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Mr. Dobbs mentioned that Mila wasn’t financially sound enough for the responsibility, and I had every intention of making sure she was suitable before funding her enough that they could stay with their aunt and not have to live in poverty.
Walking away now would be impossible.
Instead of leaving Mila’s car on the front row where she originally parked it close to the street, I climb behind the wheel, adjust the seat, and move it around back. The woman doesn’t seem to have a single ounce of self-preservation in her body. It’s not conceited to think that she needs me, especially where Keres and their demands are concerned.
I shudder at the thought of them going after her and the three kids. I know although they claim they weren’t involved in the Clarkes’ death, they’re more than capable of hurting women and children.
I don’t know if she’s limited in what she has for all the kids, but she seems to have packed very light, nothing more than a handful of items for each kid if I go by how small the luggage is. The sight of the booster seat in the front passenger seat annoys me as much the second time I look at it as it did when I climbed behind the wheel. I know space in her car is limited, but it’s stupidly dangerous for a child of Jace’s size to ride in the front seat.
I lean against the side of the car, the two small suitcases resting at my feet as I fire off a text to Wren. Deacon said to let them know if I needed any help, but I never imagined I’d be asking them to do research on Mila Taylor. I need to know everything about her, so I know how to play this situation.
I contemplate calling Kincaid and letting him in on what’s going on, but there’s this guilt inside of me, as if subconsciously all of this is my fault. Do I have a daughter? If I do, then how have I been existing in the same world as her and didn’t know? Shouldn’t I have felt some sense of loss, or like something was missing in my life?
What I do know is that I’ll never leave St. Louis if she is mine. I could never walk away from a child. Am I the type of guy who would pry a child from their mother’s arms? I can’t say for sure because I’m so pissed right now at her lies of omission that the thought crosses my mind on the way back inside the hotel.
Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe the child isn’t mine. Maybe that little girl is younger or older than she looks. I know it’s a possibility. I’m not the only blond-haired, blue-eyed guy to walk the earth. What I don’t understand at all is the sense of dread those thoughts bring me, as if I’d be disappointed somehow to discover that Sutton wasn’t mine.
I take the stairs back up to the room, needing a little more time to calm down.
When I let myself back into the room, Jace looks in my direction, but Luca’s eyes are locked on the television. Mila is sitting on the couch, letting Sutton pull what looks to be small wash rags from her hands. The woman has created a game with something I’d never seen as more than utilitarian and used exactly for their original purpose.
Mila looks up at me as the door closes behind me. She looks lost, but there’s also a plea in her eyes, one that’s begging me to have mercy and to at least not start this conversation in front of the kids.
I give her a quick dip of my head, agreeing to wait, but letting her know that it’s coming whether she likes it or not.
I have to respect her for being here. It proves that she’s willing to make sacrifices for the well-being of these kids. It’s not something a woman concerned for herself would do. She wants to protect them, and I think she should be commended for the bravery it took her to show up here this evening.
“Have you kiddos eaten?” I ask as I take the bags to the bedroom opposite of the one I selected. They’re identical, so the choice wasn’t all that hard.
Jace looks to Mila as if asking her how he should answer, and it kind of breaks my heart that he isn’t quick to tell me independently if he’s hungry or not.
“They haven’t had dinner,” Mila says, more emotion in her voice than should be there when just discussing a simple meal.
“Pizza delivery?” I ask, grinning when both boys perk up and spin their gazes in my direction.
After figuring out what they like and placing the order, I wait in silence, leaning against the counter of the small kitchen the room has until it’s close to time for the driver to arrive.
I’m cautious enough to meet him downstairs because it’s none of his damn business that there are three small children in this room.
Wren texted back, and I need to figure out what my game plan is. I also need to pay cash and check the parking lot before heading back up.
I have to get everyone out of town. The revelation that Keres wants their money and has a monthly requirement changes everything. Sutton is a huge deciding factor as well. I can’t just put a woman, two boys, and a young girl on a plane beside me because the manifest would lead Keres right to Cerberus’ doorstep.
There are so many things to consider, but luckily for me, there is more than one group of guys willing to help me.
I hope Kincaid wasn’t just placating me when he was talking about the village that is Cerberus, because I’m going to need their help more now than ever. But first, I have to get back to New Mexico with three kids in tow, and I doubt this is something Mila is just going to quickly agree to.
Chapter 12
Mila
My stomach is in knots, making it impossible to eat. Thankfully, the kids are a handful, and I can focus on getting them fed rather than wondering what happens after they go to bed. I can’t discount the chance that Vincent will tell me to get out, despite his grace he’s allowed by not asking all the questions I saw raging in his eyes earlier.
She looks so much like him, there’s no denying her paternity. Carlen and Janet never put two and two together, and they believed me when I told them I had a drunken one-night stand with a guy from college. When I went further to explain I didn’t know the guy and had no way of tracking him down, I received more disappointment than I thought I deserved at the time. I have no doubt they’d disown me again if they found out I got pregnant by Vincent Chilton.
I freeze, the wet washrag in my hand hovering over Sutton’s arm when a knock echoes around the room.
My eyes immediately dart toward Vincent, who doesn’t look alarmed. He still checks the peephole before opening the door, his right hand at his back, making me think there’s a weapon of some kind there. I reposition myself so I’m standing between the three kids at the small dining table and the door.
