Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Ronan
"Dad, I want to go to this."
I took the flyer and scanned it—Boston Child Psychology Annual Conference, two days, a dozen speakers I'd never heard of.
I looked up at Rose. That light in her eyes—I hadn't seen it in four years.
Her tutor told me last week she'd been reading Introduction to Child Psychology, staying up late every night.
"Rose," I set the paper down, "there's no one here who—"
"I want to go." Her voice was firm. "Maybe... maybe I can learn some of what Ryan taught me."
A deep helplessness washed over me. I knew what she meant.
These past four years, I'd attended countless academic conferences and psychology forums. But I knew damn well that if Ryan was still working in psychology, to avoid me, she wouldn't be using her real name.
She'd probably changed her appearance, too.
Looking for her at a public conference was like finding a needle in a haystack.
"Getting out might do you good," Declan urged. "Better than staying cooped up here."
Rose looked at me with hopeful eyes, a trace of a long-lost smile on her lips. The refusal stuck in my throat. It had been too long since Rose had shown interest in anything. Four years since she'd asked to go anywhere.
"All right. We'll go."
Rose's eyes brightened. I touched her head and turned to give orders. "Marco, arrange travel and security in Boston. I'll fly with Rose myself."
"Yes, sir."
After Rose left, Declan closed the door, his expression grave.
"What happened?" I had a bad feeling.
"Latest divestiture report. Overseas shipping—all the legal paperwork's done." Declan placed the file on my desk. "But that's not the main issue."
"Spit it out, Declan. Don't dance around it."
He pulled up a chair. "Intelligence found a new lead. About Ryan's disappearance."
My body leaned forward involuntarily.
"Ryan contacted someone. Nick."
Nick? That asshole who followed Victoria around like a dog in heat but had tried to get his hands on Ryan? I thought after I'd made my claim crystal clear at the club that night, that waste of space wouldn't dare come near Ryan again. Her disappearance was connected to him?
"It gets worse," Declan spoke faster. "Following that thread, we re-screened the fake maid's network. The money trail leads straight to Nick. He's very likely high-level 'Night Owl.'"
"High-level?" In Declan's dictionary, "very likely" meant confirmed fact.
"Yes. Nick definitely played a major role in Ryan's escape. That explains why we've combed the entire East Coast, all of America, even cast our net into Europe, and couldn't find a trace of her."
"Why would he do that? Don't tell me it's about some bullshit love!"
"That's what makes it deadly." Declan clenched his fists too. "Remember Ryan's car accident? I suspect that was 'Night Owl' too, only made to look like an accident. 'Night Owl' only exposed themselves this time because they helped Ryan."
"So Nick knows where Ryan is now."
"We need to find Ryan. If Nick wants to use her against you..."
"Stop all laundering operations," I ordered. "Keep the dark channels searching for Ryan, but pull all combat forces back to New York. Maximum alert status."
"Understood."
After Declan left, I collapsed back into my chair. I grabbed the whiskey and drank straight from the bottle. The burn down my throat couldn't touch the madness eating at me from inside.
Where the hell was she?
After rooting out the mole and covering the losses, I'd committed completely to legitimizing the family business. I couldn't let her, let Rose, live forever in a bloody underworld where gunfights could erupt at any moment.
But now—fucking ironic. To protect her from that hidden lunatic, I had to pick up the violence I hated most, become that cold-blooded gangster all over again.
The conference started at nine this morning.
Marco got us middle-row aisle seats. Rose paused at the entrance, looking around, disappointment flickering in her eyes.
When the moderator introduced the third speaker, my phone buzzed. Declan sent the family defense deployment for my approval. The moderator was reading a name, but I wasn't paying attention, marking a few weak points for Declan to address.
"Next, please welcome our seventh speaker, Dr. Emily Harrison, who will share her latest research on early intervention for post-traumatic stress disorder in young children."
Emily Harrison? I searched my memory. Never heard of her. I closed my eyes and leaned back. I knew this would be the result.
"Good morning, everyone."
A gentle voice came through the microphone.
Even with the slight static, I couldn't be mistaken.
On stage stood a woman both strange and familiar.
A well-tailored navy suit, hair pinned up, wearing thin-framed glasses.
Her demeanor was completely different from four years ago—more professional, more distant.
It was her. It was Ryan.
My phone slipped from my fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud. I didn't bend to pick it up, didn't even blink, afraid that if I did, she'd vanish.
"...post-traumatic stress disorder in young children is often overlooked," she spoke confidently onstage, "according to clinical data from our clinic over the past two years..."
Clinic. She'd opened a clinic. And my people still couldn't find her.
She was thinner, but more beautiful. Poised and confident, citing data effortlessly, every bit the mature scholar.
Sharp breathing beside me. Rose grabbed my sleeve, her small hand trembling. She recognized her, too.
"Dad..."
I pressed her hand and shook my head. Not yet.
Ryan continued her presentation, occasionally scanning the audience, but never letting her gaze rest on our section. Was she avoiding us, or had she really not noticed?
She started on the main case study.
"...nearly completely closed off, no response to external stimuli, except when presented with new visual objects, such as a pet, showing extremely slight pupil focus."
My heart clenched. That was Rose.
"...the key to early intervention is establishing secure attachment relationships," her voice softened, "children need to know that no matter what happens, someone will protect them."
Four years ago, she'd said the same thing to Rose. Kneeling in the garden, holding my daughter gently, promising she'd stay with her.
Liar.
The presentation ended to applause. Ryan smiled her thanks and began gathering her notes. Just as she stepped down from the last step, a side door burst open.
"Mommy!"
A clear child's voice rang through the hall. A little boy broke free from his caretaker, black curls flying as he ran like a happy bird into Ryan's arms.
Ryan's expression turned incredibly tender. She bent down and picked him up, kissing his forehead. "Pedro, how did you get out?"
"Aunt Sophie was boring," the boy clung to her neck, "I wanted to hear Mommy's lecture."
My gaze fell on the child.
The world stopped. That face—goddamn it—looked exactly like mine.
I stood up, my legs not my own. Rose tried to follow, but Marco held her back.
My steps quickened. Someone bumped my shoulder, muttering complaints. I didn't hear them. Ryan was chatting with some scholars, Pedro on her shoulder, curiously surveying his surroundings.
"...very impressive presentation, Dr. Harrison. About establishing attachment relationships, I have a question..."
She turned and saw me. The color drained from her face. She instinctively stepped back, quickly shielding the child behind her.
The scholars around her were confused by her sudden reaction, following her gaze to me.
"And you are?"
I didn't answer. Less than a meter separated Ryan and me. Close enough to smell her faint perfume—not the Damascus rose I knew.
Pedro peeked out from behind her. "Mommy?"
"Excuse me, if you have private matters to discuss, perhaps..."
"Yes. We need to talk. Alone."
Ryan held Pedro tighter, chin raised. "We have nothing to talk about."
"Really?" My gaze moved past her shoulder to Pedro's face.
The little boy tilted his head, studying me, then suddenly grinned. "You're so tall! Even taller than Aunt Sophie's boyfriend!"
"Pedro," Ryan's voice trembled, "we need to go."
"But Mommy," Pedro squirmed, "I haven't had lunch yet."
"We'll eat at home."
"Dr. Harrison," I deliberately used her current name, "I think we do need to talk. About..." I paused, my gaze falling on Pedro again, "something important."
The scholars finally sensed the tension and discreetly left. Soon, the noisy hall was empty except for me, Ryan, and the bewildered Pedro in her arms.
"Mommy, who is this man?"
Ryan took a deep breath. "No one. Let's go get lunch."
She turned to leave. I blocked her path.
"Don't touch me."
"I won't hurt you." I tried to control my trembling, though inside a tsunami raged. "I just want to know..."
"There's nothing you need to know."
"How old is he?"
Ryan didn't answer.
"Three and a half," Pedro answered, holding up three fingers. "In three more months I'll be four! Mommy said she'll get me a really big birthday cake!"
My hands shook. For the first time in four years, I felt so out of control. I remembered her murmuring to herself in front of the mirror, her nervous anticipation in the study. Every clue pointed to the same answer—one that both terrified and consumed me.
Ryan finally looked directly into my eyes. Those blue eyes held fear, anger, sorrow, and something else I couldn't name.
"Ronan," her voice was soft, "please. Don't do this."
Don't do this? Don't do what? Don't discover the truth? Don't ask the obvious question?
But I had to ask. I had to know.
"Ryan," I grabbed her shoulders, "he's my son, isn't he?"