Page 73 of Cross + Catherine: The Companion

The Guns

Cross POV

Cross wasn’t the type to have spells of bad days. A day here or there, maybe. Something that put him on edge, and made getting through the day a taxing event. Everybody occasionally dealt with something like that.

But several?

In a row?

That just wasn’t Cross’s style. And yet, that was exactly how he had been feeling for almost two weeks now. Like there was some kind of shitty mood he just couldn’t seem to shake. A stink to his mind that was clouding up everything else around him.

The proverbial rain cloud was following him around day in and day out.

How fucking cliché.

Cross drove into his Newport garage, and was surprised to see his ten-year-old son’s head pop up from under the hood of Catherine’s car. He gave his son a look when their gazes locked through the windshield.

Naz should have been in school.

Although, Cross supposed he really wasn’t all that surprised to see Naz under the hood of a car tinkering. The kid was good with his hands. He had been taking shit apart since he learned how to walk. It took a few years for Naz to learn how to put things back together, though.

Naturally, Naz’s interests moved to focus on certain things. At only ten, he could rebuild a carburetor, or an engine. He had mastered the art of rebuilds on old, vintage cars—something Cross thanked Zeke for.

His boy could fix just about any electronic that was put into his hands, and he was already beginning to code. He liked to spend time with one of Cross’s guys who had a knack for hacking. Something Naz found challenging enough to keep his attention for longer than five seconds.

And all of this?

It was before Cross even got into Naz’s taste for guns, sports, and more.

Yeah, there was more.

Cross had to keep Naz busy—constantly. Otherwise, trouble found Nazio quickly when he was bored, or worse, his hands were left idle for too long.

It also probably explained why his son wasn’t at school at the moment. Likely. He got bored. They sent him home.

Naz was smart—too damn smart. Gifted kind of smart.

Every parent thought their kid was a special little star. No other kid could compare to their child. Sure, Cross thought the same thing about his kids, too.

The difference?

Naz was an intellectual fucking star.

His IQ tested on part with Albert Einstein.

Add in a heavy dose of arrogance, a touch of swag, and those goddamn Donati genes to give him good looks, and Naz was trouble walking. Thank fuck, puberty was still a couple of years away yet.

It was the only thing saving them.

Karma had come hard for Cross.

Damn, he loved his kids, though.

Cross stepped out of the Rolls-Royce, and rested his arms along the roof as Naz approached. His son was still all tall legs, and long arms, but he would fill out soon enough.

“What did they do—send you home again?” Cross asked.

Naz wiped his hands down on a rag. “With another stupid pamphlet for that school.”