Father And Son Authors Novels & Stories

“If Rachel is such a good mother, then why don’t you go be her child’s father?” “Oh! You’re already Aileen’s dad, aren’t you? Back in the forest, you kept calling yourself ‘Daddy Carlson’ like she was your own.” “I told you a thousand times—I’m an Alpha. I’m the father of the whole pack! Aileen lost her father. What’s wrong with me looking after her?” “Are you the last male in Moonshadow Pack?” I used to wonder about it, so I secretly ran paternity tests on Carlson and Aileen—more than once. Every time, the result was the same. They weren’t blood-related.

That and much more was what made our friendship unique and faithful in all these years of knowing each other. He was my childhood friend. His father worked for many years for my father and now he was working for me at the same time that his father continued to work. The difference between Edgardo and his son was that he was no longer able to go through the motions like us. He mostly took care of the business, the finances and all that shit, while we did the dirtier and more dangerous work.

“Based on the genetic profile, the boy has strong genetic markers from Eastern Europe. Russia, to be precise.” Russian ancestry. A Bratva tattoo. It all made sense. The rest of the truth wasn’t hard to uncover. Dante’s real father was a Russian mobster. His mother, and Dante himself, had been part of a long-con, a trap designed to place a sleeper agent at the head of the Moretti family. Faced with the undeniable evidence, Dante crumpled to the floor, all the fight gone out of him, and grabbed at Vincent’s legs. “Father, please, for the sake of the years we had… don’t throw me out! I’ll change, I swear I’ll change!”

… The next day, I stayed home. I sat in the living room, all focused on sewing clothes for my son. Logan was a regimental commander, often admonishing Artie and me to be frugal and not to live beyond our means. Although Artie was too young to understand, he knew his father was a great hero who protected our country, so he had never made any demands of Logan or me.

I sat there, staring at his peaceful face, lost in thought. Though it was obvious that Christopher didn't look like Hanley, I knew for sure that I had never been with another man. He was Hanley's son, no doubt about it. But why didn't Christopher share any blood with Kennard? According to genetics, a grandson should have at least a quarter of his bloodline from his grandfather. So what was going on? I replayed the paternity report in my mind. It had the hospital's official stamp, and it came from a well-known public hospital in the city. There was no way the report could be wrong.

Axel stood by his side, a steadfast presence radiating warmth and protection, guiding Theo through the labyrinth of his dreams with a father's unwavering love. Together, father and son wandered through realms where time seemed to ebb and flow like the tide, where the echoes of their laughter reverberated through the starlit expanse, and where the very essence of their bond shimmered like a beacon in the night. Each moment they shared was a symphony of love and connection, a melody that resonated in the deepest chambers of their souls.

I answered He studied me for a moment. “You’re thinking again.” “That’s becoming a pattern,” I said. He leaned against the counter across from me. “What’s on your mind this time?” I hesitated before answering. “Your father.” Mason sighed softly. “He seems to be a popular topic lately.” “I keep thinking about the choices he had to make,” I said. Mason didn’t reply right away. “He carried a war on his shoulders,” I continued. “And he did it alone.”

I was wrong. A few days passed. I tried to gather myself, trying to survive the shame and the heartbreak. One afternoon, while walking in the city market, I heard a familiar voice call out. "Selene?" I turned around. There stood Adrian, arm in arm with Elara. But beside them stood an older man—tall, broad-shouldered, hair streaked with gray, sharp intimidating eyes, and wearing an expensive tailored suit. It was Adrian’s father. Don Lorenzo. One of the richest, most powerful, and most feared men in the country.

The thinly veiled satisfaction in some of their voices, like they had been waiting for her family to fall and now they finally had front-row seats to watch it happen. A man in a gray suit approached her, his smile too wide. "Christiana, I just wanted to say how sorry I am. Your father was a smart man. Very smart." He paused, letting the words settle. "Perhaps too smart for his own good." She stared at him until his smile faltered. "Excuse me," she said, and walked away.

A father figure. But by the time I was thirteen, having playdates with his daughter Jane, I wasn’t writing about boys my age in my notebook. I was writing love letters to him. Fantasies about a future where I was older, wiser, and finally worthy of his attention. As I got older, the fantasies didn’t fade. They got sharper. More intimate. More… specific.