“Why?” I ask, working hard to mask my surprise. Has Sloane figured some things out about me and my position within La Cosa Nostra? I come home to find her watching a mafia movie, and now this? Is it just coincidence? Or am I reading too much into it now I know for sure the cartel is targeting us?
“I think every young woman should know how to defend herself. Like we’ve agreed, there is a lot of evil in the world.”
“You could attend a self-defense class,” I reply. “There are plenty of them in the city.”
“I’ve already taken self-defense classes, but I’d like to know how to shoot. I want to get a firearm, but I don’t have a clue how to go about it.”
I study her pretty face, but I don’t detect any lies. It’s been a long day, and I’m way too cynical. Of course, it would be natural for any woman of her age to want to know how to fully defend herself. Watching a popular mafia movie means nothing. Sloane is smart, and she’s drawn natural conclusions. I’m pretty sure she has zero idea I’m one of the leaders of La Cosa Nostra in the US.
“I can get a gun registered for you,” I offer, “and I’ll teach you how to use it. There are a few ranges in the city, or we can use a private range close to the twins’ place on weekends.”
“I like the idea of a private range,” she says, her eyes lighting up. “Thank you.”
“We can’t go this weekend as Isa’s wedding is Saturday and friends have invited us to lunch on Long Island on Sunday, but I’ll organize a gun and take you for your first session the following weekend if you like?”
“That sounds great.” Her tongue darts out, wetting her tempting lips. “So, uh, does that mean I’m not needed this weekend?”
“Come to the wedding with me,” I blurt without engaging my brain. “As my nanny,” I add, cringing on the inside. “You know how energetic Elio is. I could use a second set of eyes on him.” That’s a perfectly logical reason for her to attend, and I should have asked her earlier. It’s got absolutely nothing to do with not wanting Sloane free to meet up with that asshole who stood her up last week.
“I’m not sure Isotta would like that.”
“There’s a plus-one on my invite, and she wouldn’t cause a scene at her own wedding. Besides, she’ll be too busy to even notice.” I hope. I don’t pull rank often, but I’ll do it on Saturday if I have to. She should be expecting Elio’s nanny to attend, and I’m not going to rescind my invite just because Isa has taken a dislike to Sloane.
“I don’t know. I don’t want to make an enemy of her or cause any trouble for you.”
I fear it’s too late for that. “I’ll smooth things over. Trust me, it’ll be fine.”
“Okay. If you’re sure?” She nibbles on her lips, and I’ve never been jealous of teeth before.
“I am, so that’s settled.” My arm slides along the back of the couch, dangerously close to Sloane’s shoulders. My every instinct implores me to lean closer and claim that lush mouth. I don’t know why I bothered wasting my time going to Club H tonight when there is nowhere else I’d rather be than at home with her.
Exactly, fuckface. My inner voice doesn’t hold back. You were supposed to fuck some random stranger and get Sloane out of your head. Except she’s already dug her way under skin and bone, and despite several tempting offers, none of the women who approached me tonight raised even the slightest interest. My dick stayed soft all night, and in the end, I gave up, frustrated and horny as hell, and came home to the one woman who only has to glance at me and my cock gets hard.
This could be a real problem.
I’m reminded of a conversation I had with Caleb, back when he was falling for Elisa, and he tried to fuck her out of his system to no avail.
I drag a hand through my hair and retract my wandering arm from the back of the couch. Fuck. I can’t let myself fall for Sloane. She’s not the one for me. The sooner I get that message through my thick skull, the better.
“Are you feeling okay?” Concern underscores Sloane’s tone as she yanks me out of my worrisome inner monologue. “You look a little flushed. Did you eat?”
“I had a late lunch but skipped dinner.” Loosening my tie, I pull it over my head, before unbuttoning the top two buttons of my shirt and running a hand around my neck.
“Stay right there.” Sloane hops up and disappears for a few minutes while I pause the movie. There’s still a decent amount left after the scene where Tommy got whacked.
Sloane returns holding a tray with a pasta bowl and silverware. “I saved you some dinner,” she says, setting the tray down in front of me. “It’s my first time making this recipe. I hope it’s okay.” She shuffles shyly on her feet. “It should fill the hole in your stomach at least,” she jokes. A pretty blush stains her cheeks.
“Thank you.” Leaning down, I sniff the steam rising from the bowl. “It smells delicious,” I truthfully admit.
A hypnotizing smile spreads across her decadent mouth, and we stare at one another for a few seconds.
“I’ll just grab you some water and a napkin,” she says before hurrying out of the room again.
I dive in, suddenly ravenous, and it’s pretty damn good for a first attempt. Sloane comes back, handing me a glass of water and a napkin. “This is really good.”
She positively blossoms with my praise. “I’m glad you like it,” she says, sitting beside me. I restart the movie and watch it while I eat. The instant I’m finished, she swipes the tray up, refusing to let me lift a finger. Dabbing my mouth with the napkin, I watch her leave the living room, thinking a guy could get used to having her around the place.
I come home early on Thursday night, wanting to spend some time with my son before bedtime. I hadn’t called Sloane to let her know, wanting to surprise Elio, but I’m the one surprised when I step foot in the penthouse. My nostrils twitch at the scent of vanilla and butter in the air as I unbutton my coat and hang it up. High-pitched squeals come from the direction of the kitchen, and the sounds of racing footsteps tickle my eardrums as I approach the room.
“You’re too slow, Slowpoke Sloane,” Elio shouts in between giggling.
“No, don’t,” Sloane cries before dissolving in a fit of laughter.
I stop in the doorway, amusement covering my face when I see the state of the place. The counter is littered with the evidence of baking, and there is flour everywhere. It’s sprinkled on every surface and dotted all over the floor. Elio and his nanny are engaged in a tickling contest on the floor, and they are both coated with flour and what looks like dough on their clothes and in their hair.
“Having fun without me?” I inquire, walking toward them with a big smile on my face.
“Daddy!” Elio shucks out of Sloane’s arms and heads toward me.
“Elio, no!” Sloane warns, but it’s too late.
My son barrels into me, wrapping his sticky flour-coated arms around my legs. White handprints mark my black pants, but I couldn’t care less. It’ll wash out.
“I’m sorry, Cristian.” Sloane stands before me, cringing as she surveys the mess Elio has made of my pants.
“Don’t be. I like seeing my son having fun.”
“Even if we made a mess of your kitchen, ourselves, and your pants?”
“Kitchens, people, and pants can be cleaned.”
“We made torch cookies!” Elio squeals.
“Torcetti,” Sloane confirms with a smile. “They should just be done,” she adds, her steps hastening toward the stove as she glances at the clock.
“I’m surprised any made it into the oven,” I quip.
“We were supposed to be making biscotti next, but someone thought it would be a good idea to have a flour fight instead.” She eyeballs Elio with nothing but pure joy on her face.
“It was so fun, Daddy,” he says before removing his arms from around me. He grabs my hand. “You need to try my torch cookies. They’re gonna be yummy.”
“Careful, my little prince,” Sloane says, cautioning Elio to hold back as she opens the oven door. A blast of steam shoots out, blowing over her face. “Wow, that’s hot.” I hold Elio back a safe distance, and we watch Sloane remove the tray with an oven glove. She carefully sets the tray down on a wooden board. “Wash your hands if you want to help coat them with sugar.”
I lift Elio up to the kitchen sink and help him to fully wash his hands. Then I dry them with some paper towels and set him standing on the chair Sloane has propped up against the island unit. After washing her hands, she shows Elio how to dip the looped golden-brown cookies in powdered sugar and place them on a wire rack to cool.
“I want to eat one,” Elio proclaims, rubbing a hand over his tummy. “They smell delicious!”
Sloane laughs. “How about we clean ourselves and the kitchen, and then the torcetti should be cool enough to eat?”
“I want one now.” He pouts, jutting his lower lip out.
“They are too hot, and they’ll burn your throat and hurt your tummy.” Sloane holds out her hand. “We need to get the dough bits out of our hair before it becomes a nightmare. Come on.” She lifts one shoulder. “Clean up, then we get a treat.”
He’s moody as he presses his hand in hers, but he goes willingly enough, and I’m impressed. “We’ll be back, but this could take a while,” Sloane says over her shoulder before they leave the room.
I steal a cookie before I slip out of the room, almost burning my tongue as I devour half of it in one go. The buttery flavor explodes in my mouth, taking me back to my youth when Mama spent every Saturday morning making an array of Italian baked goods. Cruz and I used to fight to be the first one to reach the kitchen and claim the first almond biscotti. Those were my favorite, but torcetti were a close second.
Stripping out of my ruined pants, I place them in a sealed bag before pulling on some jeans. I drop the bag in the laundry room for Mrs. Peake to take to the dry cleaners before I head to the kitchen to clean up. I’m chuckling as I listen to Elio’s shrieks coming from the bathroom.
When they still haven’t materialized thirty minutes later, I go to investigate, discovering Elio crying where he’s sitting in the middle of the tub. Sloane is carefully combing his hair while trying to comfort him. “It’s okay, sweetie,” she says. “I got it all out now.” She presses a kiss to his cheek as I lean against the doorway watching her with him. “I just need to shampoo it once more and give it a final rinse.”
“My head hurts,” he whines, sobbing again.
“I know, my little prince, but the quicker we get this done, the sooner you get that cookie,” she reminds him, and it’s the magic word. Elio dutifully tips his head back.
I grab a large towel and watch while Sloane gently washes his hair. Compassion splays across her face as she tends to my son. “He dunked his head in the water before I could comb it out,” she explains to me in a whisper. “The flour congealed and stuck to his hair. Removing it was not pleasant. The poor little guy.”
“Don’t think he’ll be in a hurry to do that again,” I whisper.
When he’s done, I lift him out and bundle him up in the towel before sitting on the closed toilet seat and cradling him in my lap.
“I don’t like flour fights anymore,” he proclaims, sniffling a little.
Sloane and I share a knowing look as I bite back a smile. “It’s always good to try something once.”
“Daddy?” Elio looks up at me with trusting eyes, and it’s like being punched in the heart.
Every time he looks at me like this, I want to bottle the feelings it invokes in me. I hug him a little tighter. “Yes, buddy?”
“Can I have hot chocolate with my cookie?”
“Sure thing, son.”
“Yay.” He jumps off my lap and runs naked out of the bathroom. Sloane moves to go after him, but I take her elbow, stopping her.
My fingertips are on fire where they make contact with her skin, and I yank my hand back as if burned. “Get yourself cleaned up.” I eye the mess in her hair. “I’ve got this.”
The delicate column of her throat moves as she stares wordlessly at me, slowly nodding.
That familiar static electricity fizzes in the small space between our bodies, and I’m cursing under my breath as I hightail it out of the bathroom, knowing I’m totally fucked and unsure what the hell to do about it.
