Chapter 5
The digital clock on the microwave glowed 11:45 PM. The house was dead quiet except for the rhythmic patter of raindrops against the living room window. Jax had cleared away the worst of the ruined birthday cake, sweeping the frosting and crumbs into a large trash bag while Leo sat quietly at the kitchen island, sipping a glass of warm milk that Jax had heated up for him. The boy’s eyelids were growing heavy, the sheer exhaustion of the evening finally catching up to his eight-year-old frame.
Jax poured himself a black coffee, leaning against the counter and watching the boy in the soft overhead light. The resemblance was undeniable now that the initial shock had worn off. Leo had Clara’s nose and delicate facial structure, but he had Jax’s stubborn set of the jaw and the same deep, thoughtful gaze that Jax usually reserved for lonely nights in his garage workshop.
"We need to talk about what happens tomorrow, kiddo," Jax said softly, breaking the comfortable silence.
Leo looked up from his glass of milk, his hazel eyes alert once more. "Are the police going to come?"
"Yeah. I’m going to call an old friend of mine down at the precinct," Jax replied, taking a slow sip of his bitter coffee. "We’ll hand over the video, report Sarah for attempted murder, and get the ball rolling on her arrest. But more importantly..." Jax paused, struggling to find the right words. He wasn't a man accustomed to discussing feelings or family dynamics. "We need to talk about you. Where you were living, who was taking care of you after your mom..."
Leo’s gaze dropped to the wooden surface of the counter. "Mom passed away three months ago in our apartment downtown. The landlord let me stay in the spare room for a while, but then he said he was renting it out. I’ve been living in my backpack for two weeks, staying in abandoned laundry rooms and eating out of convenience stores, waiting for the right time to find you."
Jax felt a sharp pang of guilt pierce his chest. While he had been riding his motorcycle through weekend rallies and drinking beer in dimly lit taverns, his own flesh and blood had been sleeping on concrete floors and dodging social services. He pushed away from the counter, walked over to the stool, and placed a heavy, reassuring hand on the boy’s thin shoulder.
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"You're never sleeping in a laundry room again, Leo. You hear me?" Jax said, his voice firm, fierce, and entirely absolute.
Leo looked up, a wave of pure relief washing over his tired features. He nodded slowly, leaning into the warmth of his father’s heavy hand.
