Chapter 2 - The Man Behind the Drawing
The night air outside the apartment building was thick with rain, but inside Lily’s small bedroom, it was warm and smelled faintly of baby powder and strawberry shampoo.
Adrian moved across the hardwood floor with zero sound, his tall frame towering over the small white crib that had been converted into a toddler bed. A dim nightlight shaped like a crescent moon cast a soft golden glow over the room.
There she was.
She was three years old, curled up on her side under a blanket covered in cartoon stars. Her dark curly hair—so much like his own—was sprawled wildly across the pillow. In her small arms, squeezed tight against her chest, was the battered, threadbare teddy bear with a blue ribbon around its neck: Mr. Buttons.
Adrian sank slowly onto his knees beside the bed. The pressure on his injured shoulder made his arm tremble, but he didn't care. He reached out with a hand that had signed execution orders and managed multi-million-dollar smuggling operations, his fingers shaking as he lightly touched a lock of her soft hair.
Lily stirred slightly, letting out a tiny, soft sigh, her small brow furrowing as she snuggled deeper into her blanket.
Adrian pulled a folded piece of paper from his inner jacket pocket. It was a high-resolution photograph Vincent’s surveillance team had taken six months ago—a photo of a drawing Lily had made at her preschool art class. On the paper were three figures: a woman with long hair, a tiny girl holding a yellow flower, and a tall man wearing a dark coat, his head a void of empty white paper.
Adrian placed his hand over his heart, feeling the strange, irregular flutter beneath his ribs.
I’m here, baby, he thought. I’m sorry it took me so long.
A faint creak of the floorboards behind him signaled Sarah’s approach. She stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching the hardened mob boss kneel beside a child’s bed like a penitent pilgrim at a shrine.
“She wakes up at seven,” Sarah whispered softly. “She likes blueberry waffles and warm milk with a drop of honey.”
Adrian turned his head, looking up at Sarah. “Can I stay until morning?”
Sarah hesitated, her hand hovering near her collarbone. “Vincent’s men are outside. Is it safe?”
“This is the safest place in the city tonight,” Adrian said, though they both knew it was a lie. “Volkov thinks I’m still confined to a private wing at St. Jude’s under heavy guard. He won't look for me here until at least tomorrow.”
Sarah looked at him for a long moment before walking over to a small wooden wardrobe in the corner. She pulled out a thick navy blanket and laid it over the small armchair beside the bed.
“You can take the chair,” she said quietly. “Don't ruin your stitches.”
Adrian sat down in the armchair, his long legs stretched out, his eyes never leaving the sleeping form of his daughter. Sarah walked over, placed a soft kiss on Lily’s forehead, and then stood beside Adrian’s chair. For a fraction of a second, her hand brushed against his uninjured shoulder, a fleeting ghost of touch that carried five years of unspoken grief and remaining affection.
“Get some rest, Adrian,” she whispered, stepping back into the dark hallway.
Hours bled into the quiet night. Adrian didn't sleep. He watched the rhythmic rise and fall of Lily’s chest, counting her breaths, matching them to his own unpredictable heartbeat. Every hour, his earpiece buzzed with low-frequency check-ins from Vincent.
“Sector clear, boss. Volkov’s men are gathering near the docks in Queens. They think you're vulnerable at the hospital.”
“Keep the decoy unit in place,” Adrian typed back on a encrypted handheld device. “Let them leak a false medical report saying I’m undergoing emergency heart surgery tomorrow morning. Draw Volkov’s attention away from Brooklyn.”
At 6:42 AM, the gray light of dawn began to bleed through the sheer curtains.
Lily shifted. Her small fingers released the teddy bear, and her dark eyes fluttered open. She blinked against the dim light, rubbing her face with the back of her small fist.
Then, she turned her head and saw him.
Adrian held his breath. His pulse spiked violently, a dull ache radiating down his left arm. He didn't move; he didn't want to startle her.
Lily sat up slowly, the blanket dropping into her lap. She stared at the tall, dark-haired man sitting quietly in the chair beside her bed. She looked at his pale face, his sharp jawline, and the dark, emotional eyes looking back at her.
She didn't cry out. She didn't look scared. She simply tilted her small head, her dark curls bouncing.
She reached out with one small hand, pointing a tiny finger at his face.
“Are you the wind man?” she asked, her voice small, raspy from sleep.
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Adrian felt a tear break free from his eye, trailing down his cheek. He smiled—a real, genuine smile that he hadn't felt on his face in over ten years.
“No, sweetheart,” Adrian whispered, leaning forward gently, holding out his hand palm-up. “I’m your daddy.”
