Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ronan
"Ronan?"
"Morning." I held out the insulated bag. "Made breakfast. Eggs are a little burnt, but edible."
"How did you—"
"Mommy!" A head poked out from behind Ryan's legs. Pedro wore blue pajamas, hair a mess, blue eyes wide as he stared at me and the bag in my hand.
Ryan pulled Pedro back, reaching for the insulated bag. That was a relief, but she clearly wasn't inviting me in. Just said flatly, "Thanks."
"Don't mention it. Same time tomorrow." I turned and headed down the steps.
And that's how it went. Every single day. Ryan couldn't fight me off, and Pedro was thrilled by his daily breakfast surprise. Ryan never asked me inside, but what did that matter?
Day thirty-one, the door opened, and Pedro ran out first, wrapping himself around my leg. "Ronan! What's for breakfast?"
"French toast. Threw some sausage bits on yours."
"Awesome!" He turned to Ryan. "Mom, I want Ronan to come in and eat with us!"
"Pedro, stop it. Ronan's busy, he has to—"
"I'm not busy." I cut her off without hesitation. "Got all day."
Ryan glared at me. She looked at Pedro's stubborn expression and finally gave up, sighing. "Pedro, why does Ronan have to come in?"
Pedro looked at me, then at Ryan, and said quietly, "Because.
.. because ever since Ronan started showing up at our door every morning, Jim and the others stopped saying I don't have a dad and stopped calling me names.
They say Ronan looks scary and cool, like a superhero.
So... if Ronan has breakfast with me, they'll be even more jealous. .."
Ryan's body went rigid. Her eyes reddened visibly fast, moisture gathering in those blue eyes. She turned away, trying to hide it, but I saw her biting down hard on her lip.
I felt like someone had shoved a rusty knife straight into my heart and twisted it twice.
My son. Valerius blood. Getting bullied and mocked by a bunch of kids. The violence in me nearly detonated on the spot. I wanted to find out which little bastards right now, pay their parents a visit, teach them some people in this world you don't mess with.
But I held back. Hard. I'd promised Ryan I'd just be a regular dad around our son. All I could do was crouch down and gently touch Pedro's head.
"Pedro, don't be scared." I looked into his eyes. "Anyone gives you trouble again, tell me. I'll always have your back."
"Yes! That's great!" Pedro beamed, bouncing off to wash up.
Ryan took a deep breath, stood up, and pulled open the door I thought would stay shut forever.
"Come in." Her voice was thick with congestion. "Before the breakfast gets cold."
I walked into Ryan's home.
The living room wasn't big, but every inch breathed warmth.
Sunlight filtered through sunflower-patterned curtains, spilling softly inside.
The fridge was plastered with Pedro's crayon drawings.
The most prominent photo showed a beach cottage—Ryan and Pedro grinning wide. A warm home. Missing only me.
I swallowed the bitterness and set the insulated bag on the table. Ryan went to the kitchen for plates. Pedro sat in his booster seat, craning his neck to watch me pour scrambled eggs onto plates.
"Ronan, do you make this every day? Aren't you tired?"
"Not tired. It's my honor making you breakfast."
He tilted his head, thinking. "My mom's scrambled eggs taste better than yours."
"Pedro." Ryan's voice drifted from the kitchen.
"But yours are really good too!" Pedro added quickly, then flashed me a grin.
I sat in the chair across from Ryan. One leg was slightly short. It wobbled when you sat, but I thought this chair was a hundred times more comfortable than the leather one in my study.
After breakfast, I didn't leave right away. Started clearing the dishes. Was about to wash them too when Ryan pushed me out of the kitchen.
"I heard you opened a psych rehab center in town." I stood by the door, leaning against the frame. "Need help? I'd like to volunteer."
Ryan's movements paused. She turned, looking at me with an unreadable expression.
"Volunteer? Ronan, are you joking? You? Volunteering with traumatized kids?"
"I'm serious." I met her eyes. "Taking care of Rose these years, I've learned a lot about dealing with special needs children. I know how to handle those little ones when they have meltdowns."
"No." She tossed the plate in the sink. "That's not where you belong. You'll scare the kids."
"I'll tone it down."
"Ronan. Don't push it. And you need to leave."
I didn't argue. Stood up, smoothed my shirt. "Fine. I understand."
Back at my place, I immediately changed into casual clothes, covering every tattoo on my arms. Carefully shaved the stubble off my face, practiced a gentle smile in the mirror over and over. Still awkward, but at least now I didn't look like a thug ready to pull a gun.
All set, I headed straight to the clinic and sat down on that pink bench in the waiting area. Ryan was busy at the front desk. When she saw me, her eyes went huge. She was about to charge over and throw me out when a child's scream came from the clinic entrance.
A boy around five or six was being dragged in by his mother, shrieking and rolling on the floor, kicking at everything around him. His mother looked exhausted, eyes red and swollen, clearly at her wit's end.
The assistant and Ryan both tried approaching to calm him, but the kid's screaming nearly pierced the ceiling.
I stood up.
"Ronan, don't go over there!"
I walked to the boy rolling on the floor and crouched down. I didn't grab him or try to soothe him. I knew kids like this needed to be shut down before they'd actually listen.
"Kid. Done yet? When you're done, stand up. Stop squirming on the floor like a worm."
The boy froze, his crying stuck in his throat, staring at me blankly.
I pulled a dollar coin from my pocket, waved it in front of his eyes, flipped my hand—coin vanished. Before he could react, I pulled it from behind his ear.
"Now. Stand up yourself. Go to your mom." I pressed the coin into his hand. "Deal done."
The boy looked at the coin in his hand, then at me, and obediently climbed off the floor, walking back to his mother.
I stood up, dusted off my knees, and looked at Ryan standing nearby. The guard in her eyes had dropped a notch. If I wasn't mistaken, there was even a hint of approval.
The next morning, when I showed up at the clinic, Ryan didn't kick me out. She walked up to me and slapped a light green vest printed with "Lumina Volunteer" against my chest.
"Activity room. Help the kids with crafts. If you make any child cry, I swear I'll beat you out with a broom."
I grabbed the vest that was at least two sizes too small for me, and couldn't help smiling. "Yes, Dr. Harrison."
My life became three points on a map.
Six a.m., make breakfast. Seven, deliver it to 1120 Waverley Street.
Seven-thirty, eat with Ryan and Pedro, drop Pedro at preschool, eight-thirty at the clinic.
The kids called me "Big Guy." I handed them scissors, helped pick up scattered Lego pieces, even had to read that damn book The Very Hungry Caterpillar over and over.
I could now recite any word from any page, any line.
Four-thirty p.m., I'd be at Pedro's preschool on time. Ryan was too busy, had to let me pick him up, but laid down strict rules. Be on time. Absolutely no bodyguards in black suits. And no strangers near Pedro.
This was my favorite thing. Being a regular dad, mixed in with the other parents picking up their kids. When Pedro came running out of the classroom with his Captain America backpack, cheering as he flew into my arms—those other kids looked at Pedro with envy. I loved that feeling.
This afternoon, Declan flew to Palo Alto with documents for me to sign. He walked in, froze, then burst into wild laughter, nearly losing his glasses.
"Ronan. The Don. Look at this—How to Communicate Effectively with Toddlers, What to Say When Your Child Asks Why? Oh my God! If the elders saw this, their blood pressure would spike again." He held up the books, doubled over laughing.
"Sign and leave." I snatched the documents from him.
"This page is dog-eared." He pointed to page 47. "You highlighted it? 'When a child expresses anger, step one is to crouch to eye level.' Jesus, you took notes."
"Declan."
"Yellow highlighter." He pushed up his glasses, grin unstoppable. "I need to take a picture for Marco."
"You can try."
"Fine, fine. No pictures. Boring."
He clicked his tongue and put the book back.
"Does it work? Should I make it required reading for the family?"
"Get lost." I threw the signed documents back at him. "How's New York?"
Declan's smile vanished, expression turning serious. "Not great. Night Owl's been active lately. You need to sign off on key decisions, Ronan. The family needs you."
"I know." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Give me a little more time."
After signing, I picked up Pedro from preschool as usual. When he ran out of the classroom, he was clutching a clear plastic bag in both hands. He charged up to me, holding the bag high.
"Ronan! The teacher said we have to turn in a craft project tomorrow! Make a little animal with cardboard and yarn! Will you help me?"
I took the bag. Inside were cardboard pieces, colored yarn, safety scissors, plastic buttons, and glue. A notice in his backpack showed a blurry diagram.
"What animal do you want to make?"
"A cat!" No hesitation. "Like Luna!"
"Okay."
Soon as we got home, Pedro dumped all the materials onto the carpet, then looked up at me. The message was clear: you're the adult, you do it. I was planning to impress my son anyway, confidently sketching a cat outline before picking up the safety scissors to cut cardboard.
Problem was, I got nervous. The cat's head turned into an irregular oval. I flipped it over, thought I could salvage it, made two more cuts—massacred the ears. Pedro crouched beside me watching, corner of his mouth twitching up.
"You're cutting it funny."
"This is called art."
"Really?"