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I lifted my head, studying the sharpness of his jaw, the way he seemed content when my stomach held a flurry of butterflies, nervous about every sound.
Including my rapidly beating heart.
“Some guy was murdered outside my building and tossed in the dumpster. Are you responsible for his death?”
“I am.”
I sat up, staying close. “Why?”
D’Artagnan slanted his eyes toward me, rubbing the tip of his index finger back and forth across the glass in his hand. “Because he was intent on killing you.”
A cold shiver sliced through me, cutting my air supply. “You’re certain?”
“I followed him. There was no doubt. He was a hired assassin.”
“If you were sent to kill me, why didn’t you allow him to handle the task?”
He chuckled, his eyes lighting up. “Because by then I’d determined that you were mine. Then again, you’ve always been mine.”
The way he said the words so casually ignited the embers deep in my core all over again. “The mafia-style warehouse murders. You?”
“Someone who’d betrayed the organization.” His brow furrowed and he rubbed his jaw. “The same asshole who’d stolen from us told me I was being used.”
“How would he know?”
“That’s a question that needs to be answered. I was also led to believe my birth father was dirty.”
“You don’t believe that. He ran my father’s estate, nothing more,” I insisted.
Shrugging, he took a deep breath. “Actually, I do and looks can be deceiving. I caught him covered in blood more than once.”
“Jesus. Was he working for my father?” The nagging in the back of my mind provided the only answer that made sense. No.
His scowl was deep, his brow furrowed. “I think your father found out my papa was working for someone else.”
I thought about what he said. “Franco?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe the reason you were adopted was a promise made.”
D’Artagnan looked at me as if I’d just put a piece of the puzzle together.
The past as well as the horrible tragedy had ripped him apart, putting him back together entirely different. But I could see past the thick coat of armor to the good man inside.
“Who told you to kill me?”
“Franco.”
I accepted the information as if hearing I could no longer order my favorite dish at the local bistro. “To stop the alliance with the Romanos and my father’s regime.” I’d already spouted that off before, but the shock of accepting he was alive had disturbed my mental processes.
“Yes.” Finally, his tone softened as he looked at me, the spark in his eyes returning. “Franco was the master of weaving stories. I was fucked up when he grabbed me off the street, incapable of thinking anything but that you’d betrayed me. He fed off that, turning me into a monster.”
I rubbed my fingers down his chest. “You’re not a monster. You’re an amazing man.”
His laugh sounded bitter. “You don’t know me very well. I was his killing machine. It’s in my blood.”
“The qualities that turn a man into a monster are wrapped around whether the person savors his actions, the bloodlust taking over every aspect of living.”
