Читать книгу Dorian Gray - John Garavaglia - Страница 31

Dorian, Sr. held his arms out and took the child from Olivia. He was very careful and brought him closer to his chest.

“That’s right,” Olivia guided him. “Think of him like a football. Don’t cause a fumble.”

“Ha-ha, very funny.”

He looked down on his son with delightful eyes. It was the most incredible feeling in the world. There was little Dorian—a little hand to hold, and a little mind to mold. Most successful upper-class socialites only have children because they wanted to have heirs to their business empires. But Dorian’s parents had him out of love, and that’s what he was going to get from there on in. For that, Dorian smiled at his father.

The new happy family looked across the New York skyline, of which they had a splendid view. They stood there, taking in the fresh morning sun, feeling as if they could literally reach out and scoop up the entire city in the palm of their hands.

Dorian Gray III was smiling back at his wonderful son, but as with his mother, the infant could tell it was halfhearted. Dorian, Sr.’s deep, reassuring voice had always given him hope, but he sensed trouble now, and he started to cry.

“Don’t cry, Dorian, everything is going to be so good for you.” The elder Gray nuzzled his cheek until his son’s tears sputtered out and were replaced with soft, happy giggles.

They called him “Dorian.” That was his name. Dorian, Sr. was his father. And his mother was Olivia. They were his family.

JOHN GRAVAGLIA

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