I didn’t sleep much, but at least I slept. Barely enough to keep me from losing it.
I’m used to quiet.
Dead silence. But instead, I wake up to the sound of a kid’s voice over the CC TV screen.
Singing. Off-key and cheerful.
Der’mo.
I scrub a hand over my face, pushing the irritation away. I’ve dealt with cartel bosses, corrupt politicians, and worse, yet here I am, rattled by a 4-year-old’s morning song.
Fuck.
The camera shows their room, and there he is—Elijah, wide awake and entertaining himself with some children’s song while his mother sleeps.
Why the hell is he awake so early? Damn kid can’t even sleep in like a normal human being.
I should turn off the fucking feed.
That’s what a normal person would do—not sit here at six in the morning, watching some kid’s solo concert through security cameras like a creep.
Instead, I drag myself to the shower, cranking the water hot enough to scald. Let it pummel my muscles, trying to wash away twelve hours of surveillance footage. Of watching her sleep. Of wondering if she dreams about killing me.
My head spins with plans, deals, loose ends that need tying. Mitch still needs breaking. Three shipments need routing. The Italians want answers.
But it keeps drifting back to her. To Clara.
And herkid.
Clenching my jaw, I shake it off and finish the shower. I dry off quickly, tossing on a black shirt and cargo pants. Practical. Time to handle this.
Walking out of my room, I head down the hallway, footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. Reaching their door, I twist the handle and unlock it. It swings open smoothly.
“Hi.”
I nearly jump out of my skin. The soft little voice catches me so off guard that my hand jerks back from the door like I touched a live wire. Elijah’s head pops out, curls sticking in every direction, eyes bright and wide—too damn similar to mine.Those deep brown eyes.My eyes.
No. Stop it. There’s no fucking way.
I force myself to swallow down the thought, to ignore the resemblance gnawing at my gut like a goddamn parasite.
“Uh…” I grunt, trying to remember what the hell I was supposed to say.This is Clara’s kid. The brat. But right now, he’sstanding there looking at me like I’mnotthe bad guy keeping them prisoner. Like I’m just… someone he trusts.
Then, without hesitation, his hand reaches out, fingers brushing against mine before curling around my palm. The contact jolts me, like I’ve been hit by something I didn’t see coming. His hand is so small, soft, and fragile, like something I could crush with barely any pressure.
I freeze.
How can something this tiny fit in my palm and shock me like this?
My throat tightens.
For a second, I just stare down at where our hands are joined, his trust weighing heavier than anything I’ve ever held. It’s unsettling. Foreign. But he’s looking at me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Before I can react, Elijah lets go, darting down the hallway with a burst of energy. I follow his gaze, and there, lying against the wall just outside the door is the ugly yellow toy plush thing.
“Pikachu!”
The kid’s eyes light up like it’s Christmas. His little feet move faster than I can register, and in an instant, he’s scooping up the plush, hugging it like it’s a damn treasure.
