The Wileys betrayed me, stole my legacy, and one day they’ll pay for it.
But the time for retribution was later. For now, he had to convince De Villier that they were kin. Even if he despised the bastard, he would swallow his pride for the sake of survival. Like an alley cat, he didn’t give a damn whose hand fed him as long as he got food in his belly. Once he was strong and powerful, he would get his due.
“Mama gave me a ring, sir. Made o’ gold and set with a bloodstone in the center.” Encouraged by the flicker in those dark eyes, he forged on. “The bloodstone was carved with the initials ‘A. D.’ There was an inscription inside the band too.”
Was it his imagination, or did the blighter sit up straighter?
De Villier said slowly, “What did it say?”
“It wasn’t in English.” Anthony’s mama had shown him the Latin, told him the meaning. “Numquam obliviscar,it means—”
“Never forget,” De Villier said in a low voice.
Hope burgeoned inside Anthony; he gave a vigorous nod.
“You have this ring?”
“The Wileys stole it from me,” he admitted.
De Villier regarded him dispassionately. “Then you have no proof.”
A cold droplet trickled down his spine. “I ain’t got the ring, but I described it, didn’t I?” From Wiley, he’d learned that pleading was futile, the strategy of the weak. He kept his voice strong and steady. “You can’t deny you know what I’m speaking o’—”
“I do.”
Relief burst in him. “So…you believe me? That I’m your son?”
De Villier lifted his right hand, the one that had been below Anthony’s line of sight, onto the desk. Shock barricaded Anthony’s breath: he stared in disbelief at the heavy gold ring, the crimson-flecked black stone that bore those distinctive initials.
“I d-don’t understand,” he stammered. “’Ow do you ’ave the ring…?”
“Wiley,” De Villier said.
Wiley gave it to him?Before Anthony could make sense of it, a side door opened—and Roger Wiley entered the study. At the sight of the sweep’s cruel features, self-preservation overrode shock, and Anthony bolted toward the main door. He didn’t make it, the familiar beefy hand catching him by the scruff, lifting him clear off the ground.
He yelled for his life, punching and kicking out. Wiley’s fist slammed into his jaw. Metallic pain flooded his mouth, the blows coming again and again, pounding the fight out of him. Finally, he slumped to the ground, curling up against the onslaught, the truth more agonizing than bruises and shattered bones.
De Villier knew about me…this whole bleedin’ time…
“That is enough.” De Villier’s voice came from above him.
“Beg pardon, sir,” Wiley replied. “What do you want me to do wif the bugger?”
“Your job was to keep him away. That was the deal.”
“Brat’s slippery as a lamprey. From now on, I’ll keep ’im chained night and day—”
“No. I want a permanent solution.”
“Do you mean…?”
“I don’t want to see him again.”
De Villier’s command penetrated the red waves of agony. Anthony forced himself to sit up, to look at his sire.
“I ’ave your blood,” he gasped out. “You would murder you own son?”
De Villier’s eyes were as cold and dark as the Thames. “A powerful man isn’t blinded by sentiment.”
