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Hello, sweetheart.
Evelyn glances between Loren and me as if to see what her mom thinks of me before passing her own judgment. I don't dare come closer because Loren is already glancing surreptitiously over her shoulder at the guest rooms where her own mother is chatting on the phone with what sounds like a friend.
She clears her throat. "She doesn't really…talk."
The way she says that makes it clear that Loren is a bit frustrated with this. I have no idea the average age for children learning to speak. I just shrug.
"Talking is less important than observing."
She sighs. "That sounds like some wise old adage, which is fine, but Evie is behind. By quite a bit, actually. I'm… I'll take her to a speech therapist," she winces. "I've just really been hoping she'll get more vocal on her own, but with the chaos of the last few months, job-wise, I just..."
An undertone in her voice makes it clear this was a financial issue. I'm sure she would never say a word about it to me. Still, I make a mental note to look into speech therapists and how much they cost. Loren would fight me tooth and nail if I suggested helping, but I'm already learning her fierce need for independence hasn't made her burdens easier. Especially when her financial obligations come from her parents and a bad hand drawn in life.
"I didn't speak much as a child," I say, trying to ease her obvious worry.
Loren looks at me sharply in a reaction I don't understand. "Well, I did, and her father seemed the chatty type."
The reminder of that asshole makes my insides burn with resentment. She said he was a frat boy. He's probably her age—or far closer to her age than I am. Some boy who doesn't have the balls to man up. The sooner I find him, the better.
Not for him, obviously. He'll wish he never laid a single finger on Loren. Perhaps I'll break every one of them to drive the point home.
But I keep my face composed as I shrug again, looking her over briefly. Loren is in blue yoga pants that show off her legs and a white tank top. No bra. Hair in a messy bun.
God, I want to fucking devour her. Today has been as tiring as the others, especially with my father and the looming board meeting. The temptation to sweep Loren away to my room for rough sex and blissful moments together is overwhelming.
Her blue gaze becomes heated, and I realize she must read the desire on my face because she clears her throat and looks away with pink cheeks, adjusting Evelyn on her hip.
"Uh—so I made some progress at work today. I'm positive the hacker we're up against has physical ties in Las Vegas. I still don't think they've set foot in the Golden Flame themselves, but whoever they are, they're not on the other side of the country or in Russia or some shit."
My lips twitch. I tip my head at Evie, who reaches up to pat her mom's face with soft baby gibberish.
Loren grimaces. "God, when she does learn to talk, I just hope she doesn't have the mouth of a sailor. All the other moms I run into are going to judge me so fuc—so hard," she amends quickly.
A laugh is trying to crawl up my throat, so I clear it and settle for smiling and shaking my head. "They won't dare. It's obvious you're a wonderful mother."
Her eyes fly to mine in surprise before she looks away with her brow furrowed. "You've barely just learned I'm a mother at all. I'm sure you're just saying that to be nice."
"We both know I'm not the nice type. I'd never pretend."
Loren grins and rolls her eyes. "Okay, fine. Then maybe you just don't know what good parenting is supposed to look like because I'm a hot mess. All the time."
Hot, yes. A mess? I don't see it.
We're interrupted by Loren's mother poking her head out of the guest rooms with a curious expression. When she spots me, she has the same reaction she did yesterday—widened eyes, a flushed face, shrinking back. Perhaps she doesn't know I'm a mafioso the way her daughter does, but Loren's mother has clearly seen rough people in her lifetime. Her deceased husband may have even been one of them.
That thought sticks in my head with a twist in my gut. My childhood was practically nonexistent. My father considered me a Caputo first and a son second. But Loren's upbringing might have more darkness than anyone would guess looking at this brilliant, warm, smiling woman.
"O—oh! Hello, Mr…what was your name?" Loren's mother asks in a squeak.
"Domenic."
"That's right! Do you go by Nic or Dom or anything?"
I offer a polite smile. Loren clearly dotes on her mother, but part of me is irritated at this woman for allowing her young daughter to shoulder so much of the debts left behind by her husband. Does she know Loren's past in hacking? Or that she was being targeted by the fucking Wild Seven?
Perhaps not.
"He prefers just Domenic," Loren says, grinning over her shoulder at me as she retreats back to their rooms. "And he was just going to bed. He runs a tight ship, don't you,Boss?"
