His Secret Baby (A Bad Boy Romance)

by Waltz, Vanessa

  My father gave me the job to protect my brothers. They were going to be the leaders of the Blackthorn family, and I was going to be the muscle. And I wasn’t there to stop it from happening to not one—but both. There was no one left to scream at me for not protecting the family.

  “It’s over.”

  “Thane, This place barely survived a massacre, and it happened less than a year ago. You can’t seriously expect me to believe that the dust has settled from everything.”

  It hasn’t. There’s tension between members in the syndicate, I’ll admit that, but Silas has done a good job of keeping every member in line.

  “What about that man at the baptism thing?”

  Even she noticed

  I grit my teeth. “He’s an asshole, but he’s harmless. There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore.”

  “All right, fine.”

  Let it go. The men who killed them are dead.

  But that rotten taste—the guilt—it stains my mouth. I didn’t even get to avenge them. Silas’ ascent to power was another bloodbath, and I remember it as clear as day. The bodies spilling bright red on the marble floors, and my foot jutting into one. I turned it over, and it was the face of one of them, and I felt nothing but a swift rage for him and the one who killed him. No, even revenge was denied to me.

  I asked God why, so many times. I had sores on my knees from all the time I would spend in the chapel, praying for guidance. What reason did He have to cut down my family, and give the crown to some outsider who didn’t even understand our ways?

  It stays with me as we reach the end of the hall, where I know I’ll see portraits of my brothers on the walls, and my father’s on the shrine she built for them. Their faces will stare at me the whole goddamn night, and I’ll soak in the blame for this shattered family.

  I raise my fist to knock on the door. It opens on the second knock, and Lara stands in blue jeans and a Giants t-shirt. Her eyes widen as she takes us both in.

  “Damn, you guys look so fancy. Don’t scowl at me, Thane. I have kids to look after all day.”

  Freaking idiot.

  She turns to my wife, beaming. “How are you? Ooh, I love your dress!”

  “Thanks.”

  We step inside the modest apartment just as a low, feminine moan breaks the air. Christine stiffens at my side and Lara turns around, wincing. The dining room table is set for a party of seven, and there’s a roast chicken platter with vegetables, but my mother is nowhere to be found.

  Then I hear the sobbing.

  Fuck. Not again.

  The sounds erupt from the closed bathroom, where Violet stands outside, politely rapping with her knuckles. “Mrs. Blackthorn? Are you—?”

  All right? She’ll never be all right again.

  My stomach clenches uncomfortably as I pass the shrine for my brothers and father. Pain hits my chest as I hear her struggle to take in a deep breath. I balance the baby in one arm as I grasp the door handle. Violet steps aside, her eyebrows knitting together.

  “She won’t come out.”

  I give Lara a sharp look, but it’s not her fault. Goddamn it.

  “Mom, can you unlock the door please?”

  I jiggle the doorknob and hammer the door impatiently with my closed fist. I can hear her shaking breaths. Good, she’s still breathing.

  “Open up the fucking door!”

  Lara puts her hands on her hips. “Don’t yell at her, Thane!”

  Daniel starts to wail as I slam my fist into the door, and Christine takes him from me, her eyes wide.

  “Mom!”

  The lock clicks and the door swings open.

  Mom looks from me to the baby, and a watery smile trembles on her lips.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s no reason to be sorry.”

  She takes the baby from Christine, and holds him to her chest as though trying to push him through her body. He palms her tearstained cheek and Mom’s trembling smile breaks.

  “I wish your father could have met him.”

  Lara moves to her side, rubbing her arm.

  And Derrick and Josh.

  I’m cold. My eyes stray unwillingly to the console table laden with pictures of my dead family. I don’t know what to say to her. I never did. The first few weeks were the hardest, like a constant throbbing in my chest and my head filled with poison. I couldn’t eat. Sleep.

  Shame rushed in quickly to fill the void they left behind, and every time I visit her, it’s another punch to the gut. I resent it.

  A body suddenly edges to my side, pressing into my suit and a breeze of a familiar scent wafts in front of my nose. Christine’s arm slides around my back to grip my waist as my mom wanders into the dining room with Lara and Violet at her sides. She squeezes me, giving me a sad little smile. A day ago she was begging me to leave, and now she’s pretending to—what? Be a good wife?

  “Viper killed them, didn’t he?”

  In slow motion I see the sword protruding from Derrick’s stomach.

  “He killed Dad. The others got Derrick and Josh.”

  Her face whitens. “You mean, the people here?”

  “They’re dead.”

  “How can you tell me this place is safe for us? They turned on you in a heartbeat and killed your family.”

  We were supposed to be a family. Fighting brother against brother was completely against everything we stood for. And yet, at the first sign of a power struggle, members had no problem stabbing Blackthorns in the back.

  I sink down into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. The candle wax drips over the white tablecloth, and the food looks like it’s getting cold. Another ruined dinner. My mom’s in another room with Violet and Lara. I hear their hushed voices and the faint garbled nonsense of my baby’s voice. Christine lays her hand over my arm, and into her deep blue eyes that burn with a million questions.

  “Thane, please talk to me. I’m trying to understand this place. I’m trying to understand you.”

  “I’m a Blackthorn. We used to be one of the six families on the Council. It turns out that people resent the families in power. Go figure.”

  “Jesus.”

  “That’s why I can’t have you undermining me in this place. It’s dangerous, do you understand? I’m not in power anymore, but that doesn’t mean that people love me.”

  “You just said this place was safe for us! Oh my God, what about that man who laughed at the baptism?”

  “Blessing. I’m going to take care of him. He’s on my list.”

  “Why the hell did you bring us here?”

  “Because I need my family!”

  My fist slams into the table, rattling the ceramic plates and silverware. Christine’s hand flies to her chest as she jumps back, and I feel a tinge of guilt for frightening her.

  “I’m going to put this place back together, piece by piece. Silas means well, but he’s a fucking outsider. He doesn’t understand us.”

  “Of all you people, he’s the only one I like.”

  “What? You’ve never met him before.”

  “Yes I have.”

  “Where?”

  She blinks and then looks away. “Never mind.”

  I stare at her, my eyes slowly heating up as I look at her lying face. “Where, Christine?”

  “It’s not—just forget about it.”

  I grab her skinny wrist and yank her body until she’s sitting on my lap, her blonde hair clinging to her mouth.

  “Tell me, or I take you out in the hall and give you another punishment.”

  She brushes the strand of hair from her lips. “He came to the apartment after you left.”

  Fear chokes my throat. “What?”

  “He just wanted to know if I was all right, if I needed anything…”

  She keeps babbling in a fast voice that trembles with fear.

  “He tried to convince you to leave, didn’t he?”

  “No, he didn’t do anything like that!”

  That piece of shit went
behind my back and tried to undermine my rights as a husband. I stand up from the chair, and Christine falls from my lap.

  For a moment I feel a surge of rage for her, but she didn’t leave. She stayed. Silas is the one who deserves my wrath.

  “Stay here. Tell my mother I’ll be back soon.”

  “Where are you going?”

  To fucking kill him.

  * * *

  Lions and Gazelles. That’s what keeps running through my mind as I storm through the levels, so pissed off that I can hardly recognize the hallways of this place.

  I find Silas’ office after nearly fifteen minutes, and then I see the Irish bastard slip through the door, dressed in the syndicate colors that he doesn’t deserve and rumor has it, doesn’t even want. My life was destroyed and everyone reaps the rewards, and it’s not his fault, but it might as well be right now.

  His guards attach themselves to the wall, waiting for his return, and I yank the door open. Silas is halfway to a stall, but he turns around when he hears me burst through. There’s no surprise on his face when he sees me standing there.

  “What the fuck did you tell my wife?”

  Silas gives me a cool look. “You might want to keep it down.”

  My mind snaps like a fissure suddenly opening through the floor of the bathroom. I seize Silas’ lapels and slam him into a wall. He lunges with his fist, a hard force crushing my lungs. I stumble back. I want to destroy him. Hammer him into dust with my fists. I don’t even hear the guards behind me, but I feel them yank back my arms and twist them behind my back for Silas to break.

  Silas jabs me in the chest. “What the fuck is your problem? I went to see your wife because that’s what I do with everyone, and I wanted to see if she was all right.”

  “That’s not all you did.”

  “I gave her a choice. She decided to stay.”

  “You went behind my back!”

  “Times are changing. The syndicate needs to appear as clean as possible, that means no fucking kidnapping, and no missing persons cases.”

  “I found my wife living in a shoebox in the ghetto with a son I never knew I had. I saved her from that hellhole, and I’m not sorry I did it. How fucking dare you go behind my back and try to rip her away from me?”

  Silas doesn’t say anything for a few moments, he just watches me. “I’m making changes that a lot of people have wanted for years.”

  “Too many changes, too fast. You have support now, but that doesn’t mean you’ll have it forever.”

  I can count every freckle on his nose.

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Talk to my wife about leaving again, and I’ll kill you. That’s a threat.”

  There’s a fast blur and suddenly Silas’ hand is wrapped around my throat. He crushes my windpipe as my heartbeat pulses against his rigid fingers. I’m dizzy. There’s no air.

  “I don’t tolerate threats from anyone. Not even a Blackthorn. You lived a privileged life before I came along, and it stops now. I won’t hesitate to kill you if I think you’re not on my side. Understand?”

  Fuck you.

  He releases my throat, and the world explodes into color. The guards release my arms, and I stumble to keep my balance.

  There’s no gloating smile on Silas face. He just looks tired. “I don’t want to make your little boy grow up without a father.”

  I avoid the urge to rub my throat. “You’re fucking things up. This peace won’t last.”

  Silas frowns at me, but says nothing when I turn around and shove the guards aside.

  I know I’m right. Whatever good rapport he’s build with the syndicate will crumble at the first sign of trouble. He’s too new and too much of an outsider.

  I leave the bathroom, heading toward the stairs. I put my foot on the first step before I realize I can’t go back like this. My heart pounds, feeding the rage inside me. My footsteps echo loudly as I descend, heading toward the chapel. I swipe my card and the door hisses open to the quiet sanctuary. It’s empty. I say a silent prayer of thanks as I step into the room carved out of rock. There are dozens of candles flickering, most of them melted down to stubs. Off to the side, there’s a row of unlit candles, and I grab one of the long wooden sticks offered in a cylinder and I light three of them. The fresh wicks burn, softening the wax. The little flames dance at me, and I watch them carefully, as if the movements of the flames are some kind of communication to me.

  Derrick and Josh wouldn’t talk to you through a fucking candle.

  But it doesn’t stop me from coming down here every night and lighting one for each of them. I don’t know why I do it, or what it’s supposed to mean.

  Two worlds keep expanding further and further apart: The one with my family, and the one with Dad, Derrick, and Josh gone forever. I want them back, and I can’t have them back, so I light candles. Fucking pathetic, isn’t it?

  I wish you could’ve met my son.

  The flames pulse, so bright in the darkness. It’s as though they’re with me. I can feel my brothers’ shoulders touching mine as I sit back in the pew, and I can almost hear the ghost of Derrick’s response. The pain in my chest eases somewhat. I feel better.

  I wish you could’ve met her, too.

  And I can almost feel my dad rubbing my shoulder like he always used to do.

  “You come down here a lot.”

  A sullen voice cuts through my private thoughts, and I twist around in my seat to see Martin—or was it Marco—standing at the exit. I don’t like the sneer on his face.

  “What’s it to you?”

  He says nothing, shrugging slightly, and gives me another sidelong glance that raises my hackles.

  Don’t be a gazelle, Thane.

  Derrick’s voice.

  “Maybe God’s not listening.”

  Two other men filter through the small opening, smirking in appreciation of his joke, looking at me as though I’m a meal.

  Maybe God isn’t listening.

  Then suddenly the despair and rage rises up in a black wave and I knock over several pews, grabbing Marco’s jacket. He screams as I hurl him across the room, his face smacking on the rough wall like a tenderizer hammering on meat. Blood sprays over the dark rock, but I grind his fucking face into the wall. He tries to shove me, but I’m twice his size and full of rage. I don’t hear anything but a persistent ringing in my ears, a high-pitched squeal. His face shatters. Blood bursts from the split on his lip, and his eye looks pretty fucking bad. I probably bashed it in. Another few hits and he’ll be dead, so I remove his limp body from the wall and throw it at the feet of the men who smirked at me. They back away from his body.

  “Anyone else want to make jokes about my family?”

  They don’t even dare look at me. I step over his squirming body and shove them aside, but it’s not really necessary. There’s a clear path to the exit. Something warm and sticky runs down my arm, and I realize that my hands are covered in blood. Good.

  “Get the fuck out of my way.”

  When I reach the elevator and the doors close, I can almost see Derrick’s reflection. His arms are crossed and he’s smiling.

  I get out at the lobby, rolling up my sleeves so that everyone can see that Thane Blackthorn isn’t a pushover. That bastard didn’t even get to lay a finger on me. I spot Pierce emerging from an elevator, and he’s still wearing that predatory grin even when he glances at the blood on my hands.

  Cocksucker.

  People notice, but don’t ask questions. That’s how it is here.

  I’ve got to get back to Christine. Fuck, it’s nine-thirty pm. No doubt she’s back by now. I take the stairs two at a time to our floor and open the door—

  —The sound of screaming hits my ears. A woman’s voice, terrified. Christine?

  I sprint down the hallway toward the wailing. There are already people poured outside, but I ram my shoulder into the door first.

  I see the back of a woman, bent over a body on the floor. She has black hair—it’s not
Christine. My lungs nearly collapse in relief.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She straightens and turns her head, and I recognize Violet’s tear-stained face. The man lying on the floor—George—his eyes are closed. Then her curtain of hair shifts and I see the knife buried deep in his chest.

  8

  Christine

  Violet cries beautifully. Her black eyes shine like obsidian rock, but there’s no hint of red in the whites of her eyes. Glassy tears run down her rosy cheeks, somehow keeping most of her makeup intact. She’s like a Renaissance painting, beautiful in her tragedy. Quiet, measured gasps fill the space around her, so unlike the hysterical sobbing I’d expect when someone’s husband dies. I’m amazed by it, really. How does she do it? Is it simply the fact that the black lace veil she wears over her face hides most of the damage? I could believe that, if every strand of weren’t perfectly arranged on her head like some kind of centerpiece. If her lipstick was smudged a little or there was black mascara running down her face. No, Violet Trotter woke up on the day of her husband’s funeral and put hours into getting ready for her husband’s funeral.

  Jesus, that’s not a crime. Who am I to judge? Stop being a fucking bitch. She just lost her husband.

  And keeps clinging onto mine.

  Daniel plays with my dress as I watch Violet hang on Thane’s arm, positively sobbing into his shoulder. Full of concern, Thane snakes an arm around her shoulders, and he whispers something in her ear. Then her head lays on his shoulder, and my guts burn with envy.

  She just lost her husband.

  I would feel sorry for her if I weren’t certain that her tears were one big fucking act.

  You are heartless.

  A fresh wave of guilt hits me, but the conviction that I’m right doesn’t fade away. Fuck, shouldn’t I be more worried that there’s a psycho killer on the loose?

  Thane looks at me, his face pinched with worry as he rubs Violet’s arm.

  “What happened?”

  He shakes his head. “She said she found him laying there.”

  I run through the timing of it all. After Thane left, we had the world’s most awkward dinner where Violet glared daggers at me over the table when she thought no one was looking and Thane’s mother sobbed over my baby. Violet’s husband left after dinner was over, but Violet elected to stay behind (to watch over me, no doubt). I was escorted back to my suite and presumably Violet went back to her husband, who was already dead.