Chapter 11 - THE LITTLE BOY IN THE BLUE SUIT
“Mommy!”
The little boy ran straight into Anna’s arms.
She dropped to one knee and caught him before he could stumble. His small hands wrapped around her neck, and she kissed his hair as if the crowded ballroom had disappeared.
Vincent Moretti stood three steps away.
He had imagined this moment a thousand times during the three years since the explosion. In his nightmares, Anna appeared behind smoke, reached toward him, and vanished before he could touch her. In his waking hours, he visited the cemetery and stared at a headstone bearing her name.
But the woman in front of him was alive.
And she was holding a child.
“Anna,” he whispered.
Her shoulders stiffened.
For one brief second, she closed her eyes. Then she lifted her son and stood, placing herself between the boy and Vincent.
“Please don't come closer.”
The words struck harder than any weapon.
Vincent stopped.
The child looked over Anna’s shoulder. He had dark hair, wide brown eyes, and a small crease between his eyebrows that Vincent recognized from the mirror.
“Mommy, who is he?”
Anna smoothed the boy’s jacket.
“Nobody you need to worry about, sweetheart.”
Nobody.
Vincent looked at the child again.
“How old is he?”
Anna's expression turned guarded.
“That isn't your concern.”
“How old?”
A woman near the ballroom entrance called, “Anna? Is everything all right?”
Anna turned toward the voice. A tall woman in a navy dress was approaching with a security guard. Vincent recognized her only vaguely: a private event coordinator, perhaps, or someone from the foundation hosting the gala.
The woman looked from Anna to Vincent and immediately understood.
“It's time to go,” she said.
“Wait,” Vincent pleaded. “Anna, please. Just tell me if he's—”
“He's my son.”
Vincent swallowed.
“Our son?”
Anna's eyes hardened.
“You gave up the right to ask that question three years ago.”
Sophia reached them, her champagne dress catching the chandelier light. Her face was pale, but she had recovered enough to speak.
“Anna, this is a misunderstanding.”
Anna looked at her.
“No. A misunderstanding is when someone gets the wrong address. You knew exactly what you were doing.”
Sophia glanced around. Guests had begun to notice the confrontation. Phones were appearing. Whispers traveled from one table to another.
Vincent barely heard them.
“Anna,” he said again. “I thought you were dead.”
“You thought I was dead because you left me inside that plane.”
“I came back.”
“After you took her out.”
“I was coming back for you.”
“You promised.”
The boy pressed his face into Anna’s shoulder.
“Mommy, I want to go home.”
Anna kissed his temple.
“We're going now.”
Vincent moved instinctively, but the security guard stepped between them.
“Sir, please.”
“I'm not going to hurt her.”
Anna looked at him with an expression that held no trust at all.
“You already did.”
She walked away with her son. The woman in navy followed, and the guard stayed behind long enough to make sure Vincent did not follow.
He watched Anna cross the ballroom.
At the doors, she paused. Not to look back at him, but to adjust the little boy's shoe.
Then she disappeared into the night.
Vincent stood beneath the chandelier, unable to move.
Sophia touched his arm.
“Vincent, we should leave.”
He turned toward her slowly.
“What did you know?”
Her lips parted.
“About what?”
“Don't insult me.”
For the first time in three years, Vincent looked at Sophia without affection, guilt, or nostalgia.
May you like
Only suspicion.
And when she failed to answer, he understood that the explosion had not been the only thing she had kept from him.
