4. Ray
4
RAY
P ete’s chest rises and falls softly as he sleeps, his little face slack with dreams. I sit on the edge of his bed, brushing back a lock of his auburn hair, the exact same shade as my late wife’s. His strands slip like silk through my fingers, much like Nadya’s used to. There goes that damn piercing ache in my soul again. I take a few deep inhales, exhaling slowly and audibly. It dulls the pain enough for me to yank my mind out of the hurtful memories.
I focus on Pete’s room. It’s a sanctuary of innocence—walls painted in soft whites, dotted with drawings he’s proudly taped up himself. A chuckle escapes me as I take in spaceships battling against an orange sky and pink and blue dinosaurs playing fetch with a little boy with flaming red hair. The bedspread is rumpled, striped in a faded blue pattern, a worn teddy bear clutched in one hand. A pile of toy cars glints in the corner, where they catch the shimmering glow from the fireplace. It’s a small space but warm, quiet, and safe—precisely the opposite of everything I’ve ever been able to give my son.
“You’re my world, buddy,” I say softly as I lean in and plant a kiss on his rosy cheek. He can’t hear me, but I don’t care.
For a moment, I just breathe in his scent. It’s impossibly comforting—soft and clean, like the faintest trace of baby powder still clinging to his skin. It’s a scent that carries the innocence of endless giggles and the warmth of bedtime stories. It reminds me of when Pete was just a tiny bundle in my arms, fragile yet full of life, and even now, it feels like home.
I try pretending that this right here is all there is for Pete and me—this room, his quiet breaths, the smell of cookies faintly drifting up from the kitchen. I allow myself to believe that our life can be perfect like it is in those fucking Christmas movies.
But it’s a perfect lie I’ve been telling myself and my son.
The buzz of my phone shatters the calm like a bullet through glass. My chest tightens as I glance at the screen. The name glowing there isn’t one I can ignore— Dave Boyle . Those words alone are a trigger, yanking me back to the blood-soaked streets of Boston and the endless nights I spent hunting men who didn’t deserve to live. My jaw hurts from clenching my teeth as I slide my thumb across the screen and bring the phone to my ear, my other hand gripping the edge of Pete’s mattress.
“Yeah,” I say, keeping my voice low.
“Ray.” Dave’s voice is rough, gravelly, like the scrape of steel on pavement. “It’s been a while.”
I exhale as I stand, letting my eyes linger on Pete one last time before I leave the room. “Yeah, it has,” I reply, moving down the hallway, the wooden floorboards creaking faintly beneath my steps. “What’s up?” I ask in my regular tone now that I’m away from Pete.
“Ouch! Where’s your Christmas cheer, man?” Dave teases me, but his sense of humor does a poor job of masking his concern for me. After all, this time of year used to be my favorite. Now it really sucks balls. “Just checking in. Making sure you’re still breathing.”
I descend the stairs, gripping the polished wooden railing. The staircase spirals down into the foyer, where the light from the massive floor-to-ceiling windows glints on the glass panels of the railing. The house’s sharp angles and modern lines are clean and cold—nothing like the life I’ve tried to scrape together since moving back to Mammoth Lakes. As I step into the open living room, my boots land heavily on the floor, the vast space too sterile to be called home.
“Still breathing,” I mutter as I cross the room, the soles of my boots thudding softly against the hardwood floor. The Christmas decorations my neighbors keep urging me to put up are nowhere to be found. The room is bare, save for the white sectional couch and a low coffee table cluttered with Pete’s books. A sleek fireplace set into a slate-gray wall flickers weakly.
“Good to hear,” Dave says after a pause, his voice weighted with meaning. “Listen, I just… I know you’re trying to keep your head down, but I wanted to make sure you hadn’t forgotten what’s out there. We’ve been working hard, using all the Syndicate’s resources, but we still have no clue who that motherfucker Dracul is.”
My throat tightens as I drop onto the couch, running a hand through my hair. “Yeah, I know.” My gaze shifts to the massive black front door, a fortress between this fragile peace and the chaos outside.
“You heard anything about him?” Dave asks, his tone dropping into something darker, deadlier.
“No.” My reply is clipped. “And I don’t want to.”
Dave exhales sharply. “Believe me, I get it. After what happened—” He cuts himself off, but he doesn’t need to finish. We both know what he means. The images I’ve pieced together from that night haunt me, even though I wasn’t there. Nadya’s lifeless body crumpled on the ground, her sky-blue eyes empty, her auburn hair tangled in a pool of blood. I’ve imagined it too many times, tortured myself with the thought of Pete’s screams—terrified, heart-wrenching—as they dragged him away. I wasn’t there to save my son from that nightmare. I wasn’t there to protect my wife.
“No need to elaborate, boss. I know what you mean. You almost lost everything that day.” I stop and swallow hard to untie the knot in my throat. A bitter taste fills my mouth as I recall that Dave managed to rescue his woman and their daughter. I shake my head to get rid of those thoughts. I won’t let my own pain cloud my feelings for a man who’s always treated me with respect. I clear my throat and say, “Look, I know you worry about me and Pete. But we’re fine. I’ve got my son to think about now.” I close my hand into a fist on my knee. “That’s all that matters to me.”
There’s a long silence on the other end of the line. “And what happens when the past comes knocking? You can’t keep it away forever?”
I glance out the window, the faint glow of Christmas lights from the neighbors’ houses painting streaks of color across the snow. Sophia’s face flashes in my mind—her wide, green eyes and the way her voice used to wrap around my name like a promise. She’s back now, just a few blocks away, stirring up memories I don’t have the strength to bury.
“I can’t,” I admit, though the words feel hollow. “I’ll handle it when the time comes.”
“You sure about that?” Dave doesn’t hide his skepticism. When I don’t argue, he adds, “All right. But you know where to find me if shit goes south.”
“Yeah, I do. Thanks, boss,” I mutter.
“Sure thing,” he replies and ends the call.
The silence that follows is deafening, pressing down on me like the weight of the years I’ve spent working with the Boyles. I sit there, staring at the flames in the fireplace. My mind drifts again to Sophia, her name a whisper in the back of my mind. I don’t understand why I’ve been thinking about her. I shouldn’t be dwelling on memories of our time together, yet her image is a living, breathing reminder of everything I can’t have.
The faint sound of Pete moaning upstairs pulls me back to the present. He must be having one of his nightmares again. I push myself up from the couch, climbing the staircase again. My heavy steps echo the choices I’ve made and the lives I’ve ruined. When I reach Pete’s room, I lean against the doorframe, watching him. His sleep seems peaceful once more.
“I’ll keep you safe, son,” I promise. “No matter what it takes.”
But deep down, I know this peace is a temporary illusion in many ways. And with Sophia back in town, the fragile walls I’ve built around my heart are already beginning to crack.