My Masters' Nightmare Season 1, Episode 15 "Finale" by Marita A. Hansen

stop worrying,” Rita added. “I
don’t think this is a trick. And I wouldn’t let you walk in there if I thought
it was. I would never allow him to hurt even a hair on your lovely head.”
    A small smile pulled at my lips.
“It is a lovely head.”
    She gave my arm a playful smack. “I
love you, you arrogant asshole.”
    “Don’t get me started on assholes.”
    She smacked me again, then grabbed
my head and kissed me. I kissed her back hard, returning everything I felt for
her: love, passion, need, desire—the woman completing me.
    I broke the kiss and took a hold of
her hand again, running a thumb over the engagement ring I’d placed on her finger.
She’d told me about the imaginary one I’d given her, something I didn’t
remember due to being drugged that day. But now, she had a real ring on her
finger, our wedding date only a few months away. I was finally going to marry
the woman I’d always wanted to, but before I could do that, I needed to meet
the person on the other side of the door.
    “Do you want me to come in with
you?” she asked.
    I nodded.
    “Then let’s go in.”
    She knocked on the door. A few
seconds later, the Black Russian opened it, allowing us to enter. It was a
spacious room, with a high ceiling and dark red wallpaper, the color bordering
on black. Pictures of buildings in gilded frames decorated the walls, the Black
Russian liking architecture. On our left was a massive wooden desk, its legs
embedded with intricate designs.
    “Take a seat,” the Black Russian
said, indicating to a leather couch. “I’ll go get him for you.”
    He disappeared through another
doorway as we sat down. A few seconds later, he reappeared with a boy. I pushed
to my feet, feeling chills at the sight. The boy looked exactly like me, just a
teenage version. He stared back; his surprised hazel eyes a reflection of mine.
    “I’ll give you some privacy,” the
Black Russian said, leaving the room.
    I didn’t say a word, all of my
attention glued to my son.
    “Father?” he asked, sounding
American.
    I nodded. The Black Russian had
tracked him down to Los Angeles. To my surprise, he hadn’t been sold into
slavery. Instead, a wealthy family had bought him when he was a baby.
    He walked across the room, stopping
in front of me. “You’re young,” he said, still looking surprised.
    “I was fifteen when I fathered
you,” I replied, wishing I could hug him. But I didn’t want to make him feel
uncomfortable, especially since he didn’t know me.
    “I’m fifteen,” he said.
    “I know.”
    “Why didn’t you want me?”
    I breathed out, willing myself not
to get emotional, the memory of losing him upsetting. “I didn’t know your
mother was pregnant. When I found out, it was too late. You’d been sold. Your
grandfather and I tried to get you back, but we couldn’t find you.”
    He frowned. “Do you know why my
mother sold me?”
    “She didn’t sell you. I was told
you were forcibly taken from her.”
    “Do you know where she is now?”
    “She’s dead.”
    “Oh,” he said, his hazel eyes upset.
“I guess my parents only half-lied to me, then.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “They told me my biological parents
were dead.”
    “They might not have known I was
alive.”
    “Why wouldn’t they?”
    “Human traffickers often tell lies
to make a sale.”
    He grimaced.
    “I apologize if what I said upset
you. This should never have happened to you.”
    He nodded. “Was my mother Italian
like you?” he asked, changing the subject.
    “From memory, she was Maltese, and
I’m only half Italian. The other half is Croatian,” I said, still feeling upset
over the discovery. Thierry had confirmed what Christo had said. I’d gotten a
blood test as a result, sealing it in stone. “Though, you have two grandfathers:
one who raised me and one who loved my mother. Unfortunately, they’re both
dead.”
    “Do I have other living relatives
besides you?”
    I nodded. “My cousins Jagger and
Thierry.”