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Her gaze dropped and he didn’t think she’d answer. Until she did. “I happened to him.”
9
Stooping solow as to ask Dutch for anything had been a last resort. A Hail Mary. Now, she was right back where she’d started with nothing to show for that lack of judgment, and Seraphina hated that shit. Up until she’d spotted Dutch waiting, she hadn’t known if he’d show. He hated her as much as she hated him. Which was saying a lot because shereallyhated that sanctimonious bastard who liked to pretend she didn’t used to have him suffocating between her thighs.
At one point, the man now known as Dutch was Hunter, a sex worker she’d enjoyed a whole lot. But then Hunter had got involved with the government, killing for them, and now he operated a secret group of operatives who hunted top-level criminals. He knew better than to come after her, though. What they had on each other would only result in mutually assured destruction, so they tried to stay out of each other’s way.
Toro had questions. She didn’t have to look at him to know that. All the way back to the house, his silent curiosity beat at her. She ignored him, though. She didn’t know anything about him that would inspire her to share, and even if she did know more, sharing wasn’t her thing. She didn’t need him for that. Her business was hers alone and she kept it all to herself unless the other person had something she wanted. Other than his body, Toro was useless to her.
When the driver pulled up at the house, she got out, ignoring her guest—which was fucking hard—and making her way inside. She went directly to her office, locking herself in. Dropping into the leather chair behind her desk, she unlocked the drawer to her right and retrieved the folded up photo. It was yellowed, frayed, and falling apart, and she handled it as if it were the most precious thing she owned.
Because it was.
Unfolding it carefully, she smoothed it out, a shaky smile forming. It was the only picture she had of her and her son. A day after he was born, minutes before he was ripped from her arms. It’d been the worst pain she’d ever experienced, having them take him from her while she screamed and kicked. It took three men to hold her down. Even now, decades later, she still heard her screams. Even now her throat ached from all the crying she’d done. Days she’d remained curled up in one position, grasping his blanket, using it to blot her tears.
The tears had stopped when she’d been assured he’d gone to a good home. That he was safe. She’d managed to survive a day, then a night, without her boy.
Her Colin.
At least he was safe, even though she didn’t ever get to know where he was or who had him. At least he was safe. She’d figured out how to live without himbecause he was safe. Because he was happy.
Until she found out years later none of that had been true. The bitch who’d been gifted that precious life, who was supposed to care for him, hadn’t.
She leaned back, holding up the photo. She was looking at the moment that she’d stopped giving a fuck about anything. The moment her arms were empty and she’d no longer held her son, she’d stopped caring about even her own life. Christopher would’ve killed her baby, seeing it as a constant reminder of her betrayal for getting pregnant by another man. Never mind that he’d been the one who’d forced her to sleep with Mark Dulles—at the time a young congressman with a promising future—intent on using that to blackmail the ambitious man into his pockets. Seraphina was only supposed to fuck Dulles, not get pregnant with his child.
She’d been horrified to learn about the pregnancy, but she could never get rid of her child. Never. She’d kept the pregnancy hidden for as long as she could until her time ran out. The day Christopher had found out, he’d beaten her until she could barely crawl. It’d been a miracle the baby had survived, and she’d promised him, as he’d stood over her with a knife, intent on cuttingthat thing—as he’d called her child—out of her, that she’d get rid of it when it was born. That she’d give it away.
But when that day had come, she couldn’t. She’d named him, held him to her breast, fed him while staring into his face, and she couldn’t. Because she’d done something she’d promised herself she’d never do.
She’d fallen in love.
When she’d refused to hand the baby over willingly, Christopher had ordered his men to rip him away. She’d begun plotting her husband’s death at that moment. Even as he’d patted her head while her entire body had shaken—from crying, from begging—telling her that the baby had gone to a good home, she’d fantasized about killing him. Weeks later he’d shown her pictures of a couple who were smiling while holding her baby. They’d looked so much in love, so happy to have him, that the pain in her chest had eased a little. It didn’t go away because she was still without her Colin, but he’d been with people who loved him.
Who wanted him.
They weren’t people she’d recognized. Christopher hadn’t given her names, and no matter how much she’d begged, he’d never relented.
When Colin was seven, Christopher showed her another picture. Her boy was all grown up in that one. A little bit chunky, happily smiling, showing off the space where his two front teeth should’ve been. So innocent. When she’d reached for that picture with trembling hands, unshed tears blinding her, her loving husband had ripped it into unsalvageable pieces and then tossed them at her.
It’d been the last time she’d seen her son until she’d tortured the truth out of Christopher before killing him. Only then did she get the names of the people who had her baby. By then her Colin was no longer Colin, but Israel Storm, a grown man. Dangerous. Untouchable. No longer in need of a mother after the psycho that had actually raised him.
But Seraphina still needed her son. She couldn’t abandon him the way she’d done before. She couldn’t let him go again.
Her son wanted nothing to do with her.
She touched that tiny face in the photo.
She was nothing to him now. Nothing.
But to her, he was as he’d always been… her everything.
It’d been nothing at all to kill that bitch who’d called herself his mother. Nothing to make it look like a suicide. She’d made a certain doctor a deal he couldn’t refuse. To save his family, he’d drugged that woman enough to coax her into writing a suicide note. Then he’d slit her wrist.
Then he’d taken his wife and daughter, along with the money Seraphina had paid him, and disappeared.
She’d been there when Israel had shown up after the doctor had called him. He hadn’t known about Seraphina then, but she’d watched her son and she’d known he was better off. Foolishly, she’d figured with that woman gone, Israel would welcome her once he found out who she was.
Instead, Israel had taken that man of his and disappeared, as if he’d known Seraphina would come hunting for him. He’d banned her from New York, as if that would stop her.
