The Lonely Wolf (9 page)

Drako focused on cleaning the bottles for a few seconds, then placed them on the draining tray over the sink, and turned to face Lupo. “I don’t know you, and I might speak out of turn, but remember that there are many truths to any story.”

“Okay.” He rolled his eyes at the platitude. Rich people had all the answers.

“Anyway, Ludwig and Quintilius will be here shortly,” Drako said before drying his hands with a dishcloth. He then gave him a mock salute with a finger to his temple and left.

Although Lupo would have enjoyed some time alone, Ravenna entered the kitchen a moment later, carrying with her the two boys, while Marta held the girl in her arms. He wondered why people that affluent didn’t employ full-time nannies to take care of the kids, but instead the whole household seemed to revolve around the little ones’ whims and desires.

Used to the orphanage’s treatment of infants and toddlers, he only knew that kids must sleep, eat, and poop all at the same time to avoid disrupting the daily schedule of the adults. He had never thought the orphanage was a cruel place, but seeing how the famous Enforcer let her boys regurgitate on her expensive clothes with nothing more than a chuckle and a request for a wet cloth, he asked himself what else was different outside the four walls of the orphanage.

“Do you need anything?” Ravenna addressed him as she placed the kids into their highchairs, then proceeded to wipe milk from her black blouse.

“No, thanks. I’m fine.” He had kept repeating he was fine anytime someone offered to help him.

“Have you eaten enough?” Marta asked, while she single-handedly removed a warm tray from the oven and kept the girl balanced on her side.

“Let me.” He took the girl from the woman’s arm.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Marta said, taking Lupo by surprise.

Never in his life had he been called with an endearing name. It was a small thing, yet it filled his heart with joy.

“Woofie, beau!” The girl passed a chubby hand over Lupo’s face, touching his eyes, nose, and lips, and smearing him with something that might have been milk but felt much denser.

“Arianna, behave.” Ravenna walked toward Lupo with her arms open to receive the toddler who beamed a big toothless and quite wet smile at her mother.

“
Mamma
, beau!” Arianna bounced up and down on Lupo’s lap then she threw herself at Ravenna.

Nothing more than a leap of a few centimeters, but to Lupo it signified much more than that. He had just witnessed the trust between a parent and her offspring, a display of blind love he had never had any opportunity to witness before.

“Do you like Lupo, Arianna?” Ravenna asked, covering her kid with loud kisses.

Amidst giggles, Arianna turned and pointed at Lupo. “Woofie, beau beau!”

“
Papa
is beau beau!” Drako called from the door. “I can’t believe it. First Raphael, now Lupo. What is it with this kid and shifters?”

“Get used to it, my love.” Ravenna released Arianna into her father’s embrace. “There’s a certain were-bat she seems much attached to—”

“Mark my words.” Drako interrupted his companion with a raised finger. “I won’t have Marcus as my princess’s father-in-law. It won’t happen.”

Ravenna slightly shook her head and laughed.

Lupo had to avert his gaze, uncomfortable with the familial scene. In a heist, he would have pulled his weight, but the sweetness in that room had reached a level he couldn’t stomach anymore.

“Anyway, I came back for Lupo.” Drako gestured for Lupo to follow him outside. “Let’s go to my studio. There, you’ll have some privacy if you want to collect your thoughts.”

Grateful for the chance to leave the kitchen, Lupo sprang out of his chair and followed the Greek into the hallway.

“Ready to meet Quintilius?” Drako was walking a step ahead of him, but paused and turned when Lupo didn’t immediately answer.

“I’ve met him already.” To the man’s puzzled expression, Lupo added, “It was several years ago, at the orphanage where he dumped me.”

The rest of the walk through the immortal’s mansion was conducted in silence. The day before, Lupo’d had a glimpse of the house, but his mind was elsewhere. Now, anger was replacing his previous bewilderment and a disembodied kind of lucidity overtook him. Details like Japanese vases alongside Roman pottery stood out. Everything in the house had an ancient and expensive aura.

Never having visited a museum, Lupo had no idea what the inside of one such place would look like, but he thought that Drako’s could have hosted several exhibits.

At the arched junction with two well-lit smaller hallways, Drako took the one on the right, then stopped before a dark door decorated with an Art Deco scene and let Lupo in. He knew what Art Deco art was because he had watched a TV show where rich Romans opened their houses to a filming crew for a few days. One of the houses he had liked the most had been built at the end of the nineteen twenties.
The purist girl’s building is a good example of Art Deco
, he thought, and his mind went to her.
What is she doing? Will I see her again?
The memory of her scent and her eyes so powerful, his wolf whined.

“Lupo?” Drako called him back to Earth as he held the door for him. “Please.” The studio was small and cozy with a few pieces of Art Deco furniture, and among them two sofas angled to face the big window and the French doors overlooking the immaculate Italian garden.

“Make yourself comfortable.” Hovering at the entrance, Drako waited for Lupo to take a seat, then strolled before him and leaned against the windowsill, crossing his ankles, one hand caressing his chin and jaw. “May I ask you something?”

Not used to talking to strangers, Lupo let out a suffered breath and sank into the sofa. “It depends.”

With a small laugh, Drako whispered, “Alphas,” then said, “For all your tough attitude, you’re still here. Why?”

Lupo straightened, his wolf senses on alert. “What do you mean?”

“This is not a prison.” Drako pointed his chin at the door to his right. “You had plenty of chances to simply walk away last night. Yet, you didn’t.”

“I thought about it.”

While Raphael had been sleeping, Lupo had listened to his soft snoring, unable to relax. He had wondered why there were no guards outside the bedroom, but, in truth, he didn’t make any attempt to leave. Not willing to let Drako lead the conversation, he asked instead, “Why do you want to know? Why do you care at all?”

Drako smiled at his outburst, his lips curving up and his gaze softening as he had done when looking at his baby girl, annoying Lupo even more. “Because I’m a father and it breaks my heart to see how much you’ve suffered—”

“You know nothing about me. So stop assuming.” The hair on his back stood up on end, and his fangs elongated in his mouth, but Lupo kept his wolf at bay. A moment later, he leaned against the back of the sofa and crossed his right leg over his left knee, hands linked behind his head. “I don’t need your pity.”

“And you don’t have it.” Pushing himself away from the windowsill, Drako stepped forward, and on his way out he lingered a moment to say, “What you have is my respect.” At the door, he added, “I’ll leave you alone, but if you need anything just use the phone. Dial one to call Pietro.”

As soon as the man’s steps echoed in the hallway, needing a breath of fresh air, Lupo stood and walked to the French doors, opened them then exited the room altogether. Like the immortal had said, Lupo could escape from there in a second. All he had to do was to keep walking the whole length of the garden and reach one of the gates at the perimeter of the estate. It should have been an easy decision. The only decision that made any sense, when he thought of the consequences of not having reported to the Reds’ compound yet.

He could have explained his night out to Rock, somehow. When you live in an orphanage, lying becomes second nature if you want to get out of unwanted chores. It would be trickier to lie to his big brother, but Lupo was confident that making up a wild night of drinking and chasing skirts would grant him a mild punishment and possibly a wink from Rock.

Despite all the reasons why he should have headed back to the Reds, Lupo remained well inside the property, pacing back and forth on one of the many paths intersecting the greenery.

Eventually he had to admit to himself, he wanted to see his father more than anything else, and consequences be damned.

I found your son.

Ludwig’s words echoed in Quintilius’s mind, and unable to say anything he stared at the angel.

“Quin, are you all right?”

A life as long as his shouldn’t have surprised Quintilius anymore, yet a simple statement like the one he just heard and his whole world spun out of control. The notion that he could be a father was not only unexpected, but he was hard pressed to remember who could have been his offspring’s mother.

“When you see the boy, you’ll recognize him as yours at first glance. He looks like you, and even moves like you. It’s uncanny how similar you two are.”

Quintilius heard Ludwig, but he was stuck at, “
I found your son
.”

Throughout the centuries, dozens—probably hundreds—of casual lovers had warmed Quintilius’s nights. Every time Ludwig left him, he would seek pleasure in willing arms. Others would imbibe to forget their sorrow, but alcohol alone wasn’t enough for him. And yet, despite the endless parade of men and women, no one had ever come close to stirring in him more than momentary enjoyment, and he would soon forget their names and their faces. No one had ever made his heart sing and his wolf howl by his mere presence like Ludwig did.

“Quin, look at me.”

When a hand was waved before his eyes, Quintilius blinked and finally focused his attention back to the present. “Who is he? And how did you find him?”

“Serendipity led me to him.” Ludwig smiled, and the act changed his face, illuminating him with a radiance and a lightness that lifted even Quintilius’s stark mood. “It’s Lupo.”

“Lupo?” His heart dropped to his stomach. “
That
Lupo?”

A renegade. A delinquent. An assassin belonging to the most brutal gang in Rome. A cub. Blood of his blood. His son.

“I know it sounds impossible, but it’s him. And he confirmed he’s the one who lost the pin at Claudio’s nest.” Ludwig’s wing bristled and brushed Quintilius’s arm, spreading warmth throughout his body. An intimate gesture, the equivalent of a chaste caress usually reserved for the afterglow of lovemaking, when words weren’t needed anymore, but now conveyed a mixture of longing and comfort.

The temptation to give in was strong, especially when his wolf demanded he surrender, yet Quintilius resisted the urge to lean into the caress and didn’t inch forward. His back ramrod straight, his hands on either side of him, he grabbed the rocky edge of the pond. The sharp surface of the uneven slabs of granite pressed against his flesh, giving him just enough pain to refocus his mind on what was important. “How old is he?”
I might have created a life.
Inadvertently for sure, but still a concrete possibility. Although he had always been careful, in the majority of his one night stands he had also been drunk. Only highly inebriated could he forget the lips he was kissing weren’t Ludwig’s.

“Around eighteen.”

With renewed clarity, flashes of a drunken night came back to Quintilius. A few decades ago maybe, he wasn’t sure about the timeline but eighteen years seemed right, after yet another row with Ludwig, he had spent a night with a woman, one of the girls employed at
Casolare del Lupo
. The only recollection of that encounter was that the morning after he had regretted bedding one of his employees, and resolved to never engage in sexual activity with anyone working for him. He also promised himself to drink less when he felt lonely. To this day, he had kept both promises.

“How do you know he’s my son?” A foreign sense of warmth took hold of him, as sweet and unexpected as sunrays on a December morning.

“He told us.” Although Ludwig’s wings were now fully extended at his side, subtly but swiftly rising and lowering—a telltale sign he was disappointed by Quintilius’s resolve—his smile became softer.

“He told you I’m his father, and you believed him because he looks like me.” Any memory of the possible mother eluded Quintilius. As much as he racked his brain for clues, it was as if the woman was nothing more than a vague shadow that had once shared his bed.

“Yes.” Ludwig leaned closer, the gray in his eyes iridescent with a hypnotic light. His wings were lit and sparkled, betraying his need for Quintilius.

Such a rare sight, the evidence that his angel—the strongest among his brethren—couldn’t hide his desire for Quintilius left him with mixed emotions. In their relationship, Ludwig had always been the one in control, the one making all the decisions.

Quintilius looked down at their reflection in the placid waters of the pond. Their mirror images were framed by Ludwig’s wings, their dark silhouettes creating a stark contrast against the white, pulsating light of his feathers. They were beautiful together, created for each other.

Shocked and ashamed that his thoughts could divert from the topic at hand so easily when Ludwig was present, Quintilius stood and stepped back to the marble bench. Once he lowered himself to the hard seat, the dewy cold from the surface penetrated his jeans giving him the jolt he needed. “If he knew I was his father, why didn’t he contact me?”

Despite the thought of having a son filled him with pride, and the warmth the idea had generated still spread inside him, he didn’t dare treat it like a reality.

“I’m afraid he doesn’t have the best opinion of you, but when you two meet I’m sure everything will be fine.” Ludwig shifted on his perch.

His wings were still brightly broadcasting his longing for Quintilius, disorienting him while he tried to come to terms with the whole concept of paternity. A different kind of yearning he had learned to suppress, knowing he couldn’t have progeny with his angel. For two thousand years, he had knowingly denied his clan a rightful heir, and now a son of his had appeared.

“How could he have an opinion of me at all?”

“The boy was wary and asking more questions would’ve only pushed him away—”

“Where’s he now?”

“At Drako’s. Both Ravenna and Peter thought he needed to decompress before meeting you. But I had to tell you as soon as possible.” Ludwig stood. “You have a son, Quin.”

With growing trepidation, Quintilius watched Ludwig close the gap and fall to his knees before him.

“He’s a pure alpha like you. You should see his attitude… and he’s handsome, like you but with the most electrifying blue eyes I’ve ever seen.” Ludwig pulled him down, then took his hands in his and brought them to his chest. “One look at him and he’ll melt your heart.” His eyes were liquid now and too close to Quintilius’s.

Too many emotions battling for supremacy, Quintilius felt Ludwig’s lips pressing upon his and he didn’t have the strength to deny him the kiss he so longed for.

Lost in the moment, he heard the slow rustling of wings and dismissed the sound as natural.

“Bravo.”

The word and the cruel laugh that followed penetrated Quintilius’s addled senses, and he turned, startled by a third presence in the garden.

Perched on one of the lowest branches of an olive tree, a black raven with glassy eyes tilted its feathery head and repeated, “Bravo!”

****

By the time Drako came back with a dark expression on his face, Lupo had been walking on the same narrow section of the path for so long, he had created a shallow furrow.

The sun was positioned higher in the sky and the temperature had increased by several degrees, but he had been preoccupied with meeting his father and didn’t realize a whole hour had passed in the meantime.

“What is it?” he asked when the immortal stopped in front of him.

“It seems Quintilius won’t be able to come today.” He had a cell phone in his hand and angled the screen toward Lupo.

“The great alpha is too busy to meet his bastard.” Disappointment as bitter and painful as an ill-deserved beating engulfed him.

“It’s not what you think.” Drako frowned, then raised the cell phone. “He has been—”

“Spare me the lie.” With a swat of his hand, Lupo moved away the phone. Disappointment morphed into anger, and the need to punch someone assailed him.

“Lupo, wait. There’s an explanation for sure. I know Quintilius, and he’s an honorable man—”

Before he would hit the immortal, Lupo sprinted ahead as his wolf growled. The world shifted, colors became brighter, sounds sharper. He had just jumped over the Greek and was running on all fours before he could stop himself. As the wolf took control, he realized he didn’t care at all to let go of himself and disappear.

Run. Run. Run.

Hurt.

Ache.

Pain.

Run.

Faster.

Run.

Lonely.

Sounds. Loud.

Moving. Scary.

Smell. Bad.

Burnt.

Pain.

Panther!

Come.

Help.

Need you.

Run.

Run.

Run!

Hide.

When Lupo shifted back into his body, he realized he had crossed several streets in his wolf form. Judging from the bedlam of horns and the acrid smell of burnt rubber from a sudden brake, the wolf had contributed to Rome’s already chaotic traffic. Hiding behind a garbage bin ensconced under an arch, he composed himself as much as he could, but a stark naked man wouldn’t go unnoticed for long. Not only had he lost his clothes back at Drako’s, but also his cell phone.

Disoriented, he peeked out of the arch just enough to read the name of the intersecting street, Cima Terra. The name wasn’t familiar, but the alley was small and away from the main artery, and not a place he had visited for a delivery. Then he leaned to the left and saw the rear of a building with a marble façade with Art Deco elements he recognized immediately.

Of all the places his wolf could have run to, he had decided to end up at the Purist girl’s condominium.

Lupo couldn’t help but start laughing. His wolf had a masochistic sense of humor. He didn’t know what else to do if not wait for the night to arrive. Then he would shift again and hope his wolf would be stealthy enough to reach the Reds without getting caught skulking around Rome.

His anger at Quintilius had addled his reasoning skills, but he wouldn’t make the same error twice and risk exposing his race to the mortals. It was bad enough he had shifted in full daylight. His only hope was that the wolf had been so fast no one had had time to shoot pictures or record his escapade.

What an idiot.
Now that his rage had abated to a dull pain, he could fully appreciate the magnitude of his inconsiderate act. Never before had he let his temper control him. Then the whole truth hit him. Never before had he shifted outside of a full moon.

If he had doubted it before, now he knew. He was a fully-fledged alpha.

With a thud, he fell to the dirty ground. As an alpha, his days among the Reds were numbered. Tancredi would never accept him back, not even if Lupo hid his nature. Sooner or later, his wolf would challenge Tancredi’s, and Lupo wanted nothing of the sort.

He wanted to belong, not to stand out, but an alpha would never be granted the luxury. The laughs of only a moment before were a distant memory, his eyes swelled with bitter tears, and his wolf let out a sad howl that filled the alley.

Alone again, he would have to leave Rome if he wanted to survive the manhunt the Reds would start as soon as Rock reported his disappearance, which would be any moment now. Sorrow and anger mixed again, and his chest contracted.

A scent of jasmine reached his nostrils a moment before he heard soft steps approaching his hiding spot.

Wolf?

Responding to the call, he stood and stepped out from behind the garbage bin, only to be pushed back under the arch by the Purist girl.

Surprised by the were-panther’s strength, he stumbled backward and found himself on the ground again. This time, he brought the girl down with him. She fell on top of him, and he cushioned her with his body, embracing her.

“What are you doing?” an irate voice asked.

The feminine speech sounded like the one Lupo had heard in his mind, and—despite her anger—her tone was lilting and sensual to his ear.

“Helping you. What does it look like?” His arms didn’t release her, and she didn’t make an effort to be freed, which encouraged him to let his hands slide a bit along the curves hidden by the voluminous tunic.

“It looks like you want to die young, wolf.” Yet, she kept still in his embrace.

“Aging is overrated, panther.” Drinking in the sight of her black eyes staring into his, he forgot everything about the severe punishment he would endure if caught with his hands on her—and naked to boot. He slowly moved his arms up and down her back. Under all that acreage of fabric, she wore another layer of clothing, but he could still feel the bump of the hook and eye closures of her bra. He wondered if she wore lace or cotton, and if she matched the tops to bottoms. Partial to white lace and small bows—preferably baby-blue or pale pink—he pictured her clad in a flimsy set he had once seen in a mail-order catalog.

Older kids at the orphanage had once
borrowed
an intimate apparel catalog and let the younger kids have it when they were done studying it. Caught in possession of the shiny magazine, Lupo was grounded for stealing from the rector’s private quarters, but he had learned a great deal about the secret world of women’s underwear. More than once, he had surprised young ladies with his ability to unhook a bra by just caressing its closure.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“What do you think?” She wiggled on his lap, causing Lupo to moan.

“I think you’re more than okay.” He was aware of his anatomy responding to her nearness in a way that wasn’t exactly gentlemanly, but she was soft and firm under his hands, and he couldn’t let go of her.

Mine, panther.

Mine, wolf.

Along with the inner dialog, his wolf appeared in his mind, his muzzle playfully biting the black panther that roared back, but let him nuzzle her.

“I’m Lupo.” He inhaled her scent, while his wolf placed his paws over the panther’s back going straight for her neck. With an elegant shrug, the panther turned around at the last moment dismounting him, and closing her muzzle over his wolf’s shoulder.