Mafia Captured

12. Last moments of Freedom

Two days later, Arham finally opened his eyes, and Arsalan came to see him. Sahira, sitting by her son's bedside, didn't say a word. She refused to even glance at Arsalan. She focused all her attention on Arham, letting her turbulent thoughts slip away, one by one.

Arsalan stood frozen at the foot of the bed, his eyes tracing the outline of his son's small, bandaged body. It wasn't supposed to be like this—their first meeting. A child, barely more than a stranger, but so clearly his. Anger pulsed in his veins, the old betrayal rearing its head with a force that made his fists clench.

Sahira gently stroked Arham's face, her fingers trembling with emotion. Arham blinked and looked up at her with the same bright blue eyes as his father's. "Amma," he said, his voice weak but filled with warmth.

She kissed his small hand, her heart heavy with relief. Arham's eyes drifted over to the man standing by the edge of the bed.  His head turned toward Arsalan, and his tired eyes, large and blue, blinked slowly as if trying to focus. He looked fragile, his face pale and his movements sluggish, still recovering from the surgery.

"Aren't you the dad from the picture?" he asked innocently, his words catching Arsalan off guard. His voice was barely a whisper and his words slurred with the weight of fatigue. His tiny hand reached out, but it trembled from weakness. His brows furrowed, confused but curious, as his eyes fluttered between Arsalan and Sahira.

 The frown on Arsalan's face quickly morphed into a strained smile as he approached the bed.

"Yes," Arsalan said softly, kneeling by the bed so he was at Arham's level. "I'm your dad."Though he had no idea which picture Arham was talking about. Still, there was no denying the truth. This was his son. His blood. Five years ago, he had seen Sahira's pregnancy reports and had assumed she was dead—along with their unborn child. But now he knew how wrong he had been.

Sahira had deceived him, hiding their son away all these years. Anyone with eyes could see the boy lying in the hospital bed was Arsalan's. The resemblance was undeniable—the same blue eyes, the same dark black hair. The child was a perfect blend of his Indian-Italian heritage.

Arsalan clenched his fists, his blood simmering beneath the surface. Not only had Sahira betrayed him, but she had also robbed him of the chance to know his son. Yet he kept his face calm. Years of manipulating people had made him a master at masking his emotions.

"How are you feeling, son?" The word "son" felt foreign on Arsalan's tongue, as if it didn't quite belong. In all these years, he had never imagined fatherhood would be thrust upon him like this. Out of nowhere.

Arham's lips curved into a faint, tired smile. "Better, dad.  But, Where... have you been?" His voice wavered, and he blinked slowly, as if each word took all the energy he had. "Amma... said you were... working."

 It didn't feel like he was meeting his father for the first time. Instead, it felt like his dad had just come home from work, like he always did. Whenever they had asked about their father, Sahira had told them that their dad was busy working for them. And now, here he was, done with his work, and Arham was overjoyed.

Arsalan's throat tightened. He hadn't expected his first real conversation with his son to be like this, every word laced with exhaustion and innocence. "I was," he said, his voice thick. "I was working... but now I'm here."

Sahira stiffened beside him, her heart breaking at how much effort it took for Arham to speak. She gently stroked his hand, her fingers brushing his tiny knuckles as if her touch could soothe him. Arham blinked again, his lashes fluttering against his pale cheeks. "You'll stay?" he asked, his words almost fading, as if sleep was tugging at him.