10. Ray
10
RAY
T he hospital hallway stretches ahead of me, a kaleidoscope of holiday cheer plastered over its stark sterility. Strings of Christmas lights crisscross the ceiling, their colors blinking in an uneven rhythm. Paper snowflakes hang from the walls alongside brightly colored drawings—stick figures in scarves, uneven trees heavy with ornaments, and a star perched precariously on top. The faint smell of the chemicals these kids take to save their lives mingles with the sweetness of the candy canes they’re clutching while waiting to see Santa. The sharp click of my boots echoes as we progress down the hall. Pete clutches my hand as his head swivels to take in every detail.
I’d brought him here expecting a quick checkup, a simple confirmation that he wasn’t coming down with anything serious. The kid’s been coughing just enough to set me on edge. Turns out he’s fine. Healthy as a bull. I said a silent, thankful prayer when the doctor told me that. On our way out of the doctor’s office, the nurse—a cheery woman with a grin too wide for small features—insisted we stick around for the hospital’s Christmas festivities. She even promised a present from Santa himself. I couldn’t deny Pete this small pleasure, not after the amount of shit life has thrown at him over the past couple of years.
“Dad, you think Santa’s real?” Pete’s voice cuts through my thoughts, bright and joyful. He turns those wide blue eyes up at me, the ones that remind me too much of Nadya, his mother.
I clear my throat, forcing down the tightness in my chest. “What do you think, bud?”
Pete considers this, his small face scrunching in concentration. “I think he’s real, but maybe not the way they show in the movies.”
Smart kid. Too smart sometimes.
“You’re probably right,” I mutter, running a hand over my face. “Let’s go meet him and find out, huh?”
I snicker at the sight of the large double doors of the pediatric ward. A life-size nutcracker cutout has been glued to them; the bright red and gold laminated paper reflects the lights above as we approach it, giving the illusion of movement.
“Wow, Dad! He’s watching us,” Pete whispers, his eyes trained on the paper soldier. “Maybe this Santa is real.”
“Maybe,” I agree since my heart refuses to let my son down.
I push the doors open, and we step into a brightly lit room. I catch my breath. Children sit in rows, cross-legged on the floor, their faces glowing with anticipation as they stare at a man in a red suit. The jolly old Saint Nick himself waves a white-gloved hand, his deep “Ho, ho, ho!” filling the space. But it’s not Santa that captures my attention.
It’s his helper.
Sophia .
She’s standing just behind the makeshift throne by the tall Christmas tree, her copper hair catching the twinkle of the blinking fairy lights like fire. She’s dressed casually in jeans and a fitted cardigan. She’s slaying the elf look, the green scarf around her neck perfectly matching the pointy hat. My pulse quickens. She looks like she belongs on a fucking magazine cover. Her laugh rises above the chatter of the kids, rich and full, as she helps Santa distribute presents. My chest tightens, and I can’t help but curse under my breath. Of all the places, of all the people.
She moves with a grace that draws every eye, though hers stays focused on the kids. She crouches to hand a box to a little girl in pigtails, her prosthetic arm gleaming faintly under the fluorescent lights despite the long sleeve covering it. The sight stirs raw emotions in me—an admiration and a protectiveness I have no right to feel. She’s been through hell. That much is clear. And yet here she is, laughing, smiling, like she’s unbreakable. But I know from personal experience. The tougher the facade, the brittler the heart.
I should leave now. I should turn around and walk away before I do something stupid. Like, approach her. Like ask her out, or some shit normal people do. I’m not normal people. I’m a fucking enforcer for the Boyle Brotherhood. I’ve no business craving normal, especially not with a woman like Sophia. She’s been through more than her fair share of shitty curveballs. The last thing she needs in her life is a motherfucker, such as me, lusting over her. I’d better ignore the way my flesh burns at the memory of her warmth, her scent.
I shouldn’t want her the way I do.
But fuck it, I do want this woman.
I enjoyed that appetizer at the wedding way too much, and now I hunger the whole fucking banquet. I want Sophia in my bed, under my command, for a whole night, at least.
“Dad, look!” Pete’s voice jerks me back to reality. His excitement vibrates through his small frame.
I kneel beside him; my stiff body turns my movements slow and awkward. I wrap an arm around my boy’s shoulders as if I could keep all the bad shit out there from hurting him. Again.
I hold his stare. “What’s that, bud?”
“Can I go say hi to Santa?”
I nod, my eyes returning to Sophia as I stand up. “Go ahead, son. I’ll be right here.”
He darts forward, weaving his way through the cluster of children. Sophia’s smile softens as she watches him approach. I shove my hands into my pockets, trying to ignore the way my heart pounds when her gaze briefly flicks toward me.
Pete chats animatedly with Santa, accepting a big box wrapped in green and red paper. “Thanks, Santa,” he says before turning his attention to Sophia. His curiosity has always been boundless. He doesn’t hesitate to point at her arm. “You’re a cyborg like in the movies?” he asks, his voice filled with awe.
I wish a hole in the ground would pop up right now and swallow me. But she accepts the question with a grace that suggests she’s been dealing with that for a while.
Sophia laughs a sound that wraps around me and doesn’t let go. She crouches to his level, pulling up the sleeve of her cardigan to reveal the sleek prosthetic. “I am,” she says, winking and wiggling her fingers. The faint whir of the mechanism under the silicone skin fills the air, and Pete’s eyes go wide.
“Cool!” He reaches out, his tiny fingers brushing against her wrist. “Does it shoot lasers?”
She grins. “Not yet. But maybe one day.”
I can’t help a smirk. Pete is utterly captivated, and Sophia handles his questions with an ease that only makes her more irresistible.
“Are you Santa’s helper?” Pete asks, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial yet theatrical whisper.
Sophia nods solemnly. But I notice a slight twitch at the corner of her lips as she says, “You bet I am.”
“Awesome.” Pete beams, covering the side of his mouth with a hand and murmuring, “Will you help us decorate our house? Santa will be mad at me if he doesn’t get his cookies.”
The meaning of his words hit me like a freight train derailing. I step forward, kneeling beside him. “Hey, bud, Santa would never get mad at a good boy like you,” I say. The emotions clogging my throat make my voice rougher than I’d like. “Plus, his helper is too busy right now.” I glance at Sophia.
Her eyes seem to see straight through me. Her voice is soft, almost hesitant. “I’ll stop by.” She looks as surprised as I feel at her response, but her gaze stays on Pete. “I’d be honored to help you, Pete. Even though I agree with your dad—Santa wouldn’t be mad at you.”
Pete claps his hands, his joy contagious. I stand up. I keep my voice low so that only Sophia will hear me, “I was gonna tell you that you didn’t need to do this. But he seems so thrilled now.”
Her smile is warm, her green eyes steady. “I meant it. I’d be honored to do this for him.”
“It’s settled then.” My voice comes out heavier than usual. “See you back at the house in a couple of hours? I still have some errands to run.”
A shadow clouds her expression before she nods. “See you then.”
I take Pete’s hand, leading him toward the exit and wondering what that doubt on Sophia’s face really meant. I bet she’s already heard about my past. Hell, about my present. When I asked Dave for time to rethink my life, I believed coming back home would help me escape the danger and the darkness.
I was so naive.
No, actually, I was deeply wounded and desperate to protect my son from the nightmare. Turns out that danger will follow me anywhere I go. I’m beginning to realize that the best way to protect Pete is by working for the Syndicate.
The walk to the car is silent, save for the crunch of snow beneath our feet. My mind races at the possibility of having Sophia in my life. What would it be like? Can I afford this luxury? Her presence would be great for Pete. I saw that clearly just now when they were interacting. But would my lifestyle be good for her? My heart breaks, torn between the image of Sophia’s bright smile and the shadowy reality I can’t escape.
When we reach the car, my phone buzzes. The name on the screen sends a chill slicing through my chest. Tommy Boyler. Dave’s brother. Second-in-command. I stare at the message, the words blurring as the weight of my double life comes rolling down a proverbial hill toward me like a fucking deadly avalanche.
Sophia’s laugh echoes in my mind, a haunting melody I should ignore but don’t want to. I glance at Pete, his face tilted up at me, shining with innocence and trust. I dare hope there’s a way to have it all.
But happiness never lasts long, not with shadows like the Boyle Brotherhood’s enemies lurking just beyond the horizon.
My heart stutters as self-doubt whispers that the life I’ve built is more likely to destroy everything I love.