Page 8 of LA Reign

Alana rolls back her shoulders. “Lucia doesn’t want to go back to the Bakers, or to any other temporary foster family.”

“That is not my fucking problem.” The words are out before I can soften them.

“I want her to stay with us,” Alana says calmly. “She wants to apply for emancipation. Until then…she’d like to stay here.”

“What?” I stare at her. “That could take fucking months.”

“I know.” Her voice wavers just slightly. “But where else can she go?”

Not back to the Bakers, I agree on that. But to a different foster home. Anywhere but here. That’s what I want to say. But Alana is gazing at me with those big brown eyes that undo every ounce of discipline I’ve built over decades. She doesn’t even realize she does it. She just looks at me like I’m the man who can fix everything. And I hate that I want to be.

I take a deep breath and calm my temper before I turn to Lucia and speak. “Come with me.”

She stands immediately. Obedient at least. When it suits her, anyway.

“Wait. Where are you going?” Alana asks, stepping forward, her tone laced with panic. Does she think I’m about to throw the kid on the street right now?

I hold my wife’s gaze. “I need to talk to Lucia. Alone.”

Alana stares at me, jaw angled up defiantly and her beautiful eyes narrowed in suspicion. It takes a minute before she finally relents. “Fine,” she mumbles.

I signal Lucia to follow me and head to my study. If this girl is going to live under my roof, I need to know exactly what kind of trouble I’m inviting inside.

My office door shuts with a heavy click, and I take a seat at my desk. Lucia sits opposite me, chin lifted, eyes defiant. Around Alana she’s different. Soft. Vulnerable. Almost sweet. With me, she’s steel. I wonder which one of those personas is an act? Perhaps they both are. Or maybe they’re both real.

Still, it alarms me how easily she switches between the two. She needs to know that I’m not Alana. I’m no soft touch, and my heart will not bleed for her. I lean back in my chair and study her the way I would an adversary across a negotiation table.

“My office is soundproof,” I tell her. “Anything you say in here stays between us.”

She nods. “Okay.”

“Why did you come to LA?”

“I already told you.” Her tone is flat, almost disinterested. “I wanted away from my ex and away from Philly. LA was the first bus leaving the station.”

That’s a rehearsed answer if ever I heard one. “Why did you target my wife?”

Her brows knit together. “I didn’t target her. She was nice to me. She cared.” Her jaw tightens. “I hadn’t felt that in a long time. I liked her before I even knew who she was.”

“And when you found out?”

She hesitates. “I know I should’ve backed off,” she admits. “I knew there was a chance you’d figure out who I was.”

“So why didn’t you?”

She looks me dead in the eye. “Because if I’m important to her, then maybe I’m important to you. And that keeps me—and my baby—safe.”

Her honesty catches me off guard. I lean back slowly, rubbing my jaw. That wasn’t manipulation, it was strategy, and I admire her way of thinking.

“Don’t judge me,” she adds quickly. “It’s self-preservation. I’ve been surviving on my own for eight years, and now I have a baby to think about, too.”

Her hand drifts to her belly, spreading over it protectively. It doesn’t go unnoticed that she says she’s been on her own for eight years when her father was only killed two years ago.

I nod once. “Tell me about the night your father and brothers were killed.”

Her composure fractures for half a second. Her lower lip trembles before she clamps down on it. “Eight men came into our house while we were sleeping,” she says. Her tone becomes distant. Clinical even. “Four of them were my father’s own men. They knew the codes. Knew where the guns were.”

She swallows.