Page 85 of Tide of Treason
I bit back a laugh. It seemed like the poor bastard wouldn’t be getting much anyway, since he ended up answering a bureaucratic call from bed, dammit.
“. . . Raid’s set for oh-three-hundred. Jersey docks. Tell Agent Kessler to keep it clean—no blowback on the Cartel side. I’ll handle the fallout.”
Propped on one elbow, I studied him through the mist of smoke curling upward, a ghostly ribbon tying us to the ceiling. I watched it twist and dissipate, feeling a kinship with something that didn’t know whether to stay or vanish altogether. Whoever Agent Kessler was, if Lucius had him on speed dial for directives, it meant he was FBI. And if Lucius was directing federal operations with indifference, it meant the man beside me now stood somewhere beyond reach.
Later, when the call finally died, I told him—cool, imperious—to leave. He answered with a bronzed arm slung across my waist, daring me to remember all the pragmatic reasons attachment was arsenic. Instead I swallowed the taste of danger on his skin and let the echoing hollow in my chest hush for a heartbeat.
What terrible things had this man survived to be lying here with me, breathing like I was the only thing tethering him to earth?
I didn’t know. I only knew the dark felt lighter with his pulse againstmy spine.
24 | Kayla
30 years old
Present day
I was concernedabout the drinking. Not that I’d been drinking heavily, but my family had a knack for shoving a glass of wine into my hand before I even sat down for dinner. And the occasional cocktail? Jesus. I’d been tossing back tequila shots last week like they were Tic Tacs. Then there was the secondhand smoke. And, of course, the rough sex. Not that I planned on stopping that anytime soon, but apparently, being absolutely railed into next week wasn’t exactly recommended for first-trimester health.
Judgment day arrived with two errands pressed between my ribs. The first, an untraceable withdrawal at a Manhattan bank, cold cash burning in my palm. The second, less nefarious, was a trip to a tiny, hole-in-the-wall bakery that hadbeen selling the same pastries since before I was born. I left with a white box of ricotta sfogliatelle that I carried to the doctors waiting room painted the green of chewed mint gum.
I sent Vito a text asking him if he’d be around later and got the dreaded gray check marks of indifference, which meant either he was busy or he was still bitter that I made him kick Maya and Amara off Lucius at my party.
Nurse Ratchet-but-kind called my name.
The verdict was anticlimactic: the kid was fine. A microscopic parasite with a heartbeat. No glaring concerns. No immediate complications. Just four weeks of a life I had no business creating, and in another ten to twelve, the bump would start showing.
The nurse handed me a folder thick with pamphlets. Soft colors. Soothing fonts. Titles like “Your First Trimester!” and “Eating for Two!” and “How to Love the Miracle Growing Inside You!”
I stared at them like they were written in Aramaic.
The miracle inside me was probably flipping the bird already.
“You can get dressed now,” the nurse said gently.
I nodded but stayed there, paper gown gaping at the back, staring at a poster that promisedHealthy Moms, Healthy Babies!in loopy, bubblegum letters.
What about unhealthy moms?
Moms who’d knelt on blood-soaked carpet and pulled the last breath from a monster’s lungs?
Moms who still had dirt under their nails from buryingtoo many sins to count?
Did they still get a bubble letter miracle?
At noon, I found myself aimlessly wandering around Tiffany’s, where I dropped over three-hundred grand on the prettiest, daintiest diamond necklace with a pendant fashioned into the number four. I’d have to think about it in layers. Fabricate something airtight, something so ironclad it wouldn’t just keep Lucius alive—it would keep me alive, too. Papà wasn’t exactly the forgiving type. Making a mess of the contract that bound Lucius to my sister would’ve been grounds for exile. Or worse.
I ran a thumb along the velvet box in my hand, tracing the gold-stamped logo. The number four glinted through the gap, catching the overhead lights, slicing a spear of brilliance across the pristine showroom floor.
This all left me with option two.
Who the fuck could I blame for this?
I combed through the family trees . . . too Italian, too pale, too doomed to pass off as plausible. I could scribble any name onto the birth certificate, ink it in blood, and in nine months, the truth would still claw its way into the world wearing Lucius Andrade’s face.
Option three, then.
I wasn’t going to pin this baby on someone else.
