Zayden’s POV
Sleep doesn't come.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying Eli's conversation with Jocelyn on loop. The way his voice cracked when he asked if she was coming back. The careful hope when she promised to visit, the silence after she hung up—heavy, final, the sound of another person leaving.
The sheets on Jocelyn's side are still unmade from this morning. Her pillow still carries the faint scent of her shampoo. I reach across the empty space where she used to sleep, fingers finding nothing but cold fabric.
Three years of marriage gone in a single night because I couldn't stop being my father's son.
I've built empires. Negotiated billion-dollar deals. Survived hostile takeovers and market crashes and every corporate war zone Wall Street could throw at me.
But I can't survive this—the empty bed, the silent house, the knowledge that I destroyed the only real thing I ever had.
The first sob catches me by surprise—rough, strangled, ripping out of my throat before I can stop it. Then another. And another.
I press my face into the pillow to muffle the sound, shoulders shaking with everything I've been holding back since Jocelyn walked out with those suitcases.
Pathetic. I'm forty-two years old, crying into expensive linens like a child.
But I can't stop.
"Dad?"
The small voice freezes me completely.
Eli stands in the doorway, backlit by hallway light, clutching that stuffed tiger Mia gave him. His eyes are wide, uncertain, witnessing something he shouldn't have to see.
I sit up fast, wiping my face with the back of my hand. "Eli. You should be asleep."
"I can't sleep." He takes a tentative step inside. "I keep thinking about Mom. And Jocelyn. And…" His voice cracks. "Are you crying?"
Lying feels pointless. "Yeah."
"Because Jocelyn left?"
"Because I fucked up." The profanity slips out. I don't apologize. "Because I hurt people I care about and now they're gone."
Eli moves closer, still clutching the tiger. When he reaches the bed, he climbs up without asking permission and sits beside me. Not touching, just present.
"Mom used to cry at night," he says quietly. "After she got sick. She thought I couldn't hear, but I could."
"What did you do?"
"Sat with her. Like this." He looks at me with eyes too old for eight. "Sometimes people just need someone there, I think. Even if it doesn't fix anything."
The wisdom breaks me all over again.
I pull him into a hug—awkward, desperate, holding onto this child I barely know but somehow can't imagine losing. He stiffens for a second, then melts against me, small arms wrapping around my ribs.
"I'm sorry," I whisper into his hair. "For not being there before. For all of it."
"You're here now." His voice is muffled against my shirt. "That's what Jocelyn said. That you're here now."
We stay like that for minutes that feel like hours. Two broken people clinging to each other in a house too big and too empty.
Then we both hear it—a sound downstairs, soft and deliberate. Not the building settling or wind against windows.
Footsteps.
Eli pulls back, eyes wide. "What was that?"
I'm already moving, adrenaline flooding cold and sharp. "Stay here."
"But—"
"Stay. Here." I grab my phone from the nightstand, already dialing security. "Lock the door after me. Don't come out until I say it's safe."
His face drains of color, but he nods.
I slip into the hallway, leaving Eli behind. The penthouse is dark except for ambient city glow through floor-to-ceiling windows. Every shadow suddenly looks threatening.
Another sound—glass clinking. Kitchen.
I move toward it, phone pressed to my ear. Security picks up on the third ring.
"Mr. Wolfe?"
"Someone's in my apartment. Send—"
A voice cuts through the darkness—smooth, accented, amused.
"No need for theatrics, Zayden. I let myself in."
Dante Caruso sits at my kitchen island like he owns it, pouring himself scotch from the bottle I keep for clients. Mid-fifties, silver threading through dark hair, wearing a suit that costs more than most cars.
He looks relaxed, comfortable. Absolutely terrifying.
"How did you get in here?" My hand tightens on the phone.
"Building security is surprisingly cooperative when properly motivated." He takes a sip, evaluates the scotch with the appreciation of a connoisseur. "Macallan 25. Your father had excellent taste."
"Get out of my home."
"We had an appointment. Saturday, Pier 47. You didn't confirm." He sets down the glass with deliberate precision. "I thought a personal visit would clarify your priorities."
"This is breaking and entering."
"This is a business call." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Your father owed debts, Zayden. Money laundered, contracts fulfilled, years of profitable partnership. Then he died without settling his accounts."
"Whatever he owed I've repaid."
"By selling off our Brooklyn properties?" Dante's voice drops to something dangerous. "By restructuring contracts to cut us out? By pretending twenty years of family business could be dissolved with paperwork?"
"I'm not my father."
"No. You're weaker." He stands, moves around the island with predatory grace. "Your father understood obligation, understood that certain debts transcend money. You think you can walk away from what he built? From who he was?"
"I already have."
"Then explain Giuliana." Dante stops six feet away. Close enough to intimidate without threatening. "Explain my niece and the child she claims is yours."
"Claims being the operative word."
"You think we'd fabricate a pregnancy for leverage?" His laugh is cold. "Lucia exists, Zayden. Ten years old, growing up believing her father abandoned her for a newer, prettier family."
"I've never seen proof."
"Because you never asked." Dante pulls out his phone, swipes through photos and holds it up.
Lucia Caruso. Older than the PI photo, maybe recent. She's laughing, dark curls wild around her face, holding a sketchbook.
My chest constricts. She has my hands, my posture, the way she tilts her head while concentrating.
"DNA test," Dante says. "Can be arranged. But we both know what it'll confirm."
"What do you want?"
"I want you to acknowledge her publicly. Wolfe name, Wolfe resources, Wolfe legacy." He pockets the phone. "I want the alliance your father promised when he made his deal with my family."
"She's ten years old."
"She's our insurance that you honor your father's commitments." Dante steps closer. "Acknowledge her or watch everything you love disappear. Your company, your reputation, your children."
The threat lands like a blade. I open my mouth to strike back when a small voice cuts through the darkness.
"Dad?"
‘No, not right now.’
Eli stands in the hallway, tiger clutched to his chest, staring at Dante with wide, terrified eyes.
Dante’s expression shifts—calculation replacing casual menace, something predatory sliding behind his eyes.
"Well," he says, smile spreading like oil across water. "This must be the other one. Natasha's boy."
My body moves between them instinctively. "Leave him alone."
"Here's the thing about debts, Zayden." Dante pulls out his phone, types something with deliberate precision. "They require collateral. Your father understood that. Used it brilliantly when he needed leverage."
Thirty seconds later, footsteps echo from my foyer. The penthouse door—locked, secured, monitored—opens like it was never an obstacle at all.
Three men walk in. They move with military precision, fanning out across my living room, blocking exits with casual efficiency. Hands rest inside jackets that definitely conceal weapons.
I pull Eli behind me immediately, positioning my body as a shield between him and every armed man in my home. My phone is still in my hand—screen dark, useless. Even if I could call for help, these men would be on us before anyone arrived.
"Children are such powerful motivators, don't you think?” Dante smirks so my blood crystallizes. “Your father certainly found them useful when persuasion required... incentive."
The circle began to narrow as the men, with a hunting gait, began to approach me and Eli. I squeezed my son's shoulder, realizing that for almost the first time, I was completely powerless.