Ethan turned toward the bakery window. The night outside suddenly felt different. Colder. Sharper. Traffic still growled in the street, but now it sounded like a warning.
A black car with tinted windows sat at the corner longer than it should have, engine still running.
His instincts, the same instincts that had protected him in boardrooms and negotiations for years, told him this was no coincidence.
He looked back at Noah, who was brushing the last crumbs from his plate, too young to understand how much danger might already be circling him.
“Noah,” Ethan said, his voice low and serious, “when you’re done eating, I’m not leaving you out there. Take me to your mother. I need to see those notebooks.”
The boy blinked. “Why?”
Ethan glanced once more at the waiting black car.
“Because I don’t think your father died in an accident,” he said.
“And whatever he created… somebody is still hunting for it.”
