Chapter 4 When Comfort Cracks

The bear-shaped waffle did the trick. Even though it looked more like a mustached cat who gave up on its diet, Zoey lifted her fork with the kind of reverence usually reserved for birthday cake.

“Look, Mommy. He’s smiling at me before I eat him.”

“A future serial killer. How sweet,” I muttered while pouring maple syrup onto her plate.

She dug in like a kid from a survival documentary. Chunks of waffle were torn apart with zero mercy, then drowned in syrup like she had a personal vendetta against sugar. Her chewing competed with Barbie and Chelsea singing on the living room TV.

Sasha, our nanny, who always dressed like she was five minutes away from a lifestyle magazine shoot, appeared in the hallway. Hair tied back in a perfect bun, gray cardigan wrinkle-free, footsteps quieter than a ghost in socks.

“Hi, Miss Zoey,” she said with a soft smile. “Ready for some Barbie adventure?”

Zoey hopped off the stool, still holding her fork. “Mommy said I get more waffle if I survive Barbie’s singing.”

“Don’t quote me,” I called after her. “I said maybe.”

But she was already gone, vanishing with Sasha toward the couch. I could see her from the kitchen, bangs bouncing as she leapt onto the cushions, tiny feet kicking, eyes glued to the screen like Barbie was about to save the planet from an alien invasion.

I grabbed the coffee mug on the counter. The temperature was far from ideal, but the caffeine still existed, and that’s all that mattered.

My mind circled back to the school. To that man.

Who knew my daughter’s name?

Her full name?

The school was small. Safe. Expensive. The kind of place where kids had bodyguards or drivers who looked more like military detail than faculty. Not just anyone could get in, let alone get close to Zoey.

My grip on the mug tightened. Breathing slowed.

If someone got close to her, that meant they knew who she was. And if they knew who Zoey was...

Footsteps echoed from the back hallway. Heavy. Slow. Like someone trying to look calm after punching a wall.

Zade stepped into the kitchen.

He still wore the dark shirt from earlier, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair a tousled mess like his hands had been too busy wrecking things to bother fixing it. His face was hard. Cold. All the tenderness he’d shown while holding our daughter had vanished.

He looked like the kind of man who could make people disappear with a glance.

I leaned against the counter and looked at him. “Let me guess. That wasn’t the mailman.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes swept across the kitchen like he was checking to see if the place was still livable after the news he carried.

“Someone breached the school’s drop-off zone,” he said eventually. His voice was calm, but it was the kind of calm that usually came right before a body showed up on the evening news. “Used a fake ID. Got in through the back gate.”

“What were the security guards doing?”

“They’ve been replaced.”

My eyebrow lifted. “Well. That escalated fast.”

He moved toward me, all broad shoulders and silent rage, his presence too big for a kitchen this size. The air changed—soap, tension, and something volatile clinging to his skin like it didn’t want to leave.

“Were there cameras?” I asked quietly.

Zade looked at me. Sharp. “There were.”

I took a sip of coffee. It tasted suddenly bitter.

He stopped just a few steps away, leaning one hand on the counter, body tilted slightly forward. We were eye to eye, separated only by shallow breaths we hadn’t yet caught.

“That wasn’t just some random guy,” he said, his gaze cutting straight through me. “He knew who Zoey was. And he wanted her to be scared.”

My spine straightened.

Okay. So this wasn’t some harmless prank. It was a message.

And I hated messages.

Zade moved closer. His fingers brushed my jaw, then slipped under my chin. The touch was gentle, but it carried something dark beneath it. Protection. Possession. Or maybe… a warning.

“I’ll find him,” he whispered, like a blood vow.

I looked at him. This man wasn’t just criminally beautiful. He could also be beautifully criminal.

And somehow, the darkest part of me found that comforting.

///

The boutique smelled like expensive perfume trying to hide its own existence—sweet, subtle, and absurdly overpriced. The lights were too bright, the floor too white, and every hanger looked like it held enough dollar signs to pay off a mortgage.

Bella stood in front of a mirror, pressing a little black dress to her body, batting her lashes at her reflection. “You think Zade would like this?”

“He’s a man, Bella,” I muttered, flipping through hangers. “You could wear a plastic bag and heels and he’d still like it.”

Ashley scoffed from the shoe display. “Wrong. He’s Zade Solenzara. I think he’d prefer if you walked in wearing gold chains and your worst sin.”

I didn’t answer. Mostly because she wasn’t wrong. Also because there was nothing funny about the fact that my husband was a walking collision of temptation and national disaster.

My fingers grazed a dress—deep plum, dangerously low neckline, the kind of silky texture that whispered sins to your skin. The price tag stared back: ten thousand. I recoiled like the dress had a built-in hex.

Ashley noticed. Her eyes narrowed.

“How many clothes have you actually bought since becoming a mafia wife?” she asked, swinging her legs from the bench.

I looked up at the ceiling, pretending to count. “Three. Two of them were chosen by Zoey because she said my closet was boring.”

Bella giggled. “She’s not wrong. You still dress like a trapped bookstore cashier from the twentieth century.”

I smirked. “At least I don’t look like the result of a shopping spree in hell.”

Ashley raised an eyebrow. “Steccy still hasn’t contacted you?”

The question dropped like an expensive plate shattering on the boutique floor. Quiet. Sudden. Sharp.

I drew a breath and shook my head. “Last thing she said was, ‘Thank you’ and ‘Someday I’ll repay everything you’ve done for me.’ Then poof. Gone.”

Bella paused mid-handbag-rack. “No texts? No one’s heard from her?”

“Nothing,” I said. “She disappeared like… her debt.”

Ashley stared at me for a moment. “You’ve never tried to find her?”

I glanced at the glass storefront, catching a reflection of my own face. Dark eyes. Cold. Tired.

“No,” I finally said. “Because if she’s alive, it means she chose not to be found. And if she’s dead… maybe that’s more peaceful than living as her.”

No one responded. I didn’t need them to.

Because if there’s one thing I don’t have, it’s sympathy for Steccy Valez.

She dragged me into a world I never asked to enter. Sold her chaos into my life like a cursed lottery ticket. And even now, living in a mansion with a man who treats me too well and a daughter who’s the reason I breathe, that wound hasn’t fully healed.

Zade never asks much about Steccy. Maybe because he knows I can’t stand saying her name. Or maybe because he’s too busy being the protector, the fixer, the unexpected husband, and the most perfect dad a four-year-old could imagine.

Bella held up a new dress and narrowed her eyes at me through the mirror. “You should buy this. If not for Zade, then for yourself.”

I studied her for a moment. “You know I’m still not used to buying anything that costs more than my sister’s old credit card debt.”

Ashley chuckled softly. “That’s… the saddest definition of financial trauma I’ve ever heard.”

I shrugged. “Still trauma.”

///

The sky had started to shift by the time I stepped out of the car. Late-afternoon sunlight filtered through the pine trees surrounding the mansion like loyal guards, and the air carried the scent of snow that hadn’t happened yet.

Zade was already waiting on the front steps, phone in one hand, the other tucked into his pocket. He wore a black leather jacket, dark brown hair tousled in that criminally unfair way, and the moment he saw me, his gaze locked in like the day hadn’t started until I showed up.

And in five seconds flat, he made the boutique drama and financial trauma feel like stale gossip.

“Welcome home, Bee.” His voice was deep, rough, and entirely too effective.

Before I could answer, he stepped down one stair, pulled me into him by the waist, and pressed me to his chest. Warm, solid, and full of intent. His hand rested on my lower back, as if he needed to feel me there, needed to know I wouldn’t vanish if he blinked.

“Aram upgraded security,” he murmured near my ear, the words barely above a whisper. “Starting today, there’ll be extra guards. Including one just for you.”

I pulled back slightly to look at him. “One? For me?”

He nodded, face serious. “Yeah. Full-time. Aram recommended him. Says he’s solid.”

I raised a brow. “Funny. You said the same thing about our first driver, and he couldn’t reverse park without turning our twelve-thousand-dollar gate into abstract art.”

Zade let out a soft laugh. “This one won’t crash anything.”

We walked along the side path toward the mansion’s backyard. A thin layer of snow dusted the stone walkway. The cold bit at my cheeks, but Zade remained calm, his warm hand still resting on me like a promise.

As we reached the back garden, I spotted Aram standing beside someone new. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a black jacket over a gray tee. He faced away from us, so all I could see was a silhouette from a distance.

And then he turned around…

My heart stopped for a beat.

Then slammed into my ribs like it had no manners.

Darius Morrano.

Alive. Real. Standing ten feet in front of me.