Chapter 2 - THE CONVOY
Before I could even reach the hallway closet to grab our coats, the quiet suburban street outside exploded with the roar of heavy engines.
Tires screeched against wet asphalt. Headlights flared through the thin curtains of my kitchen window, flooding the small room in stark white light.
Emma squeezed my hand. Oliver sat up straight on the stool, recognizing the sound immediately. “That’s Daddy’s car,” he said quietly.
I stepped to the front window and pulled back the shade.
Three midnight-black SUVs had blocked off both ends of Hawthorne Lane. Men in dark tactical coats spilled out into the pouring rain, securing the perimeter of my small front yard. Neighbours opened their blinds, but one look at the sheer military precision of the men on the lawn sent curtains snapping shut across the street.
The door of the center SUV opened.
Julian Vance stepped out into the rain.
He looked broader, harder, and even more imposing than I remembered. He wore a dark wool overcoat over a tailored suit, his hair swept back and dusted with gray at the temples. The hard, ruthless lines around his mouth bore the weight of six years of unchecked power and relentless searching.
He moved across the wet grass with terrifying speed, scaling the porch steps in two strides.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The heavy wooden front door shook under his hand.
I grabbed Emma and pulled her firmly behind my back. “Oliver,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Go stand by the hallway.”
I stepped into the narrow entryway and unlatched the deadbolt. My fingers were cold, my chest tight. I turned the handle and pulled the door open.
The cold November wind whipped into the foyer, bringing the smell of rain, expensive cologne, and dark leather.
Julian stood on the porch. He froze the moment his eyes met mine.
For five agonizing seconds, neither of us breathed. The man who had commanded armies of enforcers, who had negotiated multi-million-dollar cartel deals without flinching, looked completely derailed.
“Sophia,” he breathed, stepping across the threshold before I could stop him. He reached out a gloved hand, as if checking whether I was a ghost. “You’re alive. You’re really alive.”
“I’m alive, Julian,” I said, backing away from his touch, maintaining a strict professional distance. “Your son is in the kitchen. He’s fine.”
Julian’s eyes burned with a chaotic mix of fury, relief, and deep, buried sorrow. “Six years, Sophia. I searched three continents. I thought you were dead in that river. I thought—”
“Daddy!”
Oliver came running out of the kitchen, his small boots thudding against the hardwood floor.
Julian instantly dropped to his knees, catching the boy in a crushing embrace. He buried his face in Oliver’s wet coat, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy, jagged breaths.
“You ran off,” Julian growled into the boy’s hair, his voice rough with emotion. “You slipped out of the motorcade while Marcus was securing the building. Do you have any idea what would have happened to you if—”
“I found the girl,” Oliver interrupted, pulling back and pointing a tiny finger toward the kitchen doorway. “She gave me apples.”
Julian paused. He wiped his face, stood up slowly to his full six-foot-two height, and turned toward the doorway.
“Thank you, Sophia,” Julian said, his voice lowering into a gravelly hum. “I owe you a debt I can never—”
May you like
He stopped dead in his tracks.
Standing in the frame of the kitchen doorway, holding a red crayon in her hand, was Emma.
