Page 45 of Secret Heir

My son.

Six weeks in my home, and he looks like a different child. His face has filled out, the hollow look around his eyes gone.

His hair is getting longer again, falling into his eyes.

He’s wearing shorts that fit properly and a blue shirt that brings out the gray in his eyes.

My eyes. Sokolov eyes.

“I’m never too busy for you.” I close the laptop. “Come in.”

He walks in carrying a book. It’s one of the adventure stories I’ve been reading to him at bedtime.

He’s discovered a love of pirates and explorers, stories about brave men doing dangerous things. Sometimes I wonder if he’s trying to understand me through these stories.

“I finished this one.” He holds up the book. “Do we have more?”

“I’m sure we do. We can look in the library after lunch.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk. “Want to sit with me for a bit?”

He nods and climbs into the leather chair, his feet dangling well above the floor.

He’s still small for his age, but he’s growing like a weed, his clothes are already getting snug. His cheeks are rosy and bright with childhood too.

“What are you working on?” he asks, eyeing the papers with curiosity.

“Boring adult things.” I shuffle them aside. “Numbers and reports. Nothing interesting.”

“Is it about the organization?” He says the word carefully, making sure he says it properly. “The one you told me about?”

I’ve been careful about what I tell him. He knows I work for my brother Nikolai. He knows we run a business that helps protect our community—a child-friendly version of the truth that isn’t quite a lie. He knows our family came from Russia originally and we settled in Brighton Beach, that the Sokolov name means something.

What he doesn’t know is exactly what that protection entails. The violence. The blood. The things his mother ran from.

“Yes,” I say simply. “It’s about the organization.”

“Do I have to work for it when I grow up?” His eyes are wide and curious. But there’s no hint of fear in them. He’s clearly just wondering about his future.

“Only if you want to.” I lean back in my chair. “You can be whatever you want, Daniel. Doctor, lawyer, artist, anything. The organization is there if you want it, but it’s not required.”

“What if I wanted to be a pirate?” There’s a hint of a smile on his face, and I can feel my own lips twitch in response.

“Then I’d buy you the best ship money can buy,” I tell him seriously. “And probably have a heart attack every time you went to sea.”

His laugh is genuine and the sound is better than any victory over rivals. This is what matters. This moment. This boy.

“Can I ask you something?” His expression turns serious again.

I incline my head. “Anything.”

“Why didn’t you and Mama get married?” His face is serious, eyes locked on mine. “Mama always said that when you love someone, you get married and live happily ever after.”

Well, fuck me. How do I explain to a seven-year-old that his mother saw something and ran without giving me a chance to explain and we’ve spent eight years apart because of that?

“It’s complicated,” I say finally, the word that never gives him the answer needs, chuckling softly at the scowl that’s crossed his face. “Your mother and I…” I hunt for the right words. “We cared about each other very much. But sometimes that’s not enough. Sometimes people want different things, or they’re scared of the same things, and they can’t find a way to make it work.”

“Are you still trying to make it work?” he asks hopefully.

I think about last night. Aria was underneath me, nails digging into my shoulders, gasping my name. We fight and fuck and can’t seem to exist in the same space without combusting.