Page 1 of Kingpin's Secret Baby

Chapter 1

Fantasia

“Flight attendants, please prepare for arrival.”

The captain’s voice crackles over the intercom, but I barely register the words. My fingers tighten around the armrest as the plane tilts forward, descending through the thick clouds, until the wheels finally touch the tarmac.

My plane is landing in a new country, but it doesn’t feel like a new beginning. It feels like the end.

The passengers around me are fidgeting in their seats, zipping up their carry-ons, and eagerly waiting to reunite with whoever or whatever awaits them. But for me, there's no one left to rush back to. Everything and everyone I know are in England, a country I've been exiled from. My brother, Achilles, with his shiny new family. My home, Wesley Hall, haunted as it might be by the ghosts of my father and all the men who told me I would never be enough.

But Wesley Hall isn't mine anymore. Now it belongs to Piers, my brother's best friend.Mybest friend too… once… but it feels like another lifetime.

The plane grinds to a halt. The bell dings, the seatbelt light blinks off, and the cabin erupts into the usual rustle of unbuckling. I stand, rolling my stiff shoulders, as the man behind me exhales loudly.

“Ah, that’s nice! Here’s to the start of a new journey, huh?” His British voice is directed- not at me, but at the passenger beside him. He’d been chatty at takeoff, but now, for the first time, something in his tone prickles at me. I glance back.

He’s still seated, head bowed under aNew York Yankeescap, the brim tilted just low enough to hide his eyes. A flicker of recognition-

The carry-on smashes into my ribs. Air leaves my lungs in a whoosh as I stagger backward. Before I can right myself, my bodyguard’s hand clamps around my arm, wrenching me into the aisle. The cap, the voice, the nagging sense ofknowing- gone before I can stitch them together.

No matter. Another English accent in a sea of Americans held some novelty- just not enough to endure ten hours of forced conversation. Fleeting is generous. Forgotten is better.

My bodyguards- my nannies- Matthew Barnes and Damien Armstrong, flank me as we step off the plane. I can almost appreciate their presence now. I've never been on a commercial flight before, only private ones when I was younger. Barnes, a towering figure, blocks my view, but I don't mind. There's nothing to see anyway in Raleigh, North Carolina.

The Raleigh-Durham airport is bustling, but with my bodyguards leading the way, we cut through the crowd swiftly. None of us have luggage to claim, since we brought only carry-on bags. My departure from London was a hurried one, a necessity to escape my enemies. We have only the essentials with us; the rest will come later.

My eyes wander over the crowd of travelers- tired families with small children, businessmen in rumpled suits, and people of all varieties holding up hand-drawn signs, trying to find the person they’re here to meet. And then, a flash of red hair catches my eye. I blink, and there he is: Piers Warwick.

My heart stops. He looks exactly the same as he did a year ago, and somehow completely different. His usually smooth-shaven square jaw is dark with rust-colored stubble, his hair a little longer than before, curling around his ears and forehead.

His dark green eyes meet mine briefly before sliding away, fixing on something behind me. They widen, his whole face twisting with sudden recognition. I whip around, slamming into Armstrong and treading on his feet, desperate to see who’s standing behind me. Who is Piers looking at if it isn’tme?!

A man in sunglasses just behind Barnes lowers his head, the bill of his baseball cap throwing his face into shadow. There’s no one I know in the crowd behind him. And when I turn back, Piers is gone.

I blink rapidly, trying to clear my vision but he doesn't reappear. What would Piers be doing here in the States when he has an empire to rebuild in London?

The truth is, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen Piers only to realize he was a figment of my imagination. For a miserable eternity in my old room in Wesley Hall, what I was informed later was only a week-long trial, I sweated out the alcohol I’d used to keep my thoughts blurry and my nightmares at bay. Every time I opened my crusty eyes, Piers would be sitting at my bedside. But every time I reached out to touch him, slap him, or grab him and never let go, he wasn’t there.

A hand touches my shoulder and I nearly leap out of my skin. Armstrong moves in front of me, looking impatient.

“Try not to stop, ma’am, or we’ll lose you in the crowd,” he says, his black eyes hard.

That doesn’t sound half bad, but I don’t care enough to argue. My thoughts are still reeling from the sight of Piers. How long will these withdrawal hallucinations last?

More importantly, how much longer will Piers Warwick haunt me?

Maybe I deserve to be haunted after ordering my brother to kill him and driving two families nearly to bankruptcy trying to hunt him down after he failed to die.

Armstrong is in front of me now, perhaps not wanting to chance being stepped on again. Once we exit the terminal, I take a moment to suck in a full breath and try to recenter myself before following behind them. The crush of bodies eases, finally, but if I’m not careful I really will be lost here.

I take two steps before noticing something strange. Not the red hair of a man who shouldn’t be here but the purposeful, almost aggressive strut of two men moving through the crowd.

Toward me.

They’re dressed similarly, both in black blazers and slacks, with white and gold handkerchiefs tucked into their breast pockets. That’s all I see before Armstrong and Barnes step in front of me, blocking the men’s path and my view.

“Hey-” one of the men begins.

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