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I nod, seeming to accept, and walk away, taking a call from Danny. “We’re upstairs,” he says, before hanging up. I look up at the vast expanse of glass that stretches across the club, nodding.
“Looking smart, boss,” Mason says as I pass the bar.
“It’s an important day.” I push my way into the office, and Nolan looks up from his place at the desk. Worried. His eyes drop. Like he might turn to stone if he looks at me. Or I might attack him.
And there’s the biggest kick in the gut I think I’ve ever felt. He didn’t want me to know. He thought I wouldn’t accept him.
I’ve let us both down.
Going to the desk, I perch on the edge, and he struggles up from the chair. “You want this chair?”
“Sit down.”
He virtually drops to the seat, unable to hold himself up, glancing up at me briefly, before diverting his gaze away. And then the silence that falls is awkward. I don’t want it to be awkward.
“Clearly I’m not old enough to be your father,” I say flatly. He peeks up at me, the uncertainty in his eyes killing me. “But I know I am,” I add.
His body softens in the chair. And my fucking heart splits.
“I’m sorry for how I reacted,” I say softly.
He swallows, his eyes glazing. “I didn’t want you to know.” His voice is as small as I’ve ever known it. “I was worried?—”
“Things would change?”
He nods.
“Things will change, Nolan. That’s a fact none of us can control.”
“I don’t want you to look at me differently.”
“You are different,” I say over a small laugh. “You’re my son.”
He blinks, as if hearing it is odd. It is. “Do you remember her?” he asks.
I can’t lie, it catches me off guard. I’m not prepared for this conversation. What do I tell him?
“I remember her,” I say. “But I was fourteen, so you probably have better memories.”
“Not really.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing, and I just know it is absolutely everything. “She wasn’t around much.”
“Working?” I don’t know why I’m asking. Even at fourteen it was obvious his mother wasn’t going far in life.
Nolan smiles up at me. “If that’s what we should call it.”
I inhale, nodding, hating myself right now. “How did you find me?” There must have been dozens of possibilities.
“She talked about many . . .” His lips twist. “Boys.”
I huff. Yeah, I was a boy. Stupid. Inexperienced. Cocky.
“She talked about you most, though,” he adds.
“She did?”
“We have the same hands.”
“What?” I look down, turning my hands over, frowning. I’ve never really taken any notice of my hands. They’re big. Capable. Can fire a gun with expert precision. And they can punch . . . hard.
