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I surrender to my instincts and go to him, lay a hand on his arm. He jolts, looks down at my hand and then slowly looks at me. The pain reflected in his eyes is a stab straight to my heart.

“It wasn’t you.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, his hand comes up and covers mine. His acceptance of my comfort makes my heart swell even as it aches for the young boy who struggled so much. For the woman who had so much ripped away simply because she fell for the wrong person.

“Logically I know it. But I’d be lying if I said the thought didn’t come back to haunt me every now and then.” His smile is quick, bitter. “Not after I actually met Lucifer.”

He starts to move forward, his step slow. I walk with him, matching my pace to his as we wander through the city streets. Even as my heart aches for him, hope whispers through my soul. I know this confession is not coming easy to him. That he’s making the effort at all means more than I can express.

“I don’t know how many times I asked my mom if she could ask my father to come meet me, or at the very least tell me his name. I later found out he was sending her a few hundred dollars every month if she kept his identity a secret and sent him occasional photos.”

My eyes widen. “What?”

It’s hard to picture Lucifer having that kind of interest in his children, framing photos like a proud father.

“He didn’t actually care. It was like having a trophy. She still carries that guilt. Feels like she sold a part of me to keep the money he sent.”

“What else was she supposed to do? Let you starve?”

He glances down at me, a faint smile on his lips. “It seems obvious to us, doesn’t it?” His eyes drop down to my stomach. “But I imagine you and I will both face similar feelings of guilt and regret as we navigate parenthood.”

More people start to appear in the streets. Shop owners open doors and bring out shelves, stocking them with leather shoes that gleam in the sunlight, pottery decorated with artful swirls and vivid colors, and hand-carved wooden plates, bowls and cups. We meander for a while, always touching, not speaking yet somehow more in sync than we have been since we reconnected.

We turn down a side street. The noises of the crowd dim. Olive tree branches arch overheard, creating a shadowed tunnel as we walk.

“A day before my seventh birthday, he told my mom he would be in town and would come see me.”

I don’t say anything, keep my eyes focused on the curving path. But my other hand settles on my stomach. Maybe I’m offering assurance to my son, or maybe I’m seeking comfort for myself.

Because there’s only one way this story can end.

“I was so excited. We both got dressed up and went to a park in Soundview. Mom bought me ice cream for my birthday. We waited almost five hours. He never showed. I cried harder than I’ve ever cried before. The last time I cried.”

“When you were seven?” I whisper.

He nods. “After that, all I could feel was anger. One of the boys from my school had been at the park and saw me cry. He told everyone the next day and teased me on the playground. I punched him in the face.”

“Sounds like it wasn’t undeserved.”

“He was a nasty little bastard. But I turned into one, too. I picked fights whenever I could. People didn’t have time to tease me about not having a dad when they were trying to avoid me. And it gave me something to focus on besides his abandonment. It got so bad in middle school that the principal was calling my mother down several times a month. I didn’t get it under controltill almost the end of middle school. I put my mother through hell.” His lips quirk. “Like my father.”

“Michail…” I shake my head. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know. I overreacted.” He looks down at me, covers my hand with his. “I’m sorry, Alessandra. For that and everything I said before.”

I stare up at my giant of a husband, floored by his apology.

“I am, too.” It’s the only thing I can say without my voice breaking.

“We got into a good place. I got a job as a 911 dispatcher my senior year of high school. That led to becoming a patrol officer, and my mother enjoyed nearly twenty years as an art teacher before she retired. I got my degree, started Sullivan Security and then it took off. We were happy. I barely even thought of my father.

“Then six months ago, my birth father reaches out to tell me he’s dying and would like to meet me before he passes. My mother had never told me his name. I was shocked. I knew about Drakos Development. And then I was angry. Angry that someone so wealthy would have let us flounder like that. I debated on going. But I knew I’d always wonder if I didn’t. So I went.”

A shiver creeps down my spine at the banked fury in his tone.

“He told me he’d actually been at the park that day. He’d been testing me to see how I would respond to disappointment. When I cried, he washed his hands of me until I made something of myself.”

Horrified by the depths of Lucifer’s depravity, I stay silent as I tighten my grip on his fingers. A small gesture, but one meant to signal that I’m still here. Still listening.