8. Chapter 8
“Call the bomb squad,” Tony commanded. “Everyone out. Protocol seven.”
For a moment, his team hesitated, their eyes darting to him as if to confirm that he was serious. Had they heard him correctly? Was this a test? Or a joke?
“Now!” Tony roared, the sheer force of it compelling them into action. Chairs scraped, papers scattered, keyboards clattered as his people bolted for the back door.
Tony hit the red button on the wall—a button no one dared touch.
Sirens blared, a low wail reverberating through the underground halls as every server blinked and began its emergency cycle.
Files encrypted, data streamed into the cloud, even though he hated that option.
The cloud was too exposed. There were too many cracks in the armor.
But this was the only way. He couldn’t risk losing the information on these servers.
The air thickened with urgency as he sprinted through the building, bellowing orders, shoving open doors, scanning rooms with a predator’s precision.
All the rooms were empty. Good. He ran for the tunnel, the reinforced blast doors slamming shut behind him with deafening thuds, locking each corridor like a vault.
Sweat prickled at his temple as he burst into the second house, checking every room. Empty. Into the third. Empty. His lungs burned, but he kept moving, his mind cataloging every room, every shadow.
When he finally surfaced on the ground floor, he checked the GPA trackers. Gianna was already safe—nestled in Sal’s arms, Sal and Catarina were in a SUV that screeched away from the curb.
Tony exhaled once, sharply, then turned toward the threat.
The suspicious box sat silent and ordinary on the sidewalk, the stillness around it more terrifying than if it had been ticking. The bomb squad’s robot inched forward, metal arms extended, the men tucked behind armored screens, every movement deliberate and tense.
Tony’s eyes swept the scene. Across the street, the playground was clear.
His guards had corralled the crowd to the far side of the green space, mothers clutching their children, wide-eyed and pale.
The buzz of frightened voices carried on the wind.
But there were too many gawkers. He scanned them quickly, instincts clawing—arsonists and bombers often returned to watch their destruction. Someone here had to be responsible.
Then he froze.
Naomi.
She wasn’t across the street on the safe side of the park. She wasn’t safe with the others. She was here, too close, her face stricken with horror. Her chest heaved as she pushed against the line of guards, frantic, tears streaking her cheeks.
“Let her through!” Tony barked.
Immediately, his men stepped aside. Naomi stumbled forward, wild-eyed, her breath coming in sharp gasps.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he growled, grabbing her arm and yanking her farther from the mysterious box. He shifted his weight, angled to shield her from the potential blast. Rage and fear collided in his chest—what the hell was she thinking?
“It’s my fault!” she gasped.
Her words stopped him cold.
His head snapped toward her, confusion tearing at his focus even as he continued scanning the crowd. Someone in that sea of faces—someone—wanted blood. He couldn’t let himself be distracted. And yet—
“They’re just cupcakes!” she whispered fiercely, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. “I dropped off a box of cupcakes this morning!”
For a beat, Tony stared at her. Cupcakes? That’s what was in the box? He should have dismissed it as nonsense. But the raw desperation in her voice, the tears shimmering in her lashes, and his chest tightened painfully.
Her hair had come loose from its ponytail, strands whipping across her flushed cheeks in the wind.
She looked frantic, beautiful in a way that clawed at him, dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with bombs.
The leggings clung faithfully to her curves, that damn tee-shirt teasing what it covered, and he caught himself wanting—needing—to rip it away to see her, to ground himself in something solid, something alive.
But then he saw it: a single tear sliding free, streaking down her cheek.
“What are you saying?” he asked, forcing his tone low, gentling it as much as he could manage.
But inside, his body was coiled tight, ready to pin her against the nearest tree and—hell—kiss her.
Kiss her in broad daylight, in front of half the damn city.
Something he would never do. His liaisons were private.
Brief. Tightly controlled. Not this. Never this.
“It’s all my fault!” Naomi gasped, her voice trembling.
“All of this.” She flung a hand toward the bomb squad, including the armored men and the robot now lifting the white box with its stiff, mechanical claws.
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “I just wanted to thank you for your help with the boys yesterday.” She shook her head, lowering her gaze as her dark ponytail slipped forward.
“The box you’re about to blow up… it contains the cupcakes I made for you last night. ”
Tony just stared. A bomb squad. Half the block evacuated. His servers locked down. All for a box of cupcakes? He dragged a hand across his mouth, fighting the burn of an unexpected laugh.
Naomi’s head jerked up, her eyes flashing. “Don’t you dare laugh at me!” she hissed, her cheeks flaming. She glanced over her shoulder where the squad was loading the white box into a heavy metal cannister. “This is humiliating enough already.”
“Stop!” Tony bellowed, his voice slicing through the chaos. Everyone froze. Even the robot’s mechanical whine cut off as the operator paused mid-command.
Tony looked down at her. She was pressed against the tree where he’d anchored her, arms wrapped around her waist like she was struggling to hold herself together.
A tear clung to the corner of her eye, breaking him in a way no explosion ever could.
He bent, just enough to brush his lips against the crown of her head, a fleeting touch he hadn’t planned and couldn’t resist. “I’ll be right back,” he murmured.
When he turned, his temper spiked. Sal was crossing the street, Gianna nowhere in sight. Tony swore under his breath. The boss of their entire empire should be miles away from a possible bomb. But of course Sal wouldn’t hide while his men were in danger. That wasn’t who he was.
Grinding his teeth, Tony strode forward, ignoring the shouted protests of the bomb techs. The box sat in its cannister, dull and ordinary, but the tension crackling around it was electric.
He flipped the lid open with one swift motion. Gasps erupted. Then silence.
Inside, a dozen cupcakes sat, swirls of glossy chocolate frosting dusted with iridescent sprinkles caught the light. Tony chose one, raised it high in the air, and—because he couldn’t resist—took a bite. Sweet vanilla sponge cake and rich, chocolate buttercream frosting melted on his tongue.
Swallowing the sweet, chocolatey goodness, he nodded approval. “False alarm!” he barked, his mouth half full. He held the box out to the bomb squad’s captain.
For a moment the man stared, then his grim expression cracked into a grin. He plucked a cupcake from the box and chuckled. “Best false alarm we’ve ever had,” he said, turning to his team. “Wrap it up, boys!”
Laughter rippled through the squad as tension immediately began to drain away.
Tony handed the container to one of his men, already pivoting, his focus locked on the woman waiting beneath the tree.
He wanted her soft arms around his neck, not hugging herself.
He wanted her pressed against him, trembling with desire, not humiliation.
Maybe he could wring another kiss from her—this time not on the top of her head.
But before he could take a step, one of his analysts, Tim, skidded to a halt in front of him, tablet clutched tight.
“I’m sorry, sir!” he blurted. “I saw the woman deliver the box, but she just… looked too innocent. I should’ve cross-checked it, run facial recognition the second the alarm went off. ”
Tony’s jaw flexed hard enough to crack, but he laid a heavy hand on the young man’s shoulder. “It’s okay. This false alarm showed us a weakness in the system. We’ll fix it.”
And if you ever screw up again, he thought grimly, you’ll wish the cupcakes had been a bomb.
The mistake was going to cost him—another fat donation to the police association to keep their cooperation smooth. But it had also given him something else. Another moment with Naomi.
The crowd thinned as the squad packed up, the danger gone.
His men returned to their posts, the neighborhood settling back into its illusion of peace.
Tony should’ve gone with them. He should’ve been barking orders about surveillance failures, demanding to know why Naomi’s face hadn’t triggered their protocols the second she stepped onto his porch.
Something had gone wrong with his system.
He’d figure it out. Later.
“Walk with me,” he ordered, then realized how sharp it came out. “Please,” he added, more softly.
Naomi hesitated, then nodded, falling in step with his.
Tony caught Sal’s knowing smirk from across the street and shot him a quick, one-finger salute—hidden low, so Naomi wouldn’t see.
Sal’s guffaw carried on the breeze, but Tony ignored it.
The last thing he wanted was Naomi’s attention turning to another man.
He put his hand lightly against the small of her back, steering her toward the quieter side of the street.
She stiffened at the contact, just for an instant, and then…
she relaxed. She let him guide her, her trust subtle but unmistakable.
The warmth of her spine under his palm hit him harder than it should have, a bolt of heat that settled low and insistent in his loins.
“I’m really sorry about the confusion,” she blurted, her voice tinged with mortification.
“I didn’t mean to cause such a mess.” She sighed, pulling her hair band out, collecting her hair, and resetting her ponytail.
A nervous tic, he realized. She was flustered.
Adorable, flushed, awkward—and all because of him.
“I just wanted to thank you for yesterday,” she continued. “Whatever you said to the boys, it worked. They’ve been transformed into… oddly kind boys.”
Tony stopped himself from smiling, but only barely. Kind. That wasn’t a word he ever thought he’d hear attached to those two little hooligans.
“No more bullying behaviors?” he asked, his voice even.
She offered him a crooked smile that twisted something sharply in his chest. “They try. But as soon as I call them on it, they back down and even apologize.”
“Good.” He let the satisfaction slip into his tone. “I’m glad my conversation helped.”
Naomi ducked her head, and he caught the faint blush creeping across her cheeks.
She was embarrassed. Still rattled by the cupcake fiasco.
Still awkward about walking beside him. But her quick glances—those darting, stolen looks at his shoulders, his hands, his face—gave her away.
She was curious. Interested. Fighting it, yes, but she clearly felt the pull as much as he did.
Tony’s stride slowed, deliberately easing the pace. He wanted this to last longer. Wanted to memorize the way her ponytail swung against her back, the way her lips parted as if she was about to speak and then pressed together instead. She had no idea how much he noticed. How much he wanted.
I want to take her away from here, he thought fiercely.
Away from that bastard Peterson. Away from the house that poisoned her every day.
Away to someplace private where she could relax, laugh, where she wouldn’t have to watch every word around a man who was a despicable excuse of a human being.
He wanted to sit across from her and hear her talk—not just in snippets, not flustered apologies, but really talk.
He wanted to know what made her smile, what made her laugh. What made her blush.
But for now, all he had was this moment. Her walking beside him, cheeks pink, eyes darting, trying and failing to hide her attraction.
And for a man like Tony Mancini, who never allowed distractions… it was already too much.