“So,” Tate said after the kitchen staff cleared our plates. “Liv and I talked earlier… And we want to know the truth. We’re not staying with you unless you give us some answers.”
For someone who had nowhere to go and not a cent to his name, Tate was bold. I appreciated his no-nonsense attitude. Moving between foster homes and living on the streets had hardened his exterior.
“I want them too,” I admitted. “If you’re open to it, I would like to bring in a doctor to run some tests.”
Olivia folded her hands on the table, eyes fixed on me. “I don’t like doctors.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I told her. “They’ll take some blood and swab your mouth for DNA.”
She bit her trembling lip.
“It won’t hurt. I promise.”
Her gaze shifted to Tate.
He reached over and grabbed her hand. “You’ll be okay, Liv. The needle is just a little pinch.”
“It will be over in a minute,” I said to ease her concern. “We all want to know why my father sent me on this mission to look for you. If there’s a possibility we’re related, then I need to sort some things out.”
Tate cocked his head at me. “Sort out what?”
The thought of losing my birthright twisted my stomach into knots. I’d worked so hard to build Battle Industries into a powerhouse. My father ruined the lives of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of people in his pursuit of power. So, why would he want to throw it all away?
“If we share a father, you’re entitled to a third of my company.”
Olivia put her hand over her mouth and gasped.
Tate tapped my hand and rose from the table. “It’s time for you to show me the Battle Cave.”
After we ate dessert,I showed Olivia to the library, where she sat on a couch surrounded by books. I thought she wouldappreciate my collection, and I was right. Her expression brightened the second she saw my Harry Potter signed first editions.
Olivia flipped through the pages, remarking at how perfectly I’d preserved the books. Seeing her smile did something weird to my heart, and that feeling needed to go away.
With Olivia situated, I grabbed Tate and headed downstairs. The elevator doors opened beneath the ground level into my favorite place in the entire world. Dozens of screens hung on each wall. Several of the larger monitors extended from the ceiling. Desks lined the room’s corners, filled with laptops, servers, and more screens.
At the center of the open room was the oversized sectional couch where I slept most nights. I preferred the solace of my private domain. Down here, no one could bother me.
Tate’s eyes roamed around the room, impressed. “So, this is the Battle Cave? Sweet setup, man.” He inched into the room, unsure where to go. “This place is the size of the entire house. When you said cave, I thought something dark and not so… Well, not this.”
I patted him on the back and laughed. “Drink with me. We have a lot to discuss.”
Tate followed me to the bar on the right side of the room. I poured two glasses of scotch and passed one to Tate, swallowing the amber liquid in two gulps.
He sipped from the snifter and eyed me up. “Slow down, champ. The night is young. I need you to be coherent if we’re going to talk.”
I looked at Tate, studying each of his features, wondering if we were related. We both had dark hair, but I had my mother’s blue eyes. Tate could have had my father’s brown eyes, though it was hard to say for sure. As the months passed, memories of my father slipped from my mind like sand through a sieve.
Tate’s natural complexion was on the olive side, more like Marcello’s, where I was a shade or two lighter. Apart from our height and build, we had little in common.
I poured another drink and plopped onto the sectional couch beside Tate. “The day after my father’s funeral, I received a letter from his attorney. When he was alive, we never got along. He constantly looked down on me and didn’t treat me like a son. I don’t have any reason to believe you or Olivia are my siblings, but if you are, consider yourselves lucky not to have met the mean, old bastard.”
“We didn’t know our dad,” Tate admitted. “Our mom refused to tell us his name. But this guy used to come by the apartment when we were little. I remember little about him except that he had dark hair and wore suits and too much cologne.”
“That could be anyone I know.”
“I stopped asking my mom about my dad after she hit me so hard my skin ripped open.” He sipped from his glass and sighed. “She was on one of her benders and high as a kite. My mom kept screaming that no one was coming to save us and to forget about my father. That was the last time we ever spoke of him. A year later, she died.”
“I’m sorry,” I said because I didn’t know what else to say.
