Page 5

Chapter 5

Constantine

Present Day

“What in the hell are you doing here?” Colin stared at me from the other side of his front door, his intense, angry eyes sharp on me.

My eyes, too. Yeah, they’re mine, right?

I propped my hand on the doorframe, attempting to keep it together. “Your mother said she’d be off work at seven.”

It was eight, so I’d assumed she’d be back already. Although it was Friday morning, not the Saturday she’d told me to come.

I’d barely managed to hold off showing up until now. I almost went to the hospital and confronted her last night. Drunk from her father’s bourbon, no less.

I could count on one hand the number of times I’d been that intoxicated. When I found out my sister had been murdered, for one. Then, on the night of her funeral. And after I’d helped take the life of the man we’d believed killed Bianca. Not to mention the fourth incident when we found out that guy was an evil murderer, just not Bianca’s. Last night made number five.

“She’s not back yet, and you’re not wanted here.” Colin’s words shot like an arrow, bullseyeing me in the heart.

“Is your mom still at work, then?”

“Like I’d tell you shit, man.” He tried to slam the door in my face, but I was too quick for him, shoving my foot against the jamb to block his attempt to shut me out. I’d already been shut out of his entire life, so that wouldn’t be happening.

“We need to talk.”

“No,” he answered with a light, sarcastic laugh I didn’t appreciate, “we really don’t.”

He stumbled back when I won the battle with the door. I stepped inside, flinging the door closed behind me. At least he didn’t come at me swinging—my jaw was still sore from the impressive sting of his elbow to my face the other day.

“Would you like me to tell your mother about the purchase you made while she was at work last night?” I removed my suit jacket and tossed it on the hall table in the foyer, letting him know I had no plans to leave. “Yeah, I know about that.” I stared him down, and he glared right back at me with a defiant lift of his chin, accepting the challenge. Like father, like son, dammit.

“She deleted the photo I had of your Amex.” He folded his arms over his chest, squaring his stance in an attempt to block me from coming any farther inside. “So, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And you have a backup.” I rolled my sleeves to my elbows out of habit. “Who’s the Claddagh ring for? Thought your family was Scottish, not Irish.”

I gave in and researched Juliette last night while drunk. Used our security firm’s resources to dig deeper than the average person could, and I confirmed that her father footed the bill for her villa in Aruba. It had been her I’d met seventeen years ago.

“How do you know what I bought? The receipt didn’t speci?—”

“Nothing gets by me. Better for you to understand that now.” I heaved out a deep breath, trying to keep my cool. I was angry, but not with him. Burning mad at the fact I’d missed out on his whole life, and he had no clue who I was.

“Why didn’t you cancel every card? Why leave the one active?” He secured the hood of his sweatshirt over his head— why are you wearing a hoodie in May? Then he cinched the drawstrings tighter, using the lightweight fabric to conceal part of his face as if he didn’t want me to get a good look at him.

Too late. I see you. And I’d never be able to unsee our similarities now.

Before I could come up with an answer that made sense about my card, I noticed him zeroing in on the scars on my right arm. “What happened to you? Burned or something?”

“Or something,” I bit out. “Now, where’s your mom?”

He turned to the side, facing the living room. “She stopped at a church on her way home. Not that it’s your business.”

“Why is she at church on a Friday morning? And don’t tell me it’s not my business.” Everything was now officially my business.

“But it’s not.” He whirled around to confront me. “She’s my mother, not yours.”

And I think I’m your father. Maybe. Probably. Looking at you now, yes, most definitely.

Eyes back on me, I could tell he was torn between continuing to revolt and surrender.

Choose option two.

“Knowing Mom, she’s probably there praying for me,” he answered, choosing the smarter route. “You know, asking for forgiveness for my sins or something like that.”

“Why aren’t you with her if it’s?—”

“I’d combust into flames if I stepped into a church.”

Yeah, you and me both, kid. I hated that we also had that in common. “What church?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Language.” Great, now I was becoming like my father.

A light laugh rolled from his mouth—the smart-ass kind. “Real funny, dude. Like you can tell me what to do. You’re not my father.”

I shoved my hands in my Brioni dress pants pockets and hung my head. “Work hard to remember the name,” I said instead of giving him a piece of my mind.

He mumbled a few curses, clearly to get under my skin, then tossed out a couple of adjectives to describe the church. “She said she was drawn to it on her way home from work a few weeks ago. We’re Methodist, so I don’t know why she’d go to a Catholic . . .” He let his words trail off as if realizing he’d opened up to me when he’d been doing his best not to.

I lifted my eyes to the ceiling, realizing Juliette was at my late sister’s church. Bianca had been a devout Catholic.

Bianca, what are you up to? And if this is your doing, why didn’t you bring us together before now?

“Don’t even think about tracking her down. I don’t want you?—”

“Listen, son,” I began my lecture in a deep voice, “I’m?—”

“Not your son, remember?”

I had meant that word in the generic sense, forgetting for a second he (probably) was my son. He had to be. I refused to believe Juliette faked her innocence back then and had slept with anyone else aside from me. We used protection both times that night, though. How had I gone from being in denial that he was my son to now being terrified he wasn’t? What the hell is wrong with me?

“Are you into my mom?” The unmistakable disgust in his voice sliced through the air. “Is that what this is about?” He boldly eliminated the gap between us and planted a hand on my chest.

He’d set his palm over my heart. The heart I’d left with his mother seventeen years ago, and apparently, she passed it on to her son. No, our son. He’s ours. I think.

Wild enough, it felt like my heart was back in my chest. Beating. Pulsing. Alive again in his presence.

“You like her.” He retracted his hand as our gazes continued to clash. “You think she can be some rich man’s trophy? She doesn’t need a playboy asshole in her life.”

“Watch your mouth,” I snapped back, unable to stop myself. Yeah, you want to go to war? Let’s go.

“Or what?” He jutted out his chin, and I straightened my posture to regain my few inches over him at six-two.

Instead of antagonizing or intimidating him, I really needed to de-escalate this showdown and deflect answering his question about his mom. “Why were you in a fight at school?”

He backed away, lowered his hood, then ran his hands through his hair.

“Why are you asking questions again that aren’t your business, bruh?”

“Not your bro.” I cursed in Italian so he wouldn’t hear my filthy mouth—I was no better than him—and tried to get a handle on my emotions. I just didn’t know which one to focus on first. There were too many, chaotically running roughshod over each other inside me and pulling me apart. I wasn’t used to not being in control, and I hated it.

Colin eliminated the space between us, pointing his finger like a weapon. Stabbing the air, he hissed, “I will not let you get close to my mom and hurt her. That’s not why I stole your wallet. Not to bring some rich asshole into her life.”

I lifted my hands from my pockets, keeping them at my sides, while his index finger remained in my face.

Anyone else, kid, anyone else, and you’d already have a broken finger.

“So, why’d you steal my wallet?”

He clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring. “Are you letting me shop on your dime because you’re using it as an excuse to weasel your way into her life?”

Question within a question? So, it’s going to be like that? “Why I do what I do is not your business.”

“Anything involving my mother is my business.” He patted his chest twice. “I’m the man of the house.”

“Oh yeah? And what kind of man puts his mother in the position you did, making her beg for you?” Shit . I’d gone too far. Stepped right the fuck in it.

I’d expected his jaw to become unhinged in anger. Maybe even take a swing at me. Instead, he quietly stared at me as regret washed over his face.

Dammit. I felt like I was fighting myself. My own reflection. “I just want a word with her, and I have no plans to tell her about the ring you bought last night.” Surrendering wasn’t my go-to, not ever, in fact. But for him, I was willing to do it. “I have no bad intentions when it comes to your mother.” I just need answers. I need confirmation. I need to know what in God’s name happened seventeen years ago.

He quietly stared at me, and all I could do was hope he was contemplating accepting the truce I was trying to offer him. We weren’t off to the best start, but had he not stolen from me in the first place, I’d never have known he existed.

I went to my suit jacket and reached into the interior pocket for another peace offering. “Here.” I shoved the Tiffany’s box his way. “The photo is still inside.”

He refused to take it the way his mom had in my office. “This feels like a Trojan horse.” Arms back over his chest, he shook his head. “Nope, not falling for it.”

This isn’t going to be easy.

Oddly, part of me appreciated that he wasn’t ready to accept a stranger. Even more than that, I was happy to see how protective he was of his mother.

“Fine.” I returned the box to the jacket pocket and faced him. “But I’m not leaving until I talk to your mom. And after you stole from me, placing her in a shit position to have to apologize, apparently twice in one day, you owe me?—”

“If you even think about doing what that asshole made her do, get on her hands and knees and beg for mercy, I’ll make your life a living hell.”

“What asshole?” My voice dropped an octave or three at that news.

He blew out his cheeks, seemingly confused about why I latched on to that part of his threat. “The father of the kid I fought at school. He had her get on her hands and knees in the principal’s office and grovel, or he’d press charges. Principal watched on and did nothing.”

I spun away from him, my palm hitting the wall by the door. The image he’d painted slowly simmered. “What’s his name?”

“Why, what are you going to do about it?”

I glanced at him over my shoulder, but before I could answer, the door opened.

Juliette whispered my name as her purse strap slipped down her shoulder and her bag hit the floor.

I grabbed the door to keep it from slamming her in the face, then knelt to pick up her purse.

Standing stock-still in light pink scrubs, her worried eyes raced back and forth between us. “What—what are you doing here?”

“We need to talk,” I explained once she was inside, and the door was shut. “I couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”

She immediately focused on her son.

She knew I knew.

Now I knew for damn sure she remembered me, too.

“Colin, um. Go to the bakery around the corner and get us our usual breakfast, will you?” She tried to take her purse from me, but I set it down and went for my wallet.

“Make it for three.” I handed him a hundred.

“Go,” she whispered.

“Are you sure?” Colin’s gaze volleyed between us.

“Please.” She nodded, and he hesitantly left, but not without shoulder-checking me on his way out.

I tossed my wallet on my suit jacket, my heartbeat flying. My nerves stringing me the fuck up.

She sidestepped me, and I gently reached for her wrist, urging her to face me. “You know who I am?” she murmured, her long lashes fluttering. Her creamy skin became a soft pink as I nodded. “I didn’t realize it was you at first. I thought I was crazy. But then you said your name began with a C. And you look like how I remembered.” She swallowed. “I’m not crazy, then?”

No, you’re not. “I told you, name or not, I wouldn’t forget you. It just took me a minute to get there.”

“Then I suppose you have a question to ask me.”

I did, but not the one she was thinking.

“He’s mine. He looks like me. And even if he didn’t, I just . . . I know.” The truth was there. No more trying to deny it. That kid was my blood.

Her lower lip trembled as she parted her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

I let go of her wrist and cupped her face between my palms. My hands slid over her cheeks and to the sides of her head and into her hair. “I left you my number.” Pain tore through me, and chills struck my body as I kept hold of her. “Why didn’t you call me?” My voice betrayed me, a tremble there as I begged to know, “Why didn’t you let me know I had a son?”