Chapter 36
NOAH
They never found me either.
And it wasn’t until I turned seventeen that I finally made my escape.
I’d been planning that day for as long as I could remember. I was ready. Nothing could catch me off guard. Every scenario, every possible outcome, had been played out in my head a thousand times. Burned into my brain like muscle memory.
It was supposed to be easy. A no-brainer.
Or so I thought.
What I didn’t count on—what I never saw coming—was her.
My mother.
You have to understand… in the real world, I didn’t exist. No last name. No address. No birth record. I was Noah. Just Noah.
I spoke English. I spoke Greek. I taught myself French.
But I had no idea whose blood ran through my veins.
My skin was fair, my eyes a clear, almost unnatural blue. My hair was a sun-streaked blond that darkened to a muddier shade as I got older.
The last time my feet touched land?
That terrifying day when I was taken by the Valentinos.
Like I said before—when you live your whole life with a criminal, you start to think like one. And somewhere along the way, I did.
In the realm of things, I too had become a criminal, even if only in my mind.
So it was on my seventeenth birthday that I held the only proof that I even existed—my adoption papers.
There it was, in black and white—the names of my real adoptive parents—Mr. Anthony A. Jarrell and Mrs. Gloria Jarrell, residing in the United States of America, State of Connecticut.
A single tear slips down my cheek.
Because if they had shown up for me all those years ago, I would’ve had a last name.
Not just Noah.
Noah Jarrell.
I smile through the tears and glance up at Alex.
“I remember trying to guess what the ‘A’ stood for in Anthony Jarrell’s name.”
For a moment, he can’t speak—then he swallows, steadying himself.
“Alex,” he says softly. “Anthony Alexander Jarrell.”
I lower my eyes and swipe the tear from my cheek.
Then I slide the adoption certificate behind another folded piece of paper—a worn, yellowing newspaper clipping from the United States.
Gently, I unfold it.
A smiling couple stands in front of a private jet, holding hands and waving to the cameras. Their joy is infectious.
The woman wears a summery floral dress and strappy sandals.
He’s dressed casually—cargo shorts, a tee, and sunglasses clipped to his collar.
The caption beneath the photo reads: “On our way to get our boy.” A quote from Mrs. Jarrell.
I pass the article to Alex.
He takes it, and his eyes immediately glaze over.
“I’ve never seen this before,” he murmurs, voice catching. He pinches the bridge of his nose and stares down at the photo of his parents.
“Meera knew about this?” he whispers. His lips quiver, and he bites the bottom one, holding it in place before releasing it slowly. “She never told me anything about it, Noah.”
He looks up at me, eyes glassy, filled with something close to betrayal.
“She never told me about you,” he adds.
When I see the anguish in his eyes, I know it’s time that I tell him the truth.
“She couldn’t tell you,” I say quietly. “She couldn’t tell me about you either. Trust me, Alex—she wanted to. It had been her intention, after all. But if she had, our father would have found you… and he would have killed you too.”
I pause, letting that sink in.
“That’s how I know she loved you. Emilee and Ana too. She stayed silent to keep you all safe—from him.”
Alex’s voice is hoarse, scraped raw, like he’s afraid the answer might finish what the silence started. “Who… who did he kill?”
I reach for the article, but he snatches it back. He clears his throat, but it doesn’t help.
“You said your father would have killed me too. Who, Noah? Who did your father kill?”
His eyes bore into mine.
I blink. Once. Twice. Take a deep breath, praying it won’t be my last.
And then… I tell him the truth.
“Your parents.”