His Secret Baby (A Bad Boy Romance)

by Waltz, Vanessa

  I descend the stairwell to the floor where our apartment is, my hands shaking with rage. There has to be something I can do. Goddamn it, I’m too old for this high-school bullshit. I stop in front of our door, my arm already halfway raised to the keycard.

  What are you going to do? Wait for Thane to come home and cry at him again?

  I stomp away from the door, swearing loudly. Faceless doors pass me as I walk down the hallway, and I have no idea what I’m searching for. Then I see the yellow tape attached to Violet’s suite and a light bulb bursts in my head. The scene of the crime. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt to poke around?

  I glance down the hall, mindful of the sign warning people not to enter, that tampering with evidence will be prosecuted with the highest law applicable. The cold shock of the metallic doorknob bites into my wet palm as I grasp it and turn.

  A huge, dark brown stain stretches in front of me, the stench foul. A chill runs up my spine as I look at the spot where George died. It disgusts me that they left his blood to rot in the ruined carpet. I stumble inside, avoiding the edge of the stain, and I take a look around. Aside from an overturned table, the place looks pretty normal. Using my sleeve, I open the kitchen drawers, slamming them shut almost immediately. What do I expect to find? The murder weapon?

  No, I’m just snooping.

  I tiptoe around the blood, trying not to imagine George’s lifeless corpse lying there, slowly bleeding into the floorboards, and I pick at things. There’s several magazines sprawled next to the overturned table. Family Home. Parents. Babytalk. Of course, Thane had mentioned Violet’s obsession with having children, that everyone suspected she was barren. I wonder what that would mean in a place like this, where people are heavily encouraged to have children. Hell, Thane’s got a fascination with it the way he goes at my body.

  There’s nothing else in the living room that catches my interest. I move on, opening a door to the bathroom that looks normal. Not a single drop of blood. My head pounds as I move to the next door, a cold sweat breaking over my skin. I push the second door open to a shockingly pink room. I gape as I stare at what looks like a fully stocked nursery. There’s a crib, a changing table, toys, and a rocking chair. I recognize the crib from a model I was looking at several years ago. There’s something lying prone in the crib, something that looks horrifying like an infant child.

  I stand there paralyzed for a second, overcome with waves of crippling anxiety. I force myself to take a step, and then another. The hair on the baby’s head looks like a normal child’s. I reach down and touch it, feeling the soft down of a newborn infant. My hand curls around the shoulder, which feels too hard to be normal, and I flip the body around.

  A perfect replicate of a newborn infant baby stares up at me, its cheeks puffed out. I stroke them with a finger, my heart slamming into my chest. It’s as soft as human skin, and the eyes, the eyes look just like real human ones. Indistinguishable from mine. I’m on the verge of screaming bloody murder. I can’t take this creepy room and the extremely lifelike baby sitting in this crib like a forgotten toy, except that it was clearly doted on. Adored. The evidence of a broken mind.

  I hear a noise, and I whirl around, knocking a stack of something off the whitewashed table next to me. Glossy photographs spill over the floor all around my feet.

  “Shit!”

  I bend down to pick them up, and freeze. My baby’s face stares up at me. I grab one of the photographs, and then another. Daniel smiling. Daniel sleeping in his crib. There are dozens of pictures of him. Pictures of him crying and pictures of him curled up against someone’s chest, and then another one of him nestled in Violet’s arms. She beams at the camera, so happy that there are tears in her eyes. I flip the photo around, and in glittery, pink cursive it says: My baby.

  “What the fuck?”

  There’s no air in this room. I can’t breathe. She has pictures of my baby—dozens of pictures. I look around. Was this room prepared for him? Or had she been waiting and waiting for years, trying to have a baby, fucking around to try to get herself knocked up while she slipped more into madness? And George—George must have known all about her obsession. The fucking baby doll. I can just imagine her holding it to her breast, rocking it to sleep, singing to it, even.

  And now she thinks she can steal my baby.

  No. Never.

  My eyes burn. Oh God, I left him with her. She made me leave him behind. Trembling, I snatch a few of the pictures from the floor, shoving the one that says my baby in my pocket, and I burst out of the freakish nursery. I’m making too much noise, but I don’t care. Every instinct tells me to get the fuck out and find my husband. Find Thane before she turns him into a living doll.

  I trip over the tape blocking the doorframe, slamming my knee into the carpet with the bloodstain. Fuck. FUCK! I let out a high-pitched sob of pure terror and then I get the fuck on my feet and I run out of there. My feet skid as I find the door of our apartment, and I raise my fists banging on the door for thirty seconds, but he’s not home. The hallway spins. I stagger forward as though drunk, and then finally I burst into the cool stairwell. My feet slip on something, and my body flies out from under me. The stairs dig into my back as I slide down a flight. Wetness presses into my back, and I turn around, clutching my bruised bottom. There’s a streak of blood spilling down the stairs.

  That can’t be good.

  Did I hurt myself that badly? My back hurts like a bitch, and I might’ve bruised my tailbone, but I don’t feel hurt. Jesus, where did all that blood come from?

  Drip.

  A drop of something falls. I hear it magnified in the stairwell. I get up to my feet, and I clutch the railing, looking down. Nothing. Weird.

  Drip.

  Something warm hits my head and trails down my scalp. I look up at a pair of hanging shoes and vomit immediately rises in my throat. Hanging shoes attached to legs and a torso, and a man’s purple head with a noose tied firmly around his neck. The corpse sways slightly, and another drop of blood smacks my forehead.

  9

  Thane

  It’s happening again.

  People mill around the ballroom Silas uses for announcements. We used to call it the throne room until Silas ordered tables and chairs to fill the giant, empty space. He even took out the old table and replaced it with a new one, as if the introduction of a hundred tables and chairs could mask the fact dozens of people were killed in this room. The bodies piled high against the wall. It took days to remove them all.

  Now it’s happening again. The fucking bastards I considered my brothers murdered Paul. He was like me. Used to be on top, and then his family was slaughtered. George—same fucking deal.

  Two guys sitting next to me complain about being dragged out of bed, and I want to snap their necks.

  “I’ve been up all night. This better be good.”

  “It’s Paul. He was found hanging in the stairwell.”

  “Who gives a shit?”

  “Well, it’s the second murder in only a few weeks.”

  “He could have hung himself. Little bitch got too sad over not being top dog anymore.”

  “I don’t care how many of these ex-Council pieces of shit die, either. Remember before Silas? How we used to have to suck up to them?”

  I can’t stand any more of this shit. I force myself to tune them out, but it’s hard. It’s as though there’s a speaker right next to my ear, getting louder as my heart pounds harder. I can’t believe I used to think of this place positively. I was proud to be a Black Dragon. No one else had an infrastructure like us. We were the biggest and the best, but all this time there was this seething undercurrent of jealousy and spite. I never saw it. Then Viper came along and exposed the syndicate’s rotten underbelly. He stabbed us right in the side, and maggots came pouring out. It was rotten from the inside out. Maybe it always had been.

  The room quiets to a hush as Silas walks on the stage, flanked by his heavily armed guards. He stands behind the podium and grabs the microphone,
which shrieks into life. He looks at the crowd for a few seconds, his face solemn.

  “I’ve gathered you all here today because Paul Lee was found murdered in the east-wing stairwell. We do not yet know if this was premeditated. We do not have any suspects. I am certain that the murders are connected and that the man who did this is standing in this room.”

  I look around, and I see indifference. No one gives a flying fuck about Paul or George. To them, they had it coming.

  They’ll come after me next.

  “This senseless violence must stop. Today. I stand before you, asking your help to find who did this. We can’t thrive if we live in fear in our own homes. Two years ago, the Black Dragons went through the greatest upheaval we have ever known. It hasn’t been easy, but I know we can get through this stronger than ever if we show solidarity with one another. Stand up for your brothers. We need to work together to build a better future for the Dragons, and we can’t do that if we’re not all on the same side.

  “And I’d also like to speak to the man who murdered Paul and George.” He pauses for a moment. “You are a fucking coward. You are weak. I’m not going to plead you to stop, only tell you what I’ll do with you when I find you. I will carve off the tattoo that marks you as one of us. There will be no mercy. Only death.”

  Silas doesn’t offer a smile. His eyes rove over the audience with an intensity that strikes the room with silence as though we’ve been struck dumb, and then he leaves the podium, disappearing to the side. There’s no clapping.

  A booming laugh rings out somewhere, and I twist my body around.

  Who the fuck laughed?

  A few more voices chime in, and then the room dissolves into conversation. I stand from the seat and eyes follow me as I weave around the tables.

  Lions and gazelles.

  Some fucking speech. Too bad it fell on mostly deaf ears.

  One crisis at a time.

  My shoulder hits the double doors. They swing open, and I retreat into the privacy of the hall, my hand halfway in my pocket. I grab the folded photograph and glance at it again, my stomach rumbling uncomfortably as I stare at Violet beaming at the camera, her arms around Daniel. I flip it over and read the pink words again: my baby. A chill runs down my back.

  One crisis at a time.

  Violet said she’d meet me down here. Where is she?

  I look over the heads of the people exiting the ballroom, but I don’t see her.

  “Hey, you.”

  Jesus. She’s standing right behind me.

  I turn around. She’s dressed in a red silk shirt that flows like a breeze and a black skirt that just brushes the tops of her knees. Heels. Makeup. Her hair brushed back until it shines. She’s pink in the face, and the color darkens the longer I look at her.

  “Hi.”

  She sucks in her lip. “Something wrong?”

  “Let’s go somewhere private.”

  “Okay.”

  Violet gives me a shy smile as I open the door to a small but thankfully empty conference room.

  “Have a seat.”

  I drag a chair out for her, and she sits down. The walk around the table across from her feels like a mile long. I’m still holding on to a feeble hope that this might be a misunderstanding, but there’s just no defense against a stack full of pictures of my baby in a nursery for a child she never had. Never will have.

  Violet smiles, waiting.

  Sighing, I pull the photograph from my pocket and slide it over the table toward her.

  “What’s this?”

  “You tell me.”

  She picks it up daintily, smiling faintly at the picture.

  “My wife found this in your nursery.”

  Her frown lines deepen. “She went through my things?”

  “She was concerned by your behavior. Flip it over.”

  Puzzled, she flips the photograph around and reads the pink cursive. “That’s—I didn’t write that.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  She pales at the edge in my words, her voice rising in defense. “I’m not lying! I didn’t write this!”

  She’s a fantastic actress. She’s got the nuances down—the feigned surprise, outrage at being snooped on. I’m still not buying it.

  “Why the hell is there a stack of photos of my son in your apartment?”

  She stands up, flinging the photograph at me. “She shouldn’t have gone through—those were my private—she had no right!”

  “That’s funny, because I don’t recall giving you permission to take pictures of my son.”

  “I didn’t think you’d mind!”

  “Why the hell did you write that?”

  “Write what?”

  I slam my fist onto the table, and she jumps, her hand flying to her chest. “This! ‘My baby.’ What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “Christine wrote that, not me!”

  I sit back in my chair, disgusted. She looks away from me, her eyes quickly filling with tears.

  Fuck.

  “Don’t you understand what she’s doing? She’s trying to turn you against me.”

  Frankly, I couldn’t give a fuck what Christine’s motives are. She’s my wife and my priority.

  “My wife is just trying to protect her son. I understand that. I don’t understand this.”

  I’m not the kind of guy who gets spooked easily, but when Christine told me about that room with the doll and the pictures, I felt icy fingers crawling up my back.

  “I don’t want you around my son anymore.”

  Violet’s high-pitched scream stabs me right in the ears. A chair knocks over as she staggers backward, looking at me as though I’ve slid a knife in her chest.

  Fucking ridiculous.

  “No, please don’t! Please don’t take him from me—I can’t!”

  Because I’m so desperate to make her shut up, I stand up, grabbing her shoulders.

  “Stop crying. Please stop fucking crying.”

  “I c-can’t!”

  Her body launches into mine, her arms wrapping around my waist. I stiffen as she lays her head on my shoulder, trying to touch her as little as possible. Christine told me Violet had a thing for me, and I never really believed it until now.

  She buries her face in my neck, tightening her grip around my waist. I can’t fucking stand this. I pry her hands off my body and guide her toward the seat, ignoring the hurt on her face. I sit down next to her, my head in my hands. This is the last thing—the very last thing I want to deal with right now.

  “How would you like if someone ripped Daniel out of your life?”

  I raise my head from my hands, that uneasy feeling squirming in my guts. Then I touch Violet’s chin, so that her watery gaze focuses on mine.

  “He’s not your son.”

  Her face crumples again and then hardens. “Yes he is.”

  “What the fuck did I just hear?”

  “He’s my son,” she repeats, not a trace of amusement on her face.

  I let her go, disgusted. I don’t have time for games. The chair screeches as I rip it back, and Violet stands up with me.

  “I don’t understand why you keep pushing me away. I’m his mother. We belong together!”

  I look at her and find I can’t muster the anger. She pulled all the stops to try and impress me. I never knew that behind all that makeup and her cloying sweetness was a broken person—a delusional person.

  “Christine was right. You are nuts.”

  And I walk around her. She grabs my arm, sobbing.

  “She’s not good enough for you! She doesn’t even want to be here. You know I’m right.”

  “One more word about my wife, and I’ll give you a slap to wear to your next syndicate function.”

  She grabs my hand and places it over her breast.

  I shove her, reacting instantly. The room seems to spin as Violet stumbles back on her high heels. She catches herself on a chair, leaning over and bawling.

  Waves of shock run throug
h me as I watch her cry. This is the woman admired by so many men, the darling of the syndicate.

  “I’m married.”

  “I know.”

  “You committed a great sin. You know the rules.”

  She cries even harder.

  “Out of respect for your husband, I won’t turn you in.”

  “Thane, please!”

  “Stay the fuck away from my son. You’re not to go near him, do you understand? Leave my wife alone. Just leave us alone.”

  “Don’t leave me. Please, God, don’t leave me!”

  I leave the room, the wall shaking when I slam the door behind me. I can’t deal with this crazy woman on top of everything else. I should go to Silas, but I want my wife. I want her mouth and I want her lips and I want my baby with me, where he belongs.

  Driving thoughts of Violet out of my head, I head toward the nursery. The guards step aside, recognizing me as I enter the day care full of boisterous children. I can’t help but smile to myself as I walk past a little blonde girl sitting next to a boy, playing with LEGOs.

  Then I remember her—Christine—in Dolores Park. I pause for a moment, watching her through the glass door. She stands over Daniel’s crib, smiling at our baby as she rocks him back and forth. Her beauty hits me in the chest, just like it did when I was a boy. I think I fell in love with her the moment she took my hand in that park.

  “Come play with us!”

  I forgot about the way my heart used to squeeze and release every time she wrapped her arms around me.

  Christine turns around as I step through the door. A reluctant smile tugs at her lips.

  “You were right.”

  The smile widens. “What? I’m sorry, I must’ve heard wrong. Did you say I was right?”