid that she would try to blackmail me. I didn't know why she really tried to contact me."

"You gave her the bum's rush. Tyler, how could you?"

"I don't know! We had just returned from the honeymoon and I was afraid of anything that might endanger what we had."

"How old was she?"

"I don't know. Maybe twenty? She wasn't underage. She'd already appeared in mainstream porn, so she had to be over eighteen. She looked young though."

"Good God, Tyler! She was half your age! And you didn't use protection either! With a porn actress!"

"I did. She had rubbers, and I put one on. I don't know how she could get pregnant!"

"Ninety-five percent, Tyler. Rubbers are only 95% safe. Okay, what do you plan to do about that boy?"

"I put him into that Peter Parker Preparatory School north of here in the boonies. It's a very good boarding school for troubled kids. They'll try to help him there. For now, I have custody until Iris's ... I mean Irina's legal problems will sort themselves out. After the DNA tests come back, we'll know more."

"So, let's say he's your son. What then?"

"I don't know. I wanted to talk to you first, but then things mushroomed today. I guess I want to make up for what I did to him and to his mother."

"Again, what do you really want?"

"I was thinking ... always under the condition that you can approve ... I thought perhaps ... Marsha, the boy should know his family!"

"That's a lot you ask there. With that background?"

"I thought that maybe they can evaluate him at that school. They have a lot of counseling and therapy there. He's a very good student and pulling As across the board. Probably a Math prodigy one of his teachers thinks. Of course, that doesn't mean..."

"Let me think about it. I have to sleep over this. Where does that woman live?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"I must talk to her first. I must find out about her and him. So give!"

"I can give you her attorney's phone number. He should be able to help. Marsha, is there a way for you to forgive me?"

"Let me sleep over this. It would be best if you took a guest room tonight."

"Okay. Take your time. Just don't forget what you mean to me!"

"Tyler, I know that you love me. I know that I love you. I just have to cope with this and I must decide on an appropriate penance for you. You cheated on me and you really fucked that woman over."

—————

Marsha Westbrook alighted from the limousine and looked around. The Town Car was really misplaced in this neighborhood. It was not a slum, but it wasn't middle class either. She looked at the five story building ahead and felt a mixture of relief and bad conscience. Marsha Westbrook, née Wisniewski, had not been born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Her own old neighborhood in Chicago had been even more run-down. With hard work and luck, she had made it out of there; hence the relief she felt. She was also aware that many people, in spite of all their efforts, never catch a break; hence the bad conscience.

The stairwell smelled of stale food and tobacco. She quickly climbed the stairs to the third floor. There were three apartments on each story, and the middle one was her destination. There were duct tape patches on the door, likely to cover the bullet holes. She swallowed before she knocked.

"Who is it?" a voice with Slavic intonation asked. Marsha almost smiled with the memory of her grandparents' heavy Polish accent.

"My name is Marsha Wisniewski," she fibbed. The name Westbrook might just scare the woman.

She saw movement behind the spyglass and then the door opened. The woman was in her mid-thirties and in good shape, but she looked really tired. Her silver blonde hair — Marsha saw that it was natural — was tied back in a bun and her hands were in rubber gloves. Marsha understood. Irina Berusova was cleaning the apartment, just to do something.

"Iris Angel?"

She shook her head. "Irina Berusova. Iris Angel is dead. What can I do for you?"

Marsha held up a cardboard tray with two coffee cups and a bag of Danish pastries.

"You could invite me in and have coffee with me."

"Why?"

Marsha smiled wryly. "We could compare notes about my husband's performance. But then again, you could tell me about your son Daniel. My husband wants to look after him and I really need to know more about him than what those police reports say."

The woman blanched a little. "You're not here to..."

"Start a cat fight? No. I think you have enough trouble to last you for a while. No, I'm really not mad at you. Mad at my husband? Yes! He cheated on me and he gave you the bum's rush when you needed help. He left you alone to fend for your son. I don't like that one bit. But he came clean with me and he wants to atone for his sins. So, can we talk?"

Irina nodded and pulled off the rubber gloves to offer her hand. Marsha shook it.

Everything in the kitchen was cheap but clean. The small table was an ancient one and the chairs did not match.

"Danny found the table and fixed it," Irina explained. "It was better than our old one."

Marsha sat down and opened the paper bag with the pastries. Irina found two China plates and giant coffee mugs and sat down opposite her guest.

"What do you want to know?"

Marsha sighed. "I'd like to know how old you were then."

Irina made a face. "Nineteen. I came to United States when I turned eighteen. I had been in adult business for over a year. Those birthday and bachelor party gigs were great fun for me, and they paid well. The men were sometimes drunk, but mostly polite, even nice."

Over the next two hours, Marsha extracted Irina's life story from her. It was sad and fascinating at the same time. Irina had taken a full course load at the School of Hard Knocks over the years, but somehow she had always managed to get back on her feet. Until now.

Marsha also got to see Danny's room. It was a normal teenager's room, if a bit on the Spartan side. Under a desk was an ancient grey computer, still with property stickers from the original owner. There were print-outs on the desk with math equations on them. Marsha promised Irina to send somebody to pick up Danny's personal stuff for him.

Irina also showed Danny's medical files, his vaccination documents, and his school report cards. They were complete and ordered chronologically. Marsha put those away in her satchel bag to make copies and she promised to return them afterwards. In the end, she had one more question.

"So tell me, Irina: what are your plans?"

The woman shrugged. "I must find work. If I get plea deal approved, I must support myself. I also must save up some money again for rainy days."

"We could..."

"No, please. I don't need your husband's money. I can work. I always worked. I just had bad luck."

"That wasn't bad luck. That was assault and kidnapping. I understand your sentiment, but my husband owes you the child support for fifteen years plus at least three years maintenance. But tell me, what work can you do?"

There was a weak smile on Irina's face. "I can clean. I can cook. I never went to a good school. Wait! I'm really good with numbers, so I could be waitress."

"Can you bargain?"

Another wry smile. "Bargain is my middle name."

Marsha laughed. "Well, Ms. Irina Bargain Berusova, how about working for me? I run a string of stores, the TwoBucks. We buy cheap gift articles and sell them for two dollars apiece. We have an opening for an assistant buyer. It requires bargaining skills and a good head for numbers. How about it?"

"Why would you do that for me, Ms Westbrook?"

"Marsha, please. I don't know. I feel that you deserve a break. I also think that your son will want you in his life as a respectable woman."

That carried weight as Marsha could see. "When can I start?"

"Why not next Monday? The men who'll pick up Danny's stuff will bring you the when and where. Try to catch some sleep until then."

—————

It was almost dinnertime when Marsha signaled for her husband to follow her to their bedroom.

"I spent three hours talking to Irina. I think I can accept the boy."

Tyler exhaled. "Thank you!"

Marsha smiled grimly. "You'll have to explain it to Ashley. Be honest!"

"Oh shit!"

"Well, it's your screw up and your responsibility."

"I know."

"You also owe the woman child support for sixteen years plus a reasonable maintenance for the first three years."

"Holloway is settling the modalities with her lawyer. I'm selling my wristwatch collection to cover this."

Marsha raised her eyebrows. "All of them?"

"Well, I'll keep my old Submariner. I can't wear more than one watch anyway. The rest will go."

"Good. You'll need the extra cash, because you'll have to bribe me with a beach house. Plus, you must set aside four weeks every year to spend at that beach house with me and Ashley. Well, Danny too."

Tyler had to smile. "Where?"

"I don't know. A bit further south. The Carolinas?"

"Outer Banks?"

"Deal. Make it big enough to bring friends."

"You know, that's a great idea. So, yes to all your demands. I have a request too."

"Do tell!"

"Please forgive me!"

"Let's have a look at that beach house first," Marsha smiled.

Chapter 3: At Triple-P

Daniel Berusov dropped on his bed with a groan. The games played here at Triple-P — Peter Parker Preparatory — were alien to him. Who the hell played Lacrosse? Soccer was more to his liking, but being tall and slender he was not ideally built for that sport. Basketball was also not bad, but the way Danny had learned the game — in a neighborhood court ruled by the bros — was not like Mister Jeremies, the gym teacher, thought it should be played.

The only good thing was that once a junior, he would be allowed to join the school's boxing team. For the last two years, Danny had earned some money sweeping the floors at the Silver Gym. The owner, Artie Simmons, paid him small money, but he also let Danny work out and even gave him free boxing lessons. According to Artie, Danny had a nice jab and good foot work, but no punch worth a shit.

For the moment, he was alone in his room and he leaned back to enjoy the solitude. His roommate, Chester Armbruster, would be late, having picked up another detention. Chester was a mess, a rich kid without a clue and interested only in girls — although by necessity of the virtual variety. He had a huge collection of porn which he played on his laptop when he thought Danny was asleep. That collection that was updated whenever he had internet access during home visits, and Danny knew that he kept that stuff on a huge, one-terabyte USB hard-drive.

Danny had a laptop too, a fancy model that was way beyond his needs. Back when he'd lived with Irina, he'd had a tired old tower computer from the pawn shop, but he'd had little real need for it. Now he was expected to retrieve all sorts of information from the internet to prepare for classes. He also had to submit reports and other assignments to the school's servers. Triple-P strove for paper-less teaching.

This school was something else entirely. Back at West Philly High, Danny had been coasting along at the top of the class without so much as a hint of competition. Here, the teachers were really after him, giving him extra assignments when he finished his regular load and pretty much filling his day with school work. Now, after the first six weeks, the culture shock was wearing off and Danny began to appreciate the chances he was afforded.

At first, he did not know why he'd been sent to Triple-P. The place was expensive, that much he knew, and nobody had told him who was paying for all this. No fewer than three lawyers had picked him up after school on that fateful day. They told him that a wealthy entrepreneur had offered a scholarship for Danny and over the next days he was dragged from one clothing store to the next. In between, he spent some time with a dentist to get his teeth checked and cleaned. He was fitted with braces, but they were expensive and barely visible. He was also given a complete physical and all his vaccinations were brought up-to-date. He spent an afternoon with a head shrink looking at doodles and filling out various multiple choice questionnaires. The shrink also performed a half-hour-long quick-fire Q&A before telling him that he was a very smart young man.

In between, he'd met Irina, his mom. She was looking tired and worried. She gave him a run-down of what had happened at the S&M video shoot and the attempt of the two goons to break into their apartment. She was facing legal troubles over the gun. She also told him that she'd called in some very old markers from some dude who would bankroll Danny's stay at Triple-P.

Once they had checked him completely, clothed him and given him a two-hour lecture on the dos and don'ts for an adolescent male, they sat his butt into the rear of a big-ass Lincoln limousine and sent him out into the boonies, to Triple-P. He was given three new cell phone numbers and told to call any of them should any problems appear. When he asked who his mysterious benefactor was, the lawyers lost their capacity for colloquial English and gave him a load of lawyer speak with lots of whatsoevers, pendings, and conditions of strewn in. What they did not tell him was the name.

It was not necessary. Within two weeks, the rumor mill at Triple-P knew him as the illegitimate son of Tyler M. Westbrook, the retail tycoon. Since then, Danny had researched his supposed father in detail. Tyler Westbrook was sixty-one and he had built a large business empire from scratch. Westbrook Corp. was the entity behind several high end fashion chains, a mail order house and a string of sporting goods stores. The original Westbrook's stores were also still in operation offering mostly useless but expensive gadgets for 'the distinguishing gentleman'. Forbes pegged Tyler's net worth at $780,000,000.

His first wife, Megan, died of thyroid cancer in 1987. A son, the only child from that marriage, died in a car crash at only seventeen years. Westbrook was devastated, and for years he was a recluse, barely venturing into society.

This changed when he met his second wife. He married Marsha Wiesnewski in 1991 and they had a child, a daughter named Ashley. Ashley had to be a sophomore like Danny, but the internet knew very little about her. There was more to know about Marsha. She was a former fashion model who had founded her own chain of sales outlets.

Danny suspected that sending him off to Triple-P was done mostly to keep Wifey Nº2 in the dark about his existence. Danny was curious where he would spend the summer break. He suspected to be sent to a summer camp somewhere.

With a sigh, he picked himself up from the bed. Time to focus. He had an assignment due the day after and he had better get it done before Chester showed up.

—————

Danny was sitting alone at the table during lunch break. He was used to sitting alone and it did not bother him. He was the FNG, the fucking new guy, and as such he was not part of the various cliques. He got along okay with most of the other students, which was enough for him.

There were exceptions to that rule. Helen Gunderson was one of those exceptions. She was competing for the Queen Bee position at Triple-P and she did her best to make life difficult for Danny. To be honest, Danny did not like her either. She was a spoiled princess of a girl who had been sent to Triple-P after she'd been picked up by the police for underage drinking. Now she tried to lord it over the peons. Danny had pissed her off when he refused to do her math assignment. Asked nicely he would have helped her, but her imperious tone ticked him off and he told her to pound sand.

Speaking of the devil, she was just entering the cafeteria with her usual coterie. Danny had to admit that she looked hot. Not that she had big boobs. In that department there was still some room to grow, but she had a beautiful face under natural blonde hair and her trim body was displayed to its best advantage in the tight clothes she was wearing.

Her blue eyes swept over the cafeteria and her cute face showed her displeasure when she regarded Danny. He gave her an ironic salute and a grin, causing her face to cloud even further. She turned to one of her disciples, Tom Burton, and spoke to him. Tom gave Danny the evil eye and swaggered over to his table.

"Hey, shithead!"

Danny shook his head. What now? He shrugged.

"What do you want, Tom?"

"I hear you've been mouthy to my friend Helen."

Danny shrugged again. "I told her to do her assignments herself. I'm not one of her lap dogs."

"Pretty rude for a bastard," Tom challenged. "Maybe somebody should teach you some manners?"

Danny actually grinned. "Jeez, Tom, don't be stupid. You're not in her league. Once you've served your purpose, she'll ignore you again."

"Why don't you mind your own fuckin' business, Ivan?"

"I'm trying, but there's this moron who keeps talking to me."

"Oh yeah? Get up!"

"Why?"

"So I can teach you manners!"

"Can't you just shove off, man? This'll only get you hurt."

"Oh, let me guess: you know Karate!" Tom crowed and the answering snickers made Danny aware of a small crowd that was surrounding them.

"Nope, no Karate. Still, give it a rest, okay? Look, I'll even say please. Please leave me the fuck alone. Okay?"

"You fuckin' bastard!" Tom snarled and hurled himself at Danny.

He did not get far. Danny's table slammed into his thigh stopping him briefly and now Danny was on his feet.

"Just leave me alone, Tom," he warned one more time, but Tom was angry now. He advanced on Danny who took up a defensive stance.

Tom's first haymaker was an easy one to dodge and Danny went in close, hammering Tom's short ribs. He retreated immediately, dodging another roundhouse swing. The crowd around them got excited. This was looking like a real fight.

"We can still stop this, Tom," Danny warned.

"You prick!" Tom wheezed and attacked again. This time Danny shuffled to the left and clipped the charging Tom on his ear. That had to hurt!

Tom just lowered his head and charged again with outstretched arms trying to tackle Danny. There was just no way out of this mess. Danny barely avoided Tom's arms by shuffling back and to the right. When Tom turned, Danny's left jab hit him square on the nose. This ended it. Tom went down bleeding profusely from his broken nose and Danny stepped back. He saw Helen in the crowd, a look of incredulity on her face.

"Happy now?" he asked her with all the disdain he could pack into those two words. "You're a sick bitch, you know that?"

By now, five teachers came running, alerted by some of the students and they stared down at the bleeding Tom Burton. Mister Edwards, the Spanish teacher, looked around.

"Who did that?"

Shrugging, Danny stepped forward. "I did. He kept going at me. I told him to leave me alone, but he kept coming."

"And you are?"

"Daniel Berusov, sir. I'm a new student."

Edwards looked around. "Anybody care to come forward as a witness?"

George Turner, a senior, stepped forward. "It's like Danny said. Tom was spoiling for a fight, and Danny tried to calm him. It was no use. Danny hit him only twice. He must be some sort of boxer."

Edwards looked at Danny who nodded. "I spent a lot of time at the Silver Gym in West Philly. Mister Simpson, the owner, looked after me in the afternoons."

"And why do you think Mister Burton attacked you?"

Danny shrugged. "He entered the cafeteria with Helen. She whispered something to him and next thing he comes and calls me a shithead."

"Any idea why Miss Gunderson would send out her storm trooper?" Edwards queried.

"I did not do her math assignment for her."

"Interesting. Miss Gunderson, any thoughts or comments from your side?"

"I ... I only told Tom that I didn't like Danny, that he'd been rude to me. He said he'd teach him manners. That's all," Helen protested.

Edwards shook his head. "Okay. Berusov, Turner, Gunderson! Come along with me. Burton, go to the nurse's office. Everybody else! Go back to lunch. Where the hell is Gonagle?"

Gonagle was the teacher who had lunch duty. Nobody knew. Gonagle was a slacker. Edwards shrugged and motioned for the three students to follow him to the principal's office.

Danny had only seen Principal Marlowe once and he had pegged him as a phony. Big smile but cold eyes. He looked up from an oversized desk.

"Mister Edwards, is there a problem?"

Edwards quickly reeled off the facts of the matter, already stating that Danny had likely acted in self-defense. Marlowe fixed his gaze on George Turner.

"You witnessed this?"

"Yes, sir," Turner answered briskly.

"So Burton was the aggressor?"

"Yes, sir. Danny tried to talk him out of it, but he was spoiling for a fight."

"I see. Mister Berusov, we do not condone fighting."

"Yes, sir," Danny answered, taking a leaf from George Turner's book.

"You're new here, so I'm going to let it go for now. Don't let us catch you brawling again though. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

Marlowe turned to Helen.

"Let this be a lesson for you, Miss Gunderson. Nothing good can come out of violence. To make this clear to both of you, you and Mister Berusov will share cleaning duty in the cafeteria for two weeks. Once Mister Burton is up to it again, he will take over for another two weeks. Mister Gonagle will supervise you."

"Thanks a lot," Danny shot at Helen after they had been sent on their ways by the principal. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

For some reason, Helen was taken aback by his words at first, but then her face clouded in anger.

"You bet I'll do just that, prick!" she spat back after making sure they were out of earshot from any teacher.

"Not for two weeks," Danny returned. "We'll have the cafeteria to ourselves every afternoon."

"You mean you want me... ?"

Danny snorted. "If you think you can leave this mess to me, you're even more of an airhead than I thought."

"I'm not ... Who gives a shit what you think!" she huffed and turned, leaving him standing.

"Stupid bitch!" Danny swore after her.

Tom never took over those cleaning duties. As it turned out he spent four weeks at home for the bruises to fade, after which the affair was largely forgotten.

Danny felt a little bad about Tom, but then again everybody told him he'd had no choice. One of the lawyers showed up to interview Danny and to take a statement from George Turner. Two other students had also volunteered as witnesses. Danny realized that he was not exactly unpopular.

Helen Gunderson stayed back for the cleaning chores every noon for two weeks. Surprisingly, they could do their jobs without quarrels with Danny volunteering to do the heavy lifting tasks, such as emptying the trash cans and collecting left behind plates. Helen wiped the tables and seats, and she refilled salt and pepper boxes.

They were watched by a very pissed-off Mister Gonagle who had seemingly received a reprimand for goofing off during his lunch break duty. He sat by a table grading papers while giving Danny and Helen the evil eye. He was dying to catch them for something and both were studiously avoiding each other.

It was their last day of duty and they were just about finished for the day. Danny looked over the cafeteria and found nothing out of order. To be finally finished with this! Helen was also looking around. For the first time she spoke up voluntarily.

"Who would have guessed that I'm good at cleaning?" she quipped.

The answer popped into Danny's mind and he blurted it out without thinking. "Yeah, you'll make a great cleaning lady."

She whirled to face him while in the same instant he realized the insensitivity of his words. He froze briefly, long enough for Helen to deliver a stinging slap to his cheek. The slap rattled Danny and he unfroze. He just wanted to apologize when Mister Gonagle stood before them, triumph written over his face.

"Well, Miss Gunderson! It looks like another trip to the Principal for you! You must really love those cleaning duties."

"Sir, I said something stupid to her. She was right slapping me," Danny interjected.

Gonagle smiled evilly. "Oh, dear, you too? Off we go!"

Principal Marlowe was pissed off to see them again and he listened intently to what Gonagle reported. Then he gave the two students a withering look.

"Any explanations, Miss Gunderson?"

"I ... Ah ... No, sir," Helen just mumbled.

"Mister Berusov?"

"It was my fault, sir. I said something stupid to her. She was right to slap me. I was trying to be funny, but it was out of line."

Marlowe tilted his head. "Enlighten me, Mister Berusov! What exactly did you say?"

Danny recounted the brief exchange, and Marlowe nodded slowly.

"You wish for Miss Gunderson to escape punishment then?"

"Yes, sir. It was my fault."

"Very well then. You will turn in a paper by next Friday on the concept of gender neutral speech and its benefits. Five pages, Arial 12, 1.5 lines. Miss Gunderson, you will apologize to Mister Berusov for hitting him."

Helen looked at Danny with reproach. "Can't I just write a paper too, sir?"

"An apology, Miss Gunderson," Marlowe insisted.

Helen squared her shoulders and forced herself to look at Danny. "I'm sorry for hitting you."

"It's okay. I understand," Danny answered. "I know I had it coming."

"Hr-hm! Nobody has violent responses coming in this school!" Marlowe said sharply. "Now, both of you, try to behave yourselves!"

Once again they were ushered out of the Principal's office. Outside, Danny started to apologize again.

"Listen, I'm..."

"Really sorry, yeah! Shove it, will you!"

Taken aback, Danny shrugged. "Have it your way."

—————

On the next morning, a Friday, Danny had a PE class that kept him outside until lunchtime. When he returned to his room, he found a small envelope under the door addressed to "Daniel". He opened it wondering who would write him letters.

I thought about what I said yesterday and now it's I who has to say 'sorry'. You took the blame for the whole thing and I was rude. Thank you for helping me out!

Helen

So the bitch had some manners after all, Danny mused.

—————

"It is Mister Smith's opinion that your education will be best served by a stay abroad. He has arranged for you to spend the summer break in the Bernese Alps in Switzerland where you can at once hone your language skills and engage in athletic activities. We advise you to pack personal accessories for a week only, as the rest of your clothing will be forwarded to your destination. A credit card will be provided for any necessary purchases during your stay."

Danny read the e-mail incredulously. Switzerland? What the hell can a guy do in Switzerland? They have banks and cheese there, but what else? Well, mountains of course. Big ones at that. What language skills? They spoke German there, didn't they, and Danny had not taken German so far. French was the second language, and Danny just hated French with all the silly swallowing of consonants. Well, he enjoyed French movies just fine with all the casual nudity they showed, but the language? Please! Jeez, why couldn't they send him to stay with Mister Simmons?

Deep inside, Danny knew the answer. Tyler Westbrook didn't want his bastard son to snoop around in Philly. The man had his wife to look after and his daughter. Ashley! Probably some stuck-up bitch like Helen Gunderson.

Well, Switzerland it would be. At least he could stuff himself with chocolate and go running uphill for conditioning.

—————

"Academically, young Mister Berusov is doing very well already. As a matter of fact, were it not for his late joining, he would be at the top of his class. Amazing, really, considering his previous school."

"There are some good teachers in the public schools. I imagine that they love to have gifted students too," Tyler Westbrook replied looking at the principal. "You indicated problems?"

"Well, as you know, he beat up another student. Apparently, the other student started the altercation — that's why we did not investigate too deeply — but your ... young Mister Berusov put that young man into the hospital with just one blow."

"It would seem that he had boxing lessons," Westbrook answered a little smugly. "Rough youth, you know how it is?"

"Ah, no, actually I don't," Principal Marlowe answered prissily. "Be that as it may, it would be good to impress on him that we frown on physical violence."

"Yeah, you tell that to the kid who attacked Daniel!" Westbrook shot back. "You say the boy is a good student and doing well. Just because he knows how to defend himself doesn't make him a bully. Hell, somebody attacked me back in school, I put them into the hospital too! And don't you tell me it's wrong, 'cause it ain't."

Tyler Westbrook had slipped off the veneer of the suave businessman like a glove, and underneath the rough-hewn upstart showed. Mister Marlowe cleared his throat.

"Be that as it may, we'll let him join the boxing squad in the fall. That should serve to work out any aggression."

Westbrook snorted. "It'll also warn the bullies not to mess with my boy!"

He checked himself then. "My boy"? That was a first. Yet, Westbrook could not help but feel pride over his second son. The psychological evaluation had shown him to be suffering from low self-esteem and desertion fears, but he had also scored a whopping IQ of 134 on the Stanford-Binet scale. He was showing that now in his new school, plus he showed backbone and restraint. While nerds were not his thing, those were qualities that Tyler Westbrook appreciated.

"I'd like to see him now if that's possible."

"Certainly, Mister Westbrook," Marlowe nodded, glad to have this interview over.

Danny was sitting in the library when a teaching assistant found him.

"Berusov! You have a visitor."

Danny rose slowly wondering who that might be. He hoped for Irina but he'd put his money on one of the lawyers. However, when he followed the assistant to the visitor's room, he saw a tall, slim man sitting there. He knew the man.

"Hi, Mister Westbrook," he offered.

"Found out, huh?" the man smiled wryly.

"Rumor mill," Danny answered by way of explanation.

"I guess there's not much sense in beating about the bush, right?"

"No, Sir, there isn't."

"Your mom..."

"I call her Irina."

"Well then, Irina was ... well, she featured prominently in my bachelor farewell party. It was a rotten thing to do. I mean, here I was, at forty-five and she was twenty and looked even younger. I have no excuses for that."

Danny grinned and shrugged. "Don't apologize to me. I wouldn't be alive without it."

"Yeah, I guess something good came out of it after all. Anyway, I was embarrassed and ashamed afterwards. And when your ... when Irina showed at my office two months later, I thought she was trying to blackmail me. I had her run off and my lawyers put the terror into her. Another rotten thing to do. She probably wanted to ask for help with her pregnancy."

Danny stared at the man at a loss what to say in response.

"I take it that your youth wasn't an easy one?"

Danny shrugged. "Some of it wasn't," he conceded. "Some of the women, where Irina parked me, were nice, others not. It was easier once I could look after myself."

"I have temporary custody over you now. I don't expect you to call me "Dad" and hug me, but I'll take care of you."

"Only not at home, huh?"

"Yeah, not yet. There are some things that need to be clarified, but eventually we'll leave the closet. My wife already knows about you. We have petitioned the courts for shared custody of you."

"Why? Will Irina go to jail?" Danny asked feeling alarm.

"We don't think so. The manslaughter charges are officially off the table. She pleaded guilty to illegal firearms possession. Being a first time offender and having a steady job..."

"A steady job?" Danny asked, now truly surprised.

"My wife found her a job in her retail chain. We're looking after both of you. For now, I want you to catch up on the things you missed. That trip to Switzerland will be the start. Just wait until you get there. There will be some learning for you, but there will be fun as well. Ashley ... you probably read up on her? Anyway, Ashley went there last year. You'll enjoy it."

Danny nodded. "I'll try to."

"Look, I want you to know that I'm already proud of you. The way you handle yourself here is astonishing. I've arranged with Mister Marlowe to give you some liberties after the summer break, like weekend passes and such, to visit places. I'll also see that you'll get a car. We'll arrange for you getting a license when you return from Europe."

Now that sounded really nice Danny decided and he smiled in response.

"That would be great, sir. Thank you."

"Right now, I'm trying to buy myself into your graces, Daniel, but that's only the start. By the way, before you'll leave for Switzerland, you'll spend a week in Philly with your mother. She'll go shopping with you and help you prepare for the trip. We posted bail for her, so she can move freely. You'll also spend some time with one of my assistants. Her name is Lisa Monroe and she'll help you with some things."

Chapter 4: Acceptance

The first days of Summer Break passed in a whirlwind. Lisa Monroe and Irina took him shopping to complete his wardrobe and to find a number of gadgets that Lisa felt were necessary for a kid his age. She also took them to eat in restaurants and taught Danny the rudiments of etiquette.

Danny saw his father on the following Sunday. They had dinner about town. He made sure to give Danny a chunk of cash for the Swiss vacation and a credit card for emergencies. He also prepared Danny for their coming out at the end of the summer. The Westbrooks would retreat to their new beach house near Kitty Hawk, and Danny would meet Marsha Westbrook and his half-sister Ashley. Depending on their reaction, Danny would join the family for good. Or not.

On the following Tuesday, Danny boarded a flight to Berne, Switzerland, via Washington Dulles and Frankfurt, Germany. He had never been inside an airplane before and the entire journey was exciting and very confusing. While he found his way through Dulles International without major problems, Frankfurt was quite the maze of terminals. Some friendly Lufthansa flight attendant took pity on him and steered him to the right terminal for his connecting flight.