Twenty-Five
Warren Hunter sat with a glass of whisky in his right hand and wondered what had happened to all the dreams he and Peter Walker had started out with. He was thankful he had enough money to be well off in retirement, but it wasn’t quite how he’d imagined his retirement would be.
Mary, his wife of forty years, was dead. She’d fallen to breast cancer five years ago. Probably just as well, he thought. She would never have agreed with what he had done, had she known.
Their son Trevor was mixed up with the mob, thanks to his marriage to Angela Imbroglio, and now the bastards had control of the firm that he and Peter had worked so hard to create.
He took a sip of his whisky and cursed the banks. The very same banks that had made heaps from them over the years, through the exorbita
