Page 58 of Sweetest Sin
“He didn’t just mean Bri,” Matteo says. “He also meant the baby.”
“And the second he found out that I have a son, he went after him …an eye for an eye.”
“We need to take him out,” Matteo deadpans. “He’s not going to stop until he gets his hands on Damien.”
“He’s working with the mayor,” I say. “I don’t know why the mayor would give him the time of day, but he’s the one who vouched for Anthony at the auction.”
“Fucking unbelievable,” Matteo spits. “It’s not a coincidence that Paul Astor Jr. was nearly killed right before the election and forced to pull out of the running, allowing Eric Vanderbilt to win by default.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not a coincidence. So, the question is, what does Mr. Mayor want?”
“Martha.”I nod at the housekeeper as I walk into the kitchen the next morning.
“Mr. Antonov,” she says with a smile as she pours my coffee.
After finding out who was responsible for the bugs in our house, we were forced to fire our cleaning company, unsure if anyone else had been compromised. Thankfully, Martha has been with us for years and is loyal to a fault.
“We have a couple of new houseguests,” I tell her, taking the coffee from her and having a seat at the island. “My son, Damien, and his mother, Peyton, will be staying with us indefinitely. He’s three … almost four,” I add, realizing I don’t even know when my son’s birthday is.
“Oh.” She perks up, and I imagine she’s already planning what she can cook for Damien. “Do you know what he likes? Or better yet, I’ll ask him myself when he comes down,” she says thoughtfully.
When we were younger, she practically helped raise us, and when we got old enough to no longer need a nanny, she moved into caring for the house and cooking. When I noticed her slowing down, I decided to hire an outside cleaning company to come in and do a thorough housecleaning every week.
“Morning,” Brielle says, sauntering into the kitchen, dressed in workout attire. “Martha, I’ve missed you so much.” She wraps her arms around the housekeeper, who returns the embrace.
Martha was visiting a relative when Brielle and I returned from Russia, so she hasn’t gotten a chance to see her until now.
“Oh, Brielle,” Martha coos when they pull apart. “You’ve grown into such a beautiful young woman. Welcome home, my dear.”
“Thank you,” Brielle says, having a seat next to me. “I wish I could say I was happy to be home, but”—she side-eyes me—“I was dragged back here against my will.”
“Hardly,” I mutter, taking a sip of my coffee.
While the women catch up, I go through the emails that came in while I was asleep. It’s not until Brielle mentions leaving for Pilates that I enter the conversation, already knowing there’s going to be a fight.
“You can’t leave,” I tell her.
She whips her head around until she’s looking at me. “What the hell do you mean?”
“There are things you don’t know,” I begin.
Before I can fill her in, a little boy comes stumbling into the kitchen, dressed in dinosaur pajamas. His red hair is messy from sleep, and he’s rubbing his eyes.
“Mommy?” he mutters, looking around in confusion. “Do you know where my mommy is?”
“What the hell?” Brielle breathes. “How did a little boy get in here?”
Ignoring her question, I walk over and kneel in front of him. “Hello there, Damien. My name is Dominick. Your mom is here somewhere. Why don’t we go find her?”
“Who is his mother?” Brielle asks, earning a glare from me. “Don’t look at me like that,” she says smartly. “A child is wandering around the house.”
“He’s not wandering,” I say, standing and holding out my hand for him to take. “He’s … related to us.”
I want to say he’s my son, but I can’t imagine that would go over well with Peyton. I have no intention of keeping my paternity from him a secret, but I bet it will go over better if I ask her how she’d like to go about it.
Speaking of which …
Loud padding down the stairs fills the air, and a few seconds later, the mother of my child comes flying around the corner.
