Chapter 12
Ivan
I guide Landon through the narrow service alley until we reach the far corner of the rear parking lot, where a chain-link fence sags just enough to let us slip behind a row of overflowing dumpsters.
This is how we’re moving right now. No other option. It’s about keeping things low and off the radar.
I fish the spare key fob from the magnetic box taped under the wheel well and press the unlock button. The lights flash once, weakly, like the car itself is embarrassed to be seen.
Landon raises an eyebrow as I open the passenger door for him.
“This is your emergency ride?” he asks.
I shrug and circle to the driver’s side. “Worst part of the job. I have to drive something that doesn’t scream armed professional. So, yeah, the car sucks. I get it.”
He slides into the seat, fastens his belt, and actually smiles—a small, tired thing, but real. “You sound personally offended by the upholstery.”
“I am,” I laugh. I drop into the driver’s seat, start the engine, and let the four-cylinder cough to life. “This thing has the personality of wet cardboard.”
The boy’s quiet laugh fills the cabin for a second, bright and unexpected. I feel the knot in my chest loosen by half a turn. It’s a tiny victory, but right now I’ll take any victory I can get.
I pull out of the lot slowly, headlights off until we hit the main road, then merge into traffic like we belong there.
No sudden moves.
No racing away.
Just another gray sedan in a sea of gray sedans.
We leave the city behind in stages: first the downtown towers shrink in the rearview, then the industrial parks give way to strip malls, then the strip malls thin out and the highway opens up.
Landon watches the scenery slide past in silence for a long while. His hands stay folded in his lap, Claw peeking out of the top of his backpack on the floor between his feet.
After twenty minutes he finally speaks.
“Where are we really going?”
I keep my eyes on the road. “Not straight to the motel. Too early. Too predictable. We need to burn a few hours somewhere crowded, somewhere normal. There’s a lot to be said for hiding in plain sight.
I know a place about thirty minutes from here.
An indoor waterpark. Big family resort. Slides, wave pool, lazy river. Thousands of people. We blend in.”
He turns his head to look at me fully. “A waterpark!”
“Yeah.”
A beat of silence.
“I don’t have a swimsuit,” Landon says. “And I don’t think they’ll let me go naked. As fun as that might be…”
“We’ll buy what we need there,” I say, ignoring the naked comment. “They’ve got a gift shop. Towels, suits, flip-flops. Everything.”
He chews his bottom lip for a second, then nods. “Okay.”
I risk a sideways glance. “You don’t sound thrilled.”
“I’m thrilled,” Landon says, and this time the smile is a little wider. “I just didn’t expect my kidnapping getaway to include inner tubes and chlorine.”
I snort despite myself. “Neither did I.”
The tension eases another notch.
We don’t speak much after that. The radio stays off. The only sound is the hum of tires on the road and the occasional sigh of the heater kicking on. Landon leans his head against the window and closes his eyes. I don’t know if he’s sleeping or just pretending, but I let him have the quiet.
This is a lot for the boy.
The waterpark will help him relax.
Hell, it might help me too.
When we pull into the massive parking lot of Aqua Haven Indoor Water Resort, the place is already busy—minivans, SUVs, parents hauling coolers and beach bags, kids in neon swimsuits darting between cars. I park near the back, away from the main entrance lights.
Inside the lobby it smells like coconut sunscreen and spilled tropical juice.
The gift shop is right there, bright and overpriced.
I buy two towels, a plain black Speedo for him, board shorts for me, and a couple of cheap flip-flops.
Landon disappears into the male changing room ahead of me while I take a moment to myself.
I briefly wonder whether letting him change alone is a good idea. But what choice do I have? It’s right I give him his privacy, keep this professional.
When he comes out he’s wrapped in the towel, hair slicked back after a quick shower, looking younger and more uncertain than he has all day.
He gives me a shy half-smile. “Ready?”
I nod. “Give me a second to change. Then let’s disappear for a while. And have some fun doing it…”
The waterpark is enormous: twisting slides in every color, a wave pool that roars every fifteen minutes, a lazy river that circles the whole facility, splash pads for the little ones. We start easy—lazy river first. We each claim an inner tube, push off from the edge, and let the current carry us.
For the first loop we don’t talk much. Just float. The artificial sunlight pours through the glass roof. Kids scream on the slides. Water laps against rubber. I watch Landon’s face relax inch by inch.
After the second loop he finally speaks.
“Is this the kind of thing you thought Littles like to do?” he asks quietly.
I glance over at him. He’s trailing his fingers through the water, watching the ripples.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Daddies enjoy it too. Well, this one does at least. Anyway, I thought you might like the noise. The movement. The… normal.”
He nods slowly. “I do. I really do.”
Guilt twists low in my gut.
I haven’t told him everything.
I haven’t told him that Viktor more or less gave the kill order this morning. I haven’t told him that I’m not just running from a leak—I’m running from my own people. I haven’t told him the reality of how easily his father brushed off his potential execution.
But I couldn’t bring myself to say any of it in the café. I couldn’t watch his face crumple again so soon after the penthouse.
So I told myself it was mercy.
Whatever.
We move on to the slides.
He’s nervous at first—eyes wide when he looks up at the tallest one, a six-story drop called Thunder Drop. But he doesn’t back out.
When we reach the top platform he grips the rail, stares down the chute, and suddenly his hand finds mine.
“I’m too scared to go by myself,” Landon blurts, voice small.
I lace my fingers through his without hesitation. “Then we go together.”
The attendant waves us forward. We sit in the double tube—my brave boy in front, me behind—his back pressed to my chest, my arms around his waist holding the handles. He’s shaking a little.
“Ready?” I ask against his ear.
He nods.
We push off.
The drop is immediate—stomach-lurching, breathless. Water rushes past, wind roars, he squeals and laughs at the same time. I tighten my hold, keep him steady as we whip around curves, plunge through tunnels, shoot out into the splash pool at the bottom.
“Yahoooooooo!” Landon squeals in delight. “Weeeeeeeee-haaaaaaa!”
We hit the water hard. The tube flips. We both go under for a second, then pop up sputtering and laughing.
He turns to me in the shallow end, hair plastered to his face, eyes bright.
Before I can think, he surges forward and presses his mouth to mine.
It’s quick. Salt and chlorine and surprise.
But it’s electric.
Every nerve in my body and mind lights up.
I cup the back of his neck, kiss his back—deeper, slower—until someone nearby wolf-whistles and he pulls away, cheeks flaming.
“We’ve got half an hour left,” I say. “Four more slides?”
He giggles—actual, joyful giggles. “Make it one hundred!”
“I’ll try,” I laugh. “But no promises. Let’s move!”
We race back to the stairs.
I feel alive.
More alive than I have in years.
But underneath it all, the guilt is still there, heavy and cold.
Because I know—deep down, where the truth lives—that I’ve only made everything more complicated with that kiss.
The waterpark closes at eight, but we leave earlier—damp hair still dripping onto our shoulders, towels slung over our arms, flip-flops slapping against the wet tile as we head back to the changing rooms.
I might be a mobster and Landon a legal eagle in the making, but right now we look like two ordinary people taking it easy. It’s bliss. And it’s something I’ve never truly experienced before.
Landon’s cheeks are flushed from the cold plunge pool we hit on the last run, and he keeps laughing under his breath every time he remembers the way I nearly lost my grip on the double tube during the final drop.
I don’t think I’ve heard him laugh like that before but I know I want to hear it again.
We change back into street clothes and step out into the cool evening.
The sky is already bruising purple at the edges, streetlights flickering on one by one.
The parking lot is still busy with families piling dripping kids into SUVs, but the energy has shifted from frantic excitement to tired contentment and the occasional tantrum too.
I check my watch. Just past seven-thirty. Too early to hole up in the motel. Too risky to sit still somewhere exposed. But Landon is still smiling, still buoyant from the slides and the wave pool, and I find myself reluctant to snuff that out just yet.
“There’s a bookstore about ten minutes from here,” I say as we reach the Accord. “Big one. Open late. We could pick up a couple of things… books, maybe a board game, some coloring pencils and paper. Kill a little more time before we settle in.”
He turns to me, surprised. “You want to go to a bookstore?”
I shrug and unlock the car. “Figured you might like it. And it’s public. Crowded. Suburban. Safe enough for another hour.”
His expression softens. “I’d like that.”
We drive in companionable quiet. Neither of us seems to need background noise tonight. Landon rests his head against the window again, watching the strip malls and fast-food signs slide past, but this time there’s no tension in his shoulders. Just a gentle, tired ease.