I woke up at 4 AM, Greek time, which meant it was 6 PM back home. Perfect timing to call Noah without disrupting his bedtime routine.
Mrs. Rodriguez answered on the second ring, her weathered face filling my phone screen with a warm smile.
"Mija! You look terrible. Did you sleep at all?"
"Not really." I was sitting on my balcony in my pajamas, watching the sunrise paint the Aegean Sea gold and pink. "How's Noah?"
"See for yourself." She turned the phone, and suddenly my son's face filled the screen.
My heart stopped.
After seeing Damien last night, the resemblance was impossible to ignore. Noah had the same dark hair, the same stubborn chin, the same way of tilting his head when he was thinking. But it was the eyes that gutted me—those storm-colored eyes that were pure Damien Wolfe.
