Chapter 2 - THE PICTURE IN THE RAIN
(Word count: ~1,530 words)
The world around me seemed to freeze into total, absolute silence.
Rain dripped off the brim of my leather cap, splashing onto the plastic-wrapped photograph held tightly in my trembling fingers.
Sarah’s smile radiated from the aged paper. It was her—the sharp green eyes, the gentle curve of her jaw, the faint dimple on her left cheek that I used to kiss every morning before leaving for the shop. She was wearing a loose yellow sundress I remembered buying her for her twenty-fifth birthday.
And in her arms, wrapped in a faded blue hospital blanket, was a tiny baby with a tuft of dark hair.
“Where did you get this?” my voice came out crushed, barely a whisper against the wind.
Ethan wiped his wet nose with his soaked sleeve, shivering violently against the cold brick wall of the building behind us. “From the box under my bed at the home. A nurse named Martha gave it to me before she got transferred last year. She told me if I ever escaped, I had to find the man in the leather vest.”
“Andrew!”
Heavy boots pounded against the wet concrete behind me. Grizzly—a six-foot-four, bearded veteran who served as the Black Ravens’ Sergeant-at-Arms—stepped up beside me, his hand resting casually on his leather belt. Behind him stood Jax, our road captain, and Doc, our club’s medic and resident genius.
“Everything good here, Boss?” Grizzly asked, his deep voice rumbling like thunder. “Those two suits looked like they were ready to jump a kid.”
I didn't answer right away. I couldn't move my eyes away from the photograph.
Doc stepped closer, glancing over my shoulder at the paper in my hand. His eyes widened instantly behind his rain-spotted glasses. “Holy hell... Andrew, is that... is that Sarah?”
Jax swore softly under his breath, taking a step back in sheer disbelief.
I stood up slowly, my knee popping in the cold air, and looked down at the shivering boy before me. He couldn't have been more than eight years old.
Sarah had died fifteen months ago. Before that, we had been married for six years. We had been trying to have a child for years, but the doctors told us she couldn't conceive due to severe medical complications. Then, miraculously, sixteen months ago, she got pregnant with Lily—the baby girl we lost in the crash.
If this boy was eight years old, Sarah would have had him seven years before she died. Seven years ago, Sarah and I were already married.
My mind raced through a chaotic labyrinth of questions. Had she kept a secret from me? Had she had a child before we met? Or while we were together? None of it made sense. Sarah was the most transparent, loving woman I had ever known. We didn't have secrets.
“Hey, little man,” Doc said softly, dropping down onto one knee in front of Ethan. He pulled off his heavy wool club scarf and gently wrapped it around the boy’s trembling neck. “You’re shaking like a leaf. What’s your name?”
“Ethan,” the boy whispered, hugging the scarf close to his face. “Ethan Miller.”
“Well, Ethan,” Doc smiled gently. “You look like you could use about four pancakes and a warm place to sit. How’s that sound?”
Ethan looked at me nervously, as if waiting for my permission.
“Doc’s right,” I said, snapping out of my trance and placing the photograph safely inside the inner waterproof pocket of my vest. “We’re taking him to the Clubhouse.”
“Boss,” Grizzly cautioned, leaning in close so Ethan couldn't hear. “If those guys were from St. Jude’s Annex, that’s a state-monitored juvenile holding center run by the city’s private contractors. If they report a runaway kid taken by the Black Ravens, the Chicago PD will be knocking on our gates in an hour.”
“Let them knock,” I snapped, my eyes dark with a sudden, fierce protectiveness I hadn't felt in over a year. “No one takes this boy anywhere until I get answers.”
We moved fast. Jax mounted his bike and rode ahead to clear the gates, while Grizzly took the rear sweep to make sure no state transport vehicles were trailing us. I lifted Ethan onto the back of my custom road glide, strapping my spare leather jacket over his small body until he was completely bundled up.
“Hold onto my waist, Ethan,” I told him through the rumble of the engine. “Don't let go.”
“I won't,” he squeaked from behind me, burying his face into the back of my vest just like he had on the sidewalk.
The ten-mile ride from downtown to the South Side of Chicago was a blur of neon lights, gray rain, and roaring exhaust pipes. My mind was spinning at a hundred miles an hour. Who was Ethan’s real father? Why did he have a picture of my deceased wife? And why was a private city facility keeping an eight-year-old boy locked up under high-security surveillance?
When we pulled up to the heavy steel gates of the Black Ravens Clubhouse—a massive, fortified former warehouse near the industrial docks—the iron doors swung open smoothly.
Jax stepped off his bike, holding the door open to the heated main hall.
Inside, the warm smell of wood smoke, roasted meat, and motor oil hit us instantly. A dozen club members were hanging around the pool tables and the bar, but the room went completely quiet the moment they saw their President walk in holding the hand of a wet, frightened eight-year-old boy.
“Clear the back conference room,” I ordered my Vice President, Marcus, as soon as I stepped over the threshold. “And get Doc’s medical kit.”
“Andrew, what’s going on?” Marcus asked, his sharp blue eyes darting to the boy. “Who’s the kid?”
“I don't know yet,” I replied, taking Ethan’s wet sneakers off near the radiator. “But he’s holding a picture of Sarah.”
Marcus froze, his jaw tightening instantly. He didn't ask another question. He turned to the room and barked, “Everyone out to the garage! Clear the main room now!”
Within two minutes, the main hall was empty except for me, Doc, Marcus, and Ethan.
Doc set a steaming mug of hot chocolate and a plate of grilled ham and cheese sandwiches on the low oak table in front of Ethan. The boy didn't hesitate—he grabbed the sandwich with both hands and began eating ravenously, as if he hadn't seen real food in days.
I sat across from him, leaning my elbows on my knees, watching every move he made. The way he tilted his head when he swallowed, the slight arch of his dark eyebrows—it was terrifyingly familiar.
“Ethan,” I said gently, keeping my tone as soft as possible. “Can you tell me about Nurse Martha? The woman who gave you the picture?”
Ethan wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, swallowing hard. “She worked the night shift at St. Jude’s. She was nice to me. She used to give me extra pudding when the guards weren't looking.”
“When did she give you the photo?”
“About a year ago,” Ethan whispered, his eyes filling with fresh tears. “She came into my room real late at night. She was crying. She said she was being fired because she asked too many questions about my admission files. She told me that the people running St. Jude’s were getting paid a lot of money to keep me hidden there.”
My heart slammed against my ribs. “Hidden? Hidden from who?”
May you like
Ethan looked directly into my eyes, his small voice echoing across the quiet, cavernous hall.
“From you, Mr. Whitman,” Ethan said softly. “Nurse Martha said your wife took me away right after I was born to save my life. But she said before your wife could bring me back to you... she got killed.”
