Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“My father might’ve forgotten to teach me about making friends. But there’s one lesson he instilled in me at a young age. If someone is bold enough to threaten you, they’re willing to act on it. And if you knew my father the way you say you did, then you know what he did to anyone who threatened him.”
The voice is unmistakably Dominick’s, only it’s much colder than the way he spoke to me during our time together. He’s using his business voice. I heard it a few times, like when we met that gentleman for brunch in the Dominican Republic.
“I-I …” another gentleman says.
Dominick isn’t alone.
I should walk away.
Go to the hotel I booked and try to call him.
But I’ve always been too nosy for my own good.
So, I continue to listen, and what I hear makes me wish I’d never gotten on that plane. Because ignorance is bliss.
But I’m no longer ignorant.
And I can never unhear what I just heard.
The father of my baby just killed a man.
Present Day
“That was you,” Dominick says smoothly, not the least bit concerned that I overheard him murder a man.
“What was me?”
“My brother said a woman was seen in the lobby near my office that day. I told him to follow up and make sure she hadn’t witnessed anything. I assumed he’d handled it since I never heard anything about it again.”
“You killed a man.”
“I’ve killed a lot of men,” he admits. “But that man in particular was a bad man. He was trafficking women through my port and was pissed that I refused to allow it to continue.”
“What are you saying? That you’re some sort of vigilante?”
Dominick barks out a laugh. “Hardly.”
He climbs off me and moves to the corner, making himself a drink. He takes a long sip, and I can’t help but notice the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows.
Now is not the time to be turned on, I remind myself.
“So, you’re a bad guy?” It’s a question, but at the same time, it’s not because I already know he’s not a good guy.
After what I heard, I freaked out and took off. He managed to get ahold of me, but I lied and said I had moved on.
Instead of going home, I went to a few different bars and asked various people about the Antonov family. The women were smitten, the men envious. Some feared them, and others respected them. But almost every person confirmed what I’d already known—they were dangerous.
“Regardless of what I am,” Dominick says, “it didn’t give you the right to keep my son from me.” He walks back to his seat and slides into it, casually placing his ankle over the knee of his other leg.
“Actually,” I say, sitting up and swinging my legs around the side, “it did give me the right. Because my job as Damien’s mom is to love and protect him, even if that means protecting him from you.
“I heard the violence in your voice. when you killed a man with your bare hands, and I will never let you get anywhere near my child.
“I watched my father abuse my mom, and I told you once that I was afraid of history repeating itself. That my biggest fear was not breaking the cycle, and you told me that I would break it. So, I did what I had to do to protect my son.”
I walk past him, but he catches my wrist and glances up at me.
“You saw what I’m capable of,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Do you think it’s wise to poke the beast? Who’s to say I won’t kill you? Then, what will be standing in my way from taking our son?”
“I will always fight for my son,” I tell him, pulling my arm out of his hold. “Until I take my final breath, I will fight for him because I am his mother. He is just a baby, Dominick. Not your heir or a pawn. He’s an innocent little boy who doesn’t belong anywhere near your violence.”
Dominick surprises me when he lets me walk out of the room without stopping me.
Good. Maybe I got through to him.
Maybe he understands.
Maybe he’ll do the right thing and let us go.
18
Dominick
“As you can see, nobody is here,” Peyton says when we arrive at her apartment a few hours later.
I take in the area where she’s been raising our son. Worn-in couches and a kitchen table with chairs that have seen better days. The cabinets are the original dark-wood particle board from the ’80s with Formica countertops. And the flooring is a scratched-up linoleum.
But on the walls are child’s drawings, framed like they are the most precious thing in the world. Taped to the fridge are dozens of photos of Peyton and a little boy with several other people. They’re laughing and smiling in every picture, and my heart swells. He has her fiery-red hair and porcelain skin, but his eyes … his gray eyes are one hundred percent mine. And the reminder that I have a son—someone with my eyes, who shares my genetics, that I’ve never even met—sends my blood boiling all over again.