Chapter 5 - Eyes Like His
Ethan woke up three hours later.
The afternoon sun was streaming through the reinforced glass windows of the private suite, casting warm golden bars across the white sheets. When his heavy eyelids fluttered open, he blinked sluggishly against the light, his small brow furrowing in confusion.
“Mom?” he whispered, his voice raspy and weak.
I was at his side in a microsecond, pressing a cool damp cloth to his forehead and helping him sip water through a straw. “I’m right here, baby. I’m right here. How do you feel?”
“My tummy hurts,” Ethan whispered, looking around the palatial, high-tech hospital room with wide, suspicious eyes. “Where are we? This isn't my room. And... and why are there men in black suits standing outside the window?”
Before I could invent a comforting lie, the connecting door to the private antechamber swung open.
Adrian walked back in. His suit jacket was off, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and there was a faint, angry red scrape across his right knuckles—a quiet testament to whatever business he had just handled down in the parking garage.
Ethan froze.
He didn't scream, and he didn't cry. He simply stared at the tall, broad-shouldered man standing at the foot of his bed with an intensity that was startlingly, unnervingly familiar. It was the exact same analytical, calculating gaze Adrian used when evaluating an enemy across a poker table.
“Who is that?” Ethan asked, pulling the blanket a little higher up his chin, his small fingers gripping the cotton fabric.
I swallowed hard, looking between the two of them—the man who had built an empire of blood and shadow, and the little boy who possessed every drop of his stubborn, brilliant spirit.
“Ethan,” I said softly, my voice shaking slightly. “Remember when we talked about... about your father? The one who had to go away to keep us safe?”
Ethan’s eyes widened. He looked back at Adrian, taking in the sharp jawline, the dark hair, the exact shape of the amber-flecked eyes that looked back at him from the mirror every morning.
“He didn't go away,” Ethan said, his voice dropping into a quiet, serious tone that broke my heart. “He just didn't know where to find us.”
Adrian walked slowly toward the bed. He didn't tower over him; instead, he dragged a chair right beside the mattress, sat down, and rested his massive, calloused hands loosely on his knees. The man who made mayors tremble looked completely vulnerable as he looked down at his son.
“You’ve got your mother’s stubbornness,” Adrian said, his voice unusually soft, rich with a warmth I had never heard him use with anyone else. “And you’ve got my stubbornness, too. Which means you’re probably going to be a nightmare for your teachers.”
A tiny, hesitant smile tugged at the corner of Ethan’s mouth. “Are you really a bad guy?”
Adrian let out a low, gravelly chuckle that rumbled in his chest. “Depends on who you ask, kiddo. But to you? Never.”
“Can you beat up the nurse who gave me the big needle?” Ethan asked solemnly.
Adrian grinned, a flash of white teeth breaking through his serious expression. “We’ll negotiate a truce. But no more needles. I promise you that.”
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As father and son sat there, studying each other across the hospital bed, I realized with sudden, overwhelming clarity that my seven-year exile was over. The past had finally caught up with us. But looking at the way Adrian looked at our son, I knew for the first time in my life that we weren't running anymore.
We were standing behind a wall made of iron.
