Page 4 of Broken Innocence
I doubt my father knew the extent of Conrad’s hatred when he dropped me off on his doorstep, especially since the two men were close friends at one point. Sometimes I wonder if Enzo D’Amora had known what was in store for his seven-year-old son, if he’d have made a different choice.
If he’d have kept me.
“Not fucking likely,” I scoff under my breath. Enzo had a wife and a new baby. He didn’t need the progeny of his dead mistress hanging around to mess up his perfect little life.
Shoving thoughts of my father aside, I open the browser on my computer. Rudimentary knowledge of hacking gets me access to the maintenance team's simple tracking system for requests, so I can mark Eden’s submission as completed before some other bastard gets to it, then I hurry to my car and Spring Falls.
The apartment complex is in the suburbs and a bit of a drive from downtown Boston, but it gives me time to listen to a video about dishwashers, glancing at the visual step-by-step instructions every so often. I'm better at killing men than repairing appliances, thanks to a childhood of violence and twisted lessons from Conrad, but murder won't help Eden. A working dishwasher will.
Groups of buildings appear as I pull into the gated complex with Eden’s code—another detail learned through computer snooping. This is a new development with all the hallmarks of a wannabe luxury build. Varying shades of gray with wooden accents. A list of amenities including two dog parks, a giant playground, and a clubhouse next to the pool and jacuzzi. It’s nice and safe and exactly what I’d choose for Eden while waiting until she can live with me at Blackchapel Manor.
A couple of lawn care guys are mowing the grass and blowing leaves off the sidewalks, their neon green shirts glowing with the company logo.
“Shit.” Glancing down at my charcoal slacks and suit jacket, I look as far from a maintenance worker as Pluto is from the sun. No way Eden’s going to believe my lie.
Another curse fills the car.
I mentally make a note to acquire the correct maintenance uniform for future visits as my fingers tap a frustrated beat on the steering wheel before landing on a possible solution. There’s a gym bag with a change of clothes in the trunk. Athleisure may not say ‘handyman,’ but casual wear has got to be better than my current attire, right?
“I’m a fucking idiot,” I mutter to myself, grateful that none of my brothers-in-arms are here to witness this ridiculous scenario. They’d laugh their asses off at the dilemma I’ve tossed myself into.
All because of a woman.
Eden’s got me all twisted up, and we’ve never even officially spoken to each other.
Parking at the clubhouse to change in one of the bathrooms, I key in Eden’s code again to open the locked door. A man and a woman work on laptops in the corner, too focused on their tasks to acknowledge my arrival.
Good.That means they won’t notice when I leave in a totally different outfit. The security cameras will need to be wiped later to erase my presence, but that should be simple enough.
My gaze studies the wrinkled tee skimming over my chest in the bathroom mirror, and I shake my head, reluctantly amused by my predicament.
The things I do for my girl…
CHAPTER THREE
EDEN
“Coming!” Whipping my Rainbow Childcare polo off, I toss it on the bed and reach for a clean tee from my closet.
I had just gotten home from work and started my daily ritual of unwinding from sticky hands and babbling toddlers when someone knocked on my front door.
I don't know who would stop by unannounced.
My parents aren’t the type to visit on a whim. Neither are the few friends I have. But clearly, someone needs to talk to me, and I hate making them wait. Even if they're the ones interrupting my evening and not the other way around.
Swinging the door open without hesitation, I begin rambling, slightly out of breath from rushing. “Hi, sorry for the wait! I—” My apology comes to a screeching halt once my brain registers the person standing on my doorstep.
It’s a man.
An extremely handsome one—chiseled jaw with dark stubble, piercing blue eyes that promise sin and danger—staring at me like I’m the last piece of cake at a birthday party.
Wait, what?
Blinking away the imagined hunger in his gaze, I brace myself against the door, my nails digging into my palms as I try to regain control of my wayward thoughts.
“Um, can I help you?”
He lifts the small toolbox in his hand. “Maintenance. I’m here to fix your dishwasher.”
