Page 19

Chapter 19

Constantine

I hadn’t thought it was possible to sleep, but when I rolled over on my bed and opened my eyes to check my phone, it was 15:12. I thought back to Colin’s comment earlier that morning and shocked myself by changing the time from military to civilian. I stared at the numbers on my lock screen. 3:12. That’d take some getting used to.

I stood, pocketed my phone, and gripped my chin between my palms to crack my neck. I’d slept awkwardly, but at least I’d managed a few hours. Hopefully, those few hours of rest would help my overall mood and keep me from opening my mouth and oversharing like I’d done all morning with Izzy and Juliette.

I left my bedroom, curious if anyone else was awake. Stopping outside Juliette’s closed door, I was tempted to invade her privacy and check on her, but I forced myself to move along.

When I reached the end of the hall, I halted at the sight of my son sitting at the breakfast bar. He slurped milk straight from his bowl, a box of Cheerios next to him.

My assistant must’ve delivered my food order while I slept. She was among the few people with access to my home and the security code to get in and out. I’d told her to be quiet in case any of my guests were asleep.

And dammit, I’d ordered the food before knowing about his peanut allergy. Were Cheerios safe to eat?

He’s not three. He’d know better than to eat something without checking. The reminder slammed into me, keeping me in place and from shouting out some ridiculous warning to stop eating.

Colin set down his bowl and used his sleeve to clean the milk from his chin like he’d done with his tears that morning. He had to have seen me hovering by now, but he acted like I was invisible.

I was. For sixteen years.

The painful thought hit me, nearly knocking my feet out from under me, and spurred me to get walking again.

“Your mom asleep?” I assumed he’d have opened her door and peeked in on her when I couldn’t.

“Yeah, out cold.”

Good. I dumped the espresso I’d left out down the drain. I’d been so distracted by Juliette when she’d walked into the kitchen earlier, her messy hair framing her beautiful face and her tight nipples showing through her shirt, I’d forgotten all about the drink.

“How long have you been awake?” I asked him, hiding my grimace as the mere thought of Juliette had my dick waking up. Do not get hard with Colin in the room. What the hell was wrong with me?

If my son knew the dirty thoughts I’d had about his mother these last few days, I’d have a coronary right along with him.

“An hour maybe. I thought I was still dreaming when I opened the fridge and saw the milk. Uh, thanks for that and the food.”

Abandoning my mission for a new shot of espresso, I faced him as he poured himself more cereal. Heavy on the milk, light on the Cheerios. Plenty of both now on the counter.

I did my best to ignore the sight, but my clean-freak nature had the hairs on my arms standing.

“You sleep at all?” he asked, looking up from his bowl.

“A couple hours.”

He nodded, and we stared at one another, unsure how to engage in small talk. I didn’t even know where to begin with him because any question I had served as a reminder he grew up without me.

As we remained locked into some type of staring contest, playing a game of chicken to see who’d break first and speak, I couldn’t help but key in on our similarities.

If I had a photo of myself from my high school days, he’d be shocked to discover it wasn’t actually of him. No wonder I’d been so thrown off when I first saw him in the parking garage. It’d been like looking into a mirror at my sixteen-year-old self.

“What are you thinking?” He broke first, saving me from having to do it.

I folded my arms, feeling the need to guard myself. “Just how much we look alike.”

His eyes tightened on me, cruising slowly down over my body as if sizing me up, deciding if that was an insult or a compliment. “You never answered me about the scars. You have more on your body?”

Like mother, like son. They both seemed to skip straight to the heavy. Why couldn’t he ask my favorite color? Or even my preferred rifle? “There are more, yes. On my back and chest.”

“From?” He returned to eating as if his question hadn’t just mind-fucked me.

“Government work after the Navy.” I gave him too much because he’d demand a follow-up.

“What type of work? Like spy shit?” He lifted his chin, directing it to my scars as if I’d forgotten where they were. “You get taken or something? Tortured?”

I clenched my jaw, doing my best not to slip back into that room where I had been tortured. “Yes,” was all I said, unable to get more out than that. He didn’t need to know the details.

“Huh.” He sat taller, brows drawing together. “Well, I’m glad you weren’t offed.”

Offed? I shook my head in surprise.

“Who saved you? Other spies?”

“I was never a spy, nor will I ever be.” No, he didn’t need the details, but that aspect was something I felt the need to clarify.

“So, my John Wick comment was more accurate?” He set aside his spoon, sloshing more milk onto the counter. “But a government assassin?”

My shoulders hunched forward, and I wasn’t sure which way to go with this conversation. Maybe out of the room and away from him was the safest option. But he was here and talking, so I changed the subject rather than running away.

“How about you tell me why you were really at that rave?”

“How about you tell me why you were at that rave?” The attitude was on point with how mine had been at his age.

How did my parents handle me? This is my payback for that, isn’t it?

“You still doing assassin-y spy-like shit for the government?”

“No.”

“So, you did do it before.” He shot me a smug, satisfied smile.

I’m in over my head . “Just talk to me. Tell me what I need to know to keep you and your mother safe. Unless you’d prefer we wake her up and bring her into this conversation as well, then?—”

“Speak now or forever hold my peace?” His smile morphed into a cocky grin. “I’ll take option two.” He started to stand, but I patted the air, signaling him to sit his ass back down.

Shockingly, he obeyed. I had a reputation for scaring people without doing much, but I also didn’t want to terrify my kid. There had to be balance here somewhere.

As he pushed his bowl away, the Cheerios box fell, scattering the O’s all over the marble, and I did my best not to twitch at the sight of the mess.

“Your mother knows I had to kill someone last night. She didn’t take it well,” I let him know. “I’d prefer giving her more time to process that before we pull her into this conversation.”

“Thought you said his death wasn’t on you?” He crossed his arms, fortifying his guard. Message received.

My arms fell to my sides. “It wasn’t my fault. It was yours. Because you were hanging out with drug dealers, and you wound up punching a mafioso. It was your neck, or theirs.” I let the harsh truth settle between us, hoping reality would hit him.

He stared down at the mess he’d created, remaining quiet.

I had a feeling I wouldn’t get through to him without some give and take here.

“I was at the rave for Jamie.” At my admission, he immediately looked at me, surprised. “One of his guys, Daniel O’Brien, attempted to mug my intern earlier in the week. Hit her in the process. The night you tried to boost a car was when I’d tracked Daniel down to question him. He had ecstasy pills laced with fentanyl on him.”

I strode closer, letting my truth sink in with each step.

“Kids have been OD’ing on these drugs, and my friends and family don’t tolerate anything involving the endangerment of kids. Or women being hurt.”

His Adam’s apple moved hard as he swallowed. His eyes narrowed on me as shock washed over him. Maybe a little guilt. I hoped so, at least. He needed to understand the consequences of his actions in associating with men like Daniel and Jamie.

“I had no idea the men you were trying to steal a car with also happened to work with Daniel and Jamie, or that you’d be at that rave. It’s all just a wild coincidence.” I stopped walking and set my hands on the breakfast bar counter separating us. “ Or you could say it was fate. Because we met, and then I was there to have your six, so you didn’t die.” My chest ached at that last word, at how close he really had been to death.

He lowered his arms, and with it his guard, his hands falling to his lap.

“Now that I’ve told you my side of the story,” I bit out, the pain of remembering I could’ve lost him sinking deep into my bones all over again, “I’d say it’s your turn to tell me yours.”