I had told myself that Adrian was just like his grandfather, Salvatore.

But watching him now, sitting on the dusty concrete floor with our children, the anger in me began to slip.

“They’re hungry,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. “They haven’t eaten since we left the park.”

Adrian looked up at me, his expression earnest.

“I have some rations in the crates by the back wall,” Isabella said without looking up from her screen. “Dry crackers, peanut butter, some bottled water.”

Adrian stood up immediately.

“I’ll get it,” he said.

He walked over to the wooden crates stacked near the heavy iron fire door.

I followed him, needing to feel the physical distance from the flashing red screen.

“You don’t have to do this, Adrian,” I whispered as he pried open a crate. “You could have run. You could have gone back to Camille.”

Adrian stopped, a jar of peanut butter in his hand.

He turned to face me, the dim overhead bulb casting long shadows across his sharp jawline.

“Camille is my past, Maya,” he said, his voice steady. “You and the kids are my only priority now.”