“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.
18
SLOANE
My cartel cell pings with an incoming message on Friday morning, instantly slaughtering my good mood. Cristian and I watched a movie again last night, and we spent hours chatting with both of us pretending the searing-hot chemistry sparking between us didn’t exist. I went to bed with a big smile on my face. Should have known it wouldn’t take long for reality to come calling.
Pain scrapes my throat dry as I look at the photo of Mom’s bruised body. My punishment on Sunday clearly wasn’t enough. Pablo took it out on Mom too. The video he sent me Monday night showed him savagely beating her while a few of his men cheered from the sidelines. It’s haunted me all week.
