Chapter 9 Salvatore

For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

Our son.

The words detonated in my chest, ripping through eight years of silence, eight years of wondering, eight years of trying to bury a ghost. I staggered back a step, gripping the edge of my desk like the ground wasn’t steady anymore.

“Who… who is Gabe?” My voice didn’t sound like mine.

Sara swallowed. “Our son.”

My vision tunneled. “Our son.”

She nodded.

“And you kept him from me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a wound. She flinched like I’d hit her, and that only made the anger burn hotter. I started pacing because if I didn’t move, I’d break something. Or fall apart. Or both.

“You hid my son from me,” I said, louder this time. “Eight years, Sara. Eight damn years.”

“I didn’t know,” she whispered.

I spun around. “What do you mean you didn’t know?”

“I didn’t know I was pregnant when I left,” she said, voice shaking. “By the time I found out, I’d been gone for four months.”

Four months. Four months of me losing my mind. Four months of searching for her. Four months of thinking she chose to disappear.

“And you still didn’t call me,” I said, the words scraping out of me. “You still didn’t come back.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “I couldn’t.”

“Why?” I demanded. “Why couldn’t you tell me I had a son?”

Her eyes filled, but she didn’t look away. “Because Hector would’ve used the baby to control me. And to control you.” My pacing stopped. “He would’ve used Gabe,” she whispered. “He would’ve used our child to manipulate us both. I had to protect him.”

My anger cracked, splintering into something rawer. “You protected him by keeping him from me?”

“I protected him by keeping him alive,” she said softly. “Hector would’ve killed you, Salvatore. And he would’ve taken Gabe from me.”

My chest tightened. “You should’ve trusted me.”

“I did,” she said. “That’s why I told Gabe about you.”

I froze.

“What?”

She took a shaky breath. “He knows he has a father. He knows you’re a good man. He knows that when the time is right… his father will love him.”

Something inside me broke clean in half. “He thinks that?” I whispered.

She nodded. “Every night, he asks if you’ll like him. If you’ll want him.”

My throat closed. I pressed a hand to my face, trying to breathe, trying to think, trying not to fall apart in front of her.

“He’s my son,” I said, voice cracking. “My son.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “He is.”

I turned away because the emotion was too much, too sharp, too real. My hands were shaking. My pulse was a hammer in my ears. Eight years. Eight years without him. Eight years without knowing I had a reason to live for something more than blood and loyalty. I faced her again, and this time my voice was low, dangerous, and full of something I couldn’t hide.

“Where is he now?”

“With my grandmother,” she said. “Safe.”

Safe, but not safe enough. Not with Juan hunting them, not with the Marquez name circling like vultures. I stepped closer, my voice carrying both a promise and a threat.

“No one,” I said, “is ever taking my son from me. I want to meet him.”

“Of course. How about tomorrow? You can come over for dinner, meet Gabe, and we can talk about custody, weekends, after school, anytime you want to see him.”

She didn’t move, didn’t breathe. And for the first time since she walked back into my life, I saw it, the fear, the hope, the love she’d been carrying alone for far too long. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.