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Abel nodded. “That’s right.”
“That’s her soft spot. That’s where I’ll hit her,” Roman stated. He’d been trained to identify weakness and then exploit it to achieve his goals. This time would be no different.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Angela’s pet project is a pit, Roman thought as he walked around the grounds of the old orphanage.
The location was good—prime, even—from a business perspective. But it was practically falling down in places. Not to mention all the graffiti. Saint Andrews had been a boys’ home fifty years ago, before being vacant for at least ten. Luca had given him a lot of information about the center, as well as the nun who ran it.
Sister Philomena was an active and vocal member of the community, acting in service from the time she was twenty-one. She was now eighty-eight and showed no signs of slowing down. Luca had warned him that the nun was well-loved, including by Angela. So that was where Roman intended to start. He had yet to meet a woman he couldn’t charm—holy or otherwise.
“Excuse me, can I help you?” an old female voice came from behind him.
Roman stiffened for a moment, surprised because he had not heard her approach. He turned, smiling warmly at the nun who watched him politely—and shrewdly. Roman’s smile dipped a little. The woman in front of him may have been devoted to the church and the community, but she was no one’s fool. Roman looked around, noting they were alone. He knew Angela was on the grounds somewhere. Abel had followed her here just thirty minutes prior. Salvatore had accompanied Roman, but he was waiting in the car. Not that he was happy about it.
Roman rarely went anywhere on his own, even though he was more than capable of looking after himself. But he had a lot of enemies, the worst being his family. And Sal, Abel, and Morrigan were very protective of him. Each acted as his personal security whenever was out in public. But he wanted to talk to Angela on his own. He didn’t want his annoying and observant friends to discover he had slept with her. Plus, it would be the first real conversation with her since the mutual orgasms.
“Forgive me for trespassing,” Roman said with a charming smile. “I was just looking for a friend. I believe she volunteers here.”
“We have lots of volunteers,” the nun replied serenely, offering no further information.
“I’m glad to hear it. I do hope my recent donation will be put to good use.” He looked around, taking in the cracks and the dreary atmosphere. “It looks like you could use a few more donations.”
“Oh, you’re the silent donor?” She moved closer, placing her hand on his arm. “Thank you very much. I am Sister Philomena, the manager here you could say. I guarantee the goodness of its use.”
Roman patted her hand. “I believe you. It’s lovely to meet you, Sister Philomena.”
“Call me Sister Pip, everyone else does.” She stared at him for a moment, squeezing his arm before moving her hand. She twisted the rosary hanging from her habit as she spoke. “You look very much like her.”
“Who?” he asked, confused.
“Your mother.”
Roman went still. “I beg your pardon?” What was the old nun playing at?
“I met her once,” Sister Philomena clarified. “Just once”
Roman narrowed his eyes. “And you remembered her? All these years later, and after just one meeting?”
“You sound suspicious, young man,” the Sister pointed out. “I don’t suppose I blame you, given who you are.”
“Now you know who I am?” Roman couldn’t contain his scoff.
“Of course,” Sister Philomena confirmed with a smile. She winked at him. “Everyone knows about the rebel mafia prince.”
Roman groaned, momentarily derailed. Would that nickname ever stop following him around? He vowed to find the news press who had first called him that and slaughter every one of its employees.
Sister Philomena laughed loudly. “You don’t like the moniker?”
“Not at all,” Roman responded. But he was smiling once again.
“I don’t blame you,” the woman offered. “What should I call you then?”
He considered the elderly nun carefully. She looked innocent enough. But so did some of the worst people in history. His gut had only ever failed him once. And since then, he’d made it a point to fine-tune it to the nth degree. And now, he trusted his instincts implicitly. They were telling him the canny old woman was a friend and not a foe. But the reference to his mother was bothersome. In the end, he inclined his head towards her, saying, “Roman. Just Roman.”
She smiled. “Well, Roman. To answer your question, I met your mother when she asked me for aid to escape your father.”
His renewed good humor fled in an instant. He didn’t even try to censor his language. “What the fuck?”
