Savage Lover: A Dark Mafia Romance (Brutal Birthright Book 3)

When I wake up in the morning, the sun seems horrendously bright and my head is pounding. I stumble into the kitchen, still wearing Patricia’s romper, and pour myself a giant tumbler of water from the kitchen sink. I gulp it down, feeling like a raisin dried out in the sun.

I drink and drink until my belly is sloshing. Then I set the cup down, wincing at the loud clink it makes on the counter.

I remember that line from the Jay-Z song—MDMA got you feelin’ like a champion . . .

Well, the morning after, it has me feeling like a boxer who took a hundred hits to the face and fell right out of the ring.

And that’s before I remember how I verbally vomited every single thought in my head out to Nero Gallo.

I’m blushing redder than a Ferrari just thinking about it. I told him everything. Every last secret I had. Including the fact that I’m completely infatuated with him.

But . . . it’s not a total disaster.

Because Nero told me something, too. I haven’t forgotten about it—he told me what happened to his mother. I get the feeling that’s not something he shares with a lot of people.

And then . . . oh, I definitely remember what happened after that.

Only the most brain-bending, earth-shattering, back-breaking orgasm of my life. An orgasm that probably should be illegal, because there’s no way something that feels that good can be handed out willy-nilly. It’s too much for a human being to handle.

Oh, yes, I remember every second of that encounter. It’s seared into my brain forever.

And yet, we didn’t have sex after. Nero drove me home instead.

I almost think he was trying to be a gentleman. Though, I must still be high to believe that. Because Nero is about the farthest thing from a gentleman I’ve ever encountered. Or at least he was . . . until last night.

This is too much of a conundrum for my throbbing brain to ponder. I’ve got something entirely different to worry about. Five blonde hairs tucked in the pocket of my romper. They’re still there—a little sandy, but relatively unharmed.

I tuck them into an envelope, googling the closest place to get a paternity test. I find a place called Fastest Labs, which sounds like exactly what I’m looking for. “Immediate and Comprehensive Testing Services—Walk-Ins Welcome!” Perfect.

I drive over there with my envelope of stolen DNA clutched in my sweaty little fist.

I haven’t showered or changed my clothes or washed the makeup off my face from the night before, so I’m looking significantly less cute than I did when Patricia finished working her magic on me. But I don’t give a damn. I fit right in with the rest of the people waiting for their mandatory drug and alcohol testing.

I give the envelope to a female technician. She dons a pair of plastic gloves, then uses a pair of tweezers to grab the hairs out of the envelope, holding them up under the bright fluorescent light and squinting.

“We usually want seven to ten hairs,” she says. “But you’ve got some decent follicles attached. This might work.”

“I’ve got a toothbrush from the other subject,” I say.

I pass her Vic’s toothbrush in a plastic baggie. I could have gotten a swab from inside his mouth, but I didn’t really want to tell him what I was doing, any more than I told Bella. Vic is insistent that he doesn’t care about his biological father. And maybe he really doesn’t want to know. But he needs money for school. We’re too poor to be prideful.

“I want to know the familial relationship,” I tell the technician. “If there is one.”

“No problem,” she says. “It’ll take a couple hours. Assuming we can gather enough DNA to run through the system.”

“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll wait.”

I snag a chair in the waiting room, one positioned in the corner so I can lean my head against the wall and try to take a nap. Several times I nod off, only to be jerked awake again when the receptionist calls someone’s name at about ten times the volume necessary for the tiny space.

At least they have a water cooler. I drink about eight more cups of water, then visit the bathroom several times.

“You part fish?” an old man teases me, after my fifth or sixth drink.

“I wish,” I groan. “Then I wouldn’t be able to hear Nurse Ratched over there.”

“NAGORSKI!” the receptionist bellows at the top of her lungs, making the windows rattle.

“That’s the benefit of going deaf,” the old man says serenely. “I just turn down my hearing aid.”

It takes another hour for the receptionist to shout, “RIVERA!”

As soon as she does, I jump up to pay my $149 fee to receive my results.

I’m out of cash, so I have to put the charge on a credit card. It takes a couple tries to find one that’s not already maxed out.

“You should really pay those off,” the receptionist tells me, as my MasterCard finally allows the charge. “Carrying a balance is bad for your credit score.”

“It’s this fun game between me and the bank,” I tell her. “I like to keep them guessing.”

She narrows her eyes at me, trying to decide if I’m joking.

“Financial accountability is nothing to joke about, young lady.”

“You’re right,” I say, snatching the envelope of results out of her hand. “I’ll pay off those cards the moment I win the lottery.”

I take the envelope outside to open it.

My hand is shaking a little, and I feel a sense of dread.

I went to all this trouble to prove my theory, but the truth is, I’d rather be wrong. For the last fifteen years, Vic has belonged to me and my dad, and nobody else. He was the center of our world. We loved him like crazy. My dad built him a Transformers Halloween costume that really could transform from a robot to a fire truck. I made his lunch every day for school and drew little cartoons on the bag to make him laugh. We planned his birthday parties, his Christmas presents. We all went to Cubs games together—sitting in the shittiest seats, but it didn’t matter, because we were the perfect little family unit. Happy with our nosebleed seats and our hotdogs.

I don’t know why I ever thought it was a good idea to fuck that up.

Except that my dad and I are sinking. I can’t bear to drag Vic down with us. If we can’t give him the future he deserves, then somebody else has to do it.

So I rip open the envelope and I pull out the results.

It takes me a minute to understand what I’m looking at.

Subject 1: Victor Rivera.

Subject 2: Unknown Female.

21.6% shared, 29 segments.

Possible Relationships: Uncle/Niece, Aunt/Nephew, Grandfather/Granddaughter, Grandmother/Grandson, Half-Siblings.

Right. The test can’t tell the age of the subjects, so it’s just guessing how they might be related. But I know Victor and Bella. Bella’s not his aunt, or his grandmother. Which means . . . she’s definitely his half-sister.

I let out a long sigh. I don’t know whether to be relieved, or deeply unhappy.

I think I’m leaning toward the latter.

You could tear it up right now. Throw it in the trash. Never tell anybody.

I could do that. But I’d be doing it for me. Not for Vic.

I give myself five minutes to feel a sense of loss. Then I stuff the paper back into the envelope and square my shoulders.

I’m going home to take a shower. Then I’m going to track down Raymond Page. I’m going to make him listen to me this time—even if I have to stuff that envelope right down his throat.

I get back to Alliance Bank just in time for Raymond’s lunch break.

This time I’m a little smarter. I cleaned myself up, putting on the one nice dress I own—it’s black, and I wore it to my grandma’s funeral, but it helps me fit in a little better in this neighborhood. I wait outside the bank, then follow Raymond to his restaurant of choice, staying back a good half-block so he won’t catch sight of me.

He leaves the building at almost exactly the same time as before, with a different employee by his side this time—a pudgy guy with glasses, who keeps trying to read information to Raymond out of a folder, while simultaneously trying to match Raymond’s long stride which forces him to jog alongside his boss.

Raymond takes no account of the pedestrians in his path. He plows straight ahead, trusting the self-preservation of everybody else who has to jump out of his way.

He enters a fancy-looking seafood place called La Mer. I watch through the window while the hostesses practically fall all over themselves to greet and seat him.

When I enter, they give me a much less friendly, “Can I help you?”

“I’m here with Uncle Ray,” I say, pointing in the direction that Page disappeared.

“Oh,” the girl says. “I’ll take you to the table.”

“That’s okay,” I say, pushing past her. “I want to surprise him.”

As I sneak up to Raymond’s table, I see the pudgy guy take a quick sip of his water, then hurry over to the bathroom.

Perfect.

I slip into the booth opposite Page. He barely glances up at first, thinking it’s just his buddy back already. Then he sees me sitting across from him, and his expression changes from mild surprise to pure fury.

“You’d better have an extremely good reason for bothering me again,” he hisses.

“You didn’t bother to ask what I wanted the first time,” I tell him.

“I don’t give a damn what you want,” he says, his dark eyes narrowed. They’re the only striking feature in an otherwise craggy face. The lashes that are so pretty on Vic are utterly disturbing on Raymond. They make him look like a creepy doll—the kind that would sit on a shelf in a horror movie, then come alive at night to stab you.

But I can’t let him intimidate me. I’m here for Vic, not for myself.

“Maybe your wife would be interested in what I have to say,” I tell him. “Unless she’s okay with you cheating on her.”

Raymond doesn’t like that at all.

His hand whips across the table, seizing me by the wrist.

“You think you can threaten me?” he hisses. “Do you have any FUCKING clue who I am?”

I refuse to wince, no matter how hard he tries to twist my arm.

“I know exactly who you are,” I tell him. “That’s why I’m here.”

With my free hand, I pull the envelope out of my pocket and slide it across the table toward him. I’ve already scanned the test results, in case he tries to tear it up or something.

“What the fuck is this?” Raymond says.

Without waiting for my answer, he pulls out the paper and reads it in a glance.

I covered over Vic’s name with a black sharpie, but the rest of the information is there.

“Explain,” Raymond says curtly.

“You have a son,” I tell him. “I compared his DNA with Bella’s.”

I see his eyes flick up quickly from the page, then back down again.

It’s hard to read his expression. He’s angry, obviously. But he lets go of my wrist, reading more closely.

I wonder if he’s actually pleased at the idea?

Bella is his only child, as far as I know. He doesn’t seem to give much of a shit about her. Maybe he always wanted a boy?

“Who is this supposed son?” he says.

I hesitate. I was going to tell him. But now I’m realizing that I could be creating a dangerous situation for Vic. I don’t know Page at all. Except that he’s connected to a whole bunch of criminals, and he himself isn’t afraid to break the law.

“I’m not going to tell you that right now,” I say.

“Why not?”

“Because I want to know your intentions, first.”

Raymond lets out a barking laugh. “My intentions?”

“That’s right.”

Raymond’s colleague has returned to the table. He’s a short, tubby guy with a carefully-trimmed beard and an expensive suit that still doesn’t fit him very well. His tinted glasses look like the kind Tony Stark wears, but a lot less cool.

He stops short when he sees me occupying his seat.

“Oh, hello . . .” he says, awkwardly.

Without looking at him, Raymond says, “Go wash your hands again, Porter.”

“Right,” Porter says, turning around on his heel and marching back to the bathrooms without a second glance.

“You’ve got your employees well-trained,” I say.

“You can’t even imagine what I could tell him to do,” Raymond says, in an icy tone. “If I asked him to drag you out of this restaurant and throw you directly into oncoming traffic, I wouldn’t even have to say ‘please.’ ”

My skin is clammy. I desperately want to blink, but I won’t let myself drop his stare for a second. Men like this feed off of fear.

“Look,” I say. “It’s pretty clear that you don’t like being inconvenienced. I won’t waste your time. You got an escort pregnant, and now you’ve got a son. He has no interest in creating some big public scandal. Neither do I. I don’t know what you’d owe in child support—probably some insane number. We’re not greedy—I’m just asking for a one-time payment to make this disappear, permanently. Fifty thousand for your son’s education. And you never have to hear from either of us ever again.”

It’s not much money. Page is wearing a watch that probably costs that much. Hell, his suit might, too.

Raymond seems to be thinking the same thing. He slowly folds the test results into a perfect rectangle, then slides it back into the envelope. He passes it across the table to me.

“What assurance do I have that you won’t come back for more?” he asks me.

“My word,” I tell him.

He looks at my stern, steady expression.

Then he reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a checkbook. He slips the cap off his pen—fancy, gold-tipped, engraved.

He writes out a check, rips it out of the book, and pushes it across the table to me.

“That’s what I’m willing to pay,” he tells me.

I pick it up. The check says, “$0.00.”

“Not. One. Fucking. Cent,” Raymond seethes. “If I ever see your face again, or this so-called spawn of mine, I’ll introduce the pair of you to a colleague of mine who isn’t nearly as friendly as Porter. I like to call him The Dentist. He’ll pull out every one of your teeth with pliers, down to the last molar. And I’m afraid he doesn’t use anesthetic. We’ll see how well you negotiate then, with a mouthful of gums. You have my word on that.”

I set the check down on the table with trembling hands.

“No,” Raymond hisses. “Take it with you. As a reminder. If I hear one fucking whisper in this city about a bastard son . . . I don’t think it will be hard to find you. And stay the fuck away from my daughter.”

I stand up from the table. I’m terrified that Raymond is going to get up too, but he remains seated. He doesn’t do anything to stop me as I stumble out of the restaurant.