Page 45 of The King of Hearts (The Raven Group #1)

“My mother,” he answers, pulling his hands from his pockets and striding into the room. He stops when he’s on the opposite side of the table from me. “She’s catatonic. Has been for years.”

He grabs the back of the chair and pulls it out, taking a seat. My eyes flicker to his hands. The knuckles of one have a few scrapes, like he got into a fistfight. They weren’t like that yesterday. I ignore that for now and focus back on his face.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” I ask as the puzzle pieces start to fall into place.

“Sit,” he orders, ignoring my question. “Susie will be here momentarily with breakfast.”

I want answers, and the fastest way to get them is to acquiesce, so I pull out my own chair and sit down. I set my hands on top of the table, laying one over the other. My gaze flickers to Ryker’s mother for a brief moment before bringing it back to him.

“Your mother, what’s her name?”

“Vivian.”

“Beautiful and regal,” I remark.

Ryker picks up one of his mother’s hands and starts gently massaging her palms. After several seconds, he takes each finger and works it back and forth, running his fingers up and down the digit.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Her hands get cold. She used to complain about it all the time. I’m warming them.”

“You’re the boy who lived here twenty years ago, aren’t you?” I ask. “And she’s the wife.”

Ryker doesn’t say anything, just sets down his mother’s hand and picks up the other.

“The boy’s name was Matteo Romano, so you’ve obviously changed your name.”

“Yes. I legally changed it when I turned eighteen.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted no association with my father’s name. My father chose the name Matteo, and he corrupted the name Romano.”

“You had an older brother, right? I believe Aiden was his name.”

“Yes. He died a long time ago.”

“What happened that night twenty years ago?”

I worry he’s not going to answer when he stays quiet for so long, but after a while, he talks.

“I was only seven years old, but the memories are crystal clear. Everything was normal as far as my young mind could tell. It wasn’t until I woke up in the middle of the night by voices coming from downstairs.

My sitter was in the hallway when I left my room.

She tried to make me go back into my room, but I was a skinny kid and slipped past her. ”

He pauses and lifts his mother’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it before carefully setting it back down.

“I made it downstairs, and the place was filled with cops and other people I didn’t know.

They didn’t see me at first, so I managed to get inside the living room without them knowing.

I saw my mother lying on the floor, and the white nightgown she wore to bed was covered in blood.

There was a lot more on the floor around her.

She wasn’t moving, and I thought she was dead. ”

My hand goes to my mouth, and I suck in a sharp breath. The pain of what Ryker, as a boy, must have felt hits me like a freight train. The terror of seeing his mother like that.

I remain quiet as he continues.

“I rushed to her and fell to my knees. It wasn’t until later that I found out the blood wasn’t hers, but my father’s.

” He turns his head and looks out the same window his mother is staring out of.

“I huddled over my mother’s body, crying.

I begged and pleaded with her not to leave me.

And I begged and pleaded for my father to come help. He never did.”

He turns quiet after that, and I wonder if he’s not going to say more, but then he does.

“The authorities took my mother to the hospital on the mainland. I was forced to stay behind with Mrs. Myers and Miss Landen. For days, they wouldn’t let me go see her, no matter how much I railed and demanded.

About a week later, she came home.” He looks at his mother now.

“She wasn’t like this, but she wasn’t the same either. ”

“Who cared for you since your mother couldn’t?”

The muscle in his jaw tics. “My father’s sister came to live with us. Aunt Rosa was my only known living relative.”

“Why do I get the feeling having her around wasn’t pleasant?”

“Because it wasn’t. The bitch was a sexual predator who enjoyed brutalizing young children.”

My heart stutters to a stop, and a nasty, heavy weight settles in my stomach.

Sympathy for the child version of Ryker has tears threatening to gather in my eyes.

I want to ask more questions, but going by the hard set of his jaw, I don’t think he’s going to give me the answers I seek.

Maybe he’ll be ready to talk about it at another time.

“The rumor is your father was never found,” I say instead.

He nods. “He wasn’t. They claim there was too much blood for him to have survived whatever happened to him, but I know he’s out there.” His jaw clenches when he says the last.

“How do you know?”

Before he can answer, the clinking sound of glass comes from the doorway, and an elderly woman with salt and pepper hair walks into the room carrying a big tray. She’s so small and the tray is so big, I don’t see how she manages to carry it by herself. But she does it without any issues or strain.

Ryker gets to his feet as she approaches and takes it from her, setting it down on the center of the table. I smile at the woman while she hovers behind Ryker as he removes the food and drinks from the tray.

“Hi,” I greet. “I’m Savina.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Savina. I’m Susie. If you need anything, please let me know.”

“Okay.”

The encounter lasts less than a minute before Ryker is handing the tray back to Susie, and she turns to leave the room.

“How many staff members do you have?” I ask, picking up the pot of tea and pouring a generous amount into the two coffee mugs.

“ We have four.” He lifts the lid from one of the silver containers, and a delicious scent hits my nose. “My mother’s nurse, a cook, a gardener who comes once a week, and a housekeeper.”

“That’s all?”

“For the household staff, yes. I also have two personal guards, including Marcelo. And several more who patrol the grounds.”

“How long has Marcelo been working for you?”

His gaze flicks up to mine as he butters a piece of toast. He drops it on my plate once he’s done. “Ten years.”

I flinch at this news, but really, I shouldn’t be surprised. I don’t know which would be worse. Marcelo having been loyal to my father before he switched playing fields to Ryker for whatever reason. Or Marcelo being a mole from the beginning.

“How did you manage to get my father to hire him?”

“A little birdy in the ear goes a long way, Vicious. You’ll find I’ve been in a lot of ears.”

I purse my lips together, my retort on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it back. We’re having a civil conversation at the moment, and I’m getting answers. What I really want to do though is slap the satisfied look off his face. Maybe I’ll do that later.

“Did you orchestrate the attack that pushed my father into hiring a bodyguard for me?”

My father, and brothers, and even I thought the attack was related to the notes I received, which was related to the incident when I was kidnapped when I was thirteen.

My kidnapper was killed, so we knew it wasn’t him, but the nature of the notes suggested the two were linked. But maybe we were wrong.

The attack itself wasn’t bad. A masked guy grabbed my arm and shoved me into a wall.

A bystander saw it happen and stopped it before it went any further.

But it was the last straw for Dad, and two days later, Marcelo showed up to shadow my every move.

It was the notes I received prior to that incident that did the most damage.

The satisfied look on his face drops, and his expression turns serious. No, serious isn’t the right word. He looks as though he wants to punch something.

“Having eyes on you anytime I want wherever you went was my goal, but don’t think for a fucking second I would ever allow anyone to put their hands on you. Even in an arranged setting. Those hearts I sent you prove that’s a line I won’t let anyone cross.”

The fork I just picked up gets strangled in my grip.

Him and those fucking hearts. It’s a stark reminder of everything he’s done.

I slowly put my fork down and lean back in my chair.

I watch him for a moment. He hasn’t touched his food yet, but he’s spoon feeding his mother some kind of soup.

From the smell, it’s something made with chicken broth.

I don’t let the sweet gesture of him taking care of his mother get to me. He may be kind to the women who gave birth to him, but he’s been anything but to me.

“How did I get pregnant?” I ask. “What did you do to me?”

He doesn’t pause in scooping up a spoonful of clear liquid and bringing it to his mother’s mouth.

She parts her lips, and he gently slides the spoon inside.

Her throat bobs as she swallows. He does this two more times before he sets the spoon down and brings a teacup to his lips.

I realize he’s testing the temperature when he only lets the liquid touch his upper lip.

Satisfied that it’s not too hot, he puts a short straw in the cup and leads the end to his mother’s mouth.

Again, she does what she’s supposed to and mechanically sucks on the straw.

It’s not until he’s scooped up another spoonful that he talks.

“Those nightly pills you take weren’t just fertility pills. On occasion, they also contained a sedative.”

My mouth goes dry. “A sedative?”

“Yes.”

My stomach flips on itself, and I feel like I might be sick. “You drugged me?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

I push past the nausea and ask, “Sometimes?”

“On nights that I came to your room, Marcelo switched out the pills with ones with the sedative. The other nights, they only contained a few vitamins and the fertility drug.”