Chapter 3 - THE FISHERMAN’S SECRETThe living room was small, heated by a wood stove that crackled softly in the corner.
On a narrow daybed near the window lay Thomas Bell.
He was a man who had once been large and powerful—his hands were thick and calloused, built for pulling heavy iron traps from freezing waters—but illness had carved him down to bone and skin. His face was gray, his breathing shallow and rattling, connected to a small nasal oxygen concentrator that hummed rhythmically beside the bed.
When Declan entered the room, Thomas looked up.
Despite his weakness, Thomas’s blue eyes were sharp. He looked at Declan’s custom-tailored coat, his handmade Italian leather shoes, his commanding posture, and then at Lena’s pale, tear-streaked face.
Thomas didn't look surprised. He didn't look angry.
He just looked tired.
“So,” Thomas said, his voice a low rustle. “You’re the man from New York.”
Declan stopped near the wood stove. “You know who I am?”
Thomas offered a faint, bitter smile. He reached out with a trembling hand and picked up a worn leather wallet from the bedside table. From inside, he pulled out a folded newspaper clipping from five years ago—a photo of Declan Ward leaving a Manhattan courtroom surrounded by lawyers and security guards.
“I found this in Lena’s suitcase the night I brought her home from the hospital in Bangor,” Thomas said quietly. He coughed softly, wincing as he clutched his chest. “She was six months pregnant, freezing, starving, and terrified that someone was going to kill her baby. I took her in. I gave her my last name. And I kept that clipping in my wallet so I’d know what face to look for when the devil finally came to collect.”
Declan’s brow furrowed. He turned to Lena. “Terrified someone was going to kill him? What are you talking about?”
Lena stepped forward, her hands clenched in her apron. “Victor,” she said.
Declan froze. “What?”
“Victor Sokolov,” Lena hissed, tears streaming down her face again. “Five years ago, the night before I left… Victor came to the penthouse while you were in Washington. He brought me into your study and showed me pictures of a warehouse in Queens. He showed me what happens to women who stay with men like you when rival families go to war.”
Declan felt the room tilt around him. “Victor did what?”
“He told me that if I stayed, if I had your baby in New York, your enemies would use the child to destroy you,” Lena sobbed. “He said he had a contact in the Genovese family who was already planning to kidnap me as soon as the pregnancy showed. He gave me ten thousand dollars in cash, a bus ticket to Maine, and told me that if I ever tried to contact you, he’d tell your enemies where I was.”
Declan’s hands clenched into fists so tight his fingernails bit into his palms.
Victor. His right-hand man. The man sitting fifty yards away in the Escalade.
“Victor told me he was protecting you,” Lena whispered, her voice trembling. “He said you were a king in New York, but a king couldn't afford a weakness. He said a baby would make you soft. So I ran. I ran until the bus ran out of road in Port Mercy.”
Thomas Bell cleared his throat, a wet, painful sound. He looked at Declan with steady, unwavering eyes.
“She came here broke,” Thomas said quietly. “I was just a fisherman with a bad heart and an empty house. I loved her the second I saw her. I knew the boy wasn't mine, but I held him when he was born. I taught him how to tie fishing knots. I called him my son every day for five years.”
Thomas tried to sit up, his chest heaving as he reached for a glass of water on the nightstand. Lena rushed to his side, gently lifting his head and holding the straw to his lips. The tenderness between them was not a lie—it was born of five years of shared suffering, cold winters, and survival.
“I’m dying, Mr. Ward,” Thomas whispered, looking straight into Declan’s eyes. “Dr. Harris says I have two months, maybe three. I don't care about my life. But Evan needs a operation in Boston that costs half a million dollars. I tried to take out a second mortgage, but the bank turned me down. I’ve been praying every night that God would send a miracle before I breathed my last.”
Thomas pointed a frail, shaking finger at Declan. “Are you the miracle, Mr. Ward? Or are you the devil?”
Before Declan could answer, small footsteps pattered down the wooden staircase in the hallway.
A little boy in dinosaur pajamas stood in the doorway, rubbing his sleep-heavy hazel eyes.
“Mom?” Evan asked softly, looking around the room. He blinked, his eyes settling on Declan’s tall frame.
May you like
The boy’s eyes widened. He looked at Declan’s gray eyes, at his face, and then down at the coat pocket where the silver watch rested.
“It’s you,” Evan whispered, a wide, gap-toothed grin spreading across his face. “The secret man.”
