Page 9 of Kingpin's Secret Baby

“Of course you were right,” another voice says through the speakerphone. I recognize it instantly, and my heart jolts.

Why is Piers on the phone with Achilles?

“I would’ve interfered because this is the worst fucking idea you’ve ever had,” Achilles continues. He’s furious, practically shouting. Even through the phone I can hear him loud and clear. “This isn’t your place, Piers, and it never was. This is a family matter-”

“Which family?” Piers snaps, and I flinch. “Warwick or Ashwood? Because you seemed perfectly fine with exiling her from the Ashwoods forever.”

“A judgement you agreed with at the time,” Achilles hisses. “Don’t try to pretend like you had nothing to do with this now. And don’t you dare insinuate that I did this because I don’t care about her. She’s still my sister.I can never forget that, no matter what she’s done. Sending her away means protecting her from Ashwoods who would mean her harm, and you know it.”

I have to fight not to audibly gasp. I hadn’t realized Piers gave his blessing to my banishment. At the time it had seemed only logical, considering how hated I was by the majority of the Ashwoods, that I should be removed from London as soon as possible. But had Piers had a chance to veto that punishment? Is he here purely out of guilt for his part in my exile?

It shouldn’t make a difference to me, but it does. I deserve to be where I am, as much as I hate it. I’ve made too many mistakes, hurt too many people. Achilles might think this distance I’ve gained will help me ‘heal’, but I’m far beyond repair. It’s for everyone’s benefit that I’m here, where I can’t do anymore harm.

And if Piers thinks this is a bad idea, when he of all people should want me gone, then he’s a fool.

“She’s still a Warwick by blood,” Piers says, making my stomach twist with disgust. Why is he fighting for me based on that technicality?

Yes, my father was Marcus Warwick, the head of the Warwick family. But to me, he was never a father. Not really. He was a shadow looming over my childhood, always watching but never seeing me. Not the way I wanted him to.

I remember being eight years old, standing in the Warwick dining room, clutching my mother’s hand as Marcus sat across from us, cold and unmoved. My mother had just finished speaking- listing out all the reasons why I was strong enough, smart enough, ruthless enough to follow in his footsteps. She promised him I could become everything he’d wanted in a successor- and everything she wanted in her revenge. I should’ve been scared, but I wasn’t. I was desperate. Desperate for him to look at me like I mattered. Like I was more than an inconvenience he'd been forced to tolerate.

But all he did was laugh. A sharp, dismissive bark that made my mother’s nails dig into my wrist.

“She’s just a child,” he said, waving us away like we were beneath his notice.

Just a child.

I spent years trying to prove him wrong. I memorized his contacts, his allies, his enemies. I learned to play his own men against each other before I was old enough to drive. I became everything my mother told me I had to be- sharp, clever, merciless. And still, he never looked at me like I was enough.

By the time I was sixteen, I knew better than to expect warmth from him. But I still thought he'd choose me- that he'd finally see me as someone worth trusting with the family legacy.

When I found out he’d chosen Piers, I begged him for an explanation. His answer was simple: “You don’t have what it takes. You’re too emotional. Too weak.”

He was dead to me the moment he passed me over as his successor. I even killed him to make sure he knew it. Carrying the Warwick name, along with the Ashwood name through my mother, has felt more like two burdens than two boons. Both my mother and my father have only ever brought me misery.

I’d just as soon forget them both.

“And you’re a Warwick by choice,” Achilles shoots back. “You are theheadof the Warwick family, by choice. Or have you changed your mind about that too?”

“If I’m the head of one of the most influential mafia families in London, but I can’t even support the woman I-” Piers cuts himself off, but after a moment starts again. “What is the fuckin’ point?”

There’s a tense silence. Then Achilles asks, more quietly than before, “What good do you think you’re doing there, Piers? What do you expect to achieve that doctors and therapists can’t?”

“She doesn’t just need medical help,” Piers insists. “Who does she fucking know here, Achilles? Not her bodyguards. There’s no regular staff in the house for her to form connections with. She needs companions. She needs friends-”

“You flew across the Atlantic ocean to be her friend?”

Piers is silent for a long time, long enough that I realize I’ve been holding my breath because black spots are starting to float in my vision. I inhale shallowly, not wanting to miss a single word.

“Yes,” Piers says at last, and it sounds like he’s admitting defeat. “Yes, all right? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“What I want to hear is what the hell makes you think she still wants to be your friend.”

My brother says this in his gentlest voice, and that’s what makes my eyes prick with tears.

“You are a living reminder of her worst mistakes,” Achilles goes on, hammering another nail into my heart. His voice lowers, obliterating his individual words, but I hear Piers sigh hard in response to whatever else he says.

Silence stretches again. I swallow the tears making my throat ache. At last, Piers replies, “I’m not leaving.”

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