Page 94 of Sinful Beauty

“Who is it?” Ryan asks in my ear.

“My mother.” There’s no reason to hide the truth.

My mind spins as I step out into the night. She and my father tried to reach me today. Are they behind taking Lucia? Does this have nothing to do with the case? If so, what the hell were they thinking?

My mother stills, the only sign my presence surprises her.

“Tristan?” Her tone conveys confusion. But her lips purse and annoyance replaces any vestige of consternation. “You came to save the girl? Are you kidding me? How on earth?—”

A series of car doors opening behind her halts her words. She holds a hand up, halting the men.

The armed men are most likely former military and most likely wearing vests beneath their overcoats. One thing is clear, my mother is far too confident and comfortable commanding these men for this to be the first time she outsourced help of this variety.

What the hell have you been doing, mom?

I position one hand on the butt of my holstered gun, drawing everyone’s attention to the fact that I, too, am armed. My thumb rubs over the rough plastic, a soothing sensation that grounds me.

“Tristan, you need to leave. Go. Get out of here.” My mother steps closer, away from the car. I don’t see a weapon on her and she’s in heels and wearing an off-white pants suit.

“What exactly is your plan here?”

“Don’t speak to me like that.” She has the audacity to glare at me. “I’m here cleaning up your mess. You think that girl won’t come at you for everything you’re worth? Of course she will. You wouldn’t listen to me. I told you to stay away from her, and yet you go for?—”

“You need to be quiet now.” I always knew my mother harbored a sense of superiority, but I never expected this.

“Tristan, please. She’s your flavor of the week. You’ll find another next week. You’re just like your father that way. And you don’t even know who she is.”

“What do you mean?” The coldness in my tone wars with the temperature in my chest and extremities. I brace, waiting for her justification for interfering with my life in the most abhorrent manner possible.

“She’s from a family of criminals. You didn’t know that, did you? I’d bet she jumped at the chance to impregnate herself.” She steps closer, chin high, as self righteous as ever. “Her father and brother are in prison. Her mother committed suicide because she, too, was going to rot in prison. See, you didn’t know that about her, did you? But I did. I didn’t tell you, because I was respecting her privacy. I expected my son would listen to me and pick some woman, any woman, other than the one I told you to stay away from.”

I blink, processing the words. The background report I ran on Lucia mentioned her mother deceased, but didn’t include the cause of death. But there’s nothing new about her father and brother. My mother is drawing irrational conclusions if she believes Lucia grew up in a crime family with an agenda.

“Why did you send a doctor? What were you planning?”

The men at the other SUVs begin slowly moving forward in unison. And my mother, standing before me, did not command them to do so.

She holds up a hand, seemingly commanding the men to stand back.

“I see you’ve found her. Where do you have her? In the house?”

“What were you planning?”

She lets out a sigh. “I’m only looking out for you.”

“What. Were. You. Planning?” Anger chokes the conclusion to that sentence, because she wasn’t planning to ensure a healthy pregnancy, of that much, I’m certain.

“Stem cells are highly valuable. Obviously, we can’t let her have the baby, but those stem cells can be of tremendous value to you, your father, me. I’m pragmatic. You know this. And I have every plan of setting her up financially in another country. Away from you.”

A numb sensation befalls my lips and my jawline. It’s chilly outdoors, but not so cold exposed skin freezes. No, this is shock that my mother, the woman who birthed me, my DNA source, could be so cold.

“Now, I need you to leave.” She’s dismissive, as if she’s sending me off to my room.

“Are you out of your mind?”

Three of the men aim pistols at me. My mother snaps at them, “Put those guns away. You’re not shooting my son.”

The men don’t lower their guns, but they do appear conflicted.

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