Chapter 11 #2
She had saved me so many times, especially during the dark times after my mom died. When the grief felt like it would swallow me whole, when I couldn't see any light ahead. Joy had been there, holding my hand just like this, refusing to let me fall through the ice.
"Thank you," I whispered. "For everything."
Joy's eyes glistened. "Always," she whispered back.
Elena patted the stand mixer on the counter. "Do you need the mixer, Serenity?"
I nodded, pushing back the tears that threatened to spill over. The pregnant hormones made me want to cry at the drop of a pin—a commercial, a kind word, a memory of my mom. Everything felt amplified, raw.
Elena must have noticed because her hand came to rest gently on my back. "Are you all right, ma chérie?"
I sniffed and managed a wobbly smile. "Just very pregnant. This just brings back memories of my mom and happy times at Joy's house. Good memories," I added quickly. "The best kind."
Elena's expression softened with understanding. "I am glad. We will create new wonderful memories today, oui? For you and for your little one." She patted my belly affectionately before bringing over the mixer, positioning it right in front of me.
I measured out the soft butter—already at room temperature, thanks to Elena's foresight—and added it to the bowl along with the powdered sugar.
The mixer whirred to life, cream-colored clouds of sugar puffing up before incorporating into the butter.
Joy added the teaspoons of vanilla, and the sweet scent filled the air, mixing with the butter to create something heavenly.
It was so tempting to take a taste that I couldn't resist. I turned off the mixer, dipped my finger into the creamy mixture, and brought it to my lips.
I moaned with delight. "Sooo good."
The baby kicked in agreement.
"Don't eat it all before we make the cookies," Joy teased, though she was eyeing the bowl herself.
"No promises," I said, licking my finger clean. “The baby wants some more.”
She winked. “Sure she does.”
Prudence came over with a small bowl filled with finely chopped pecans. “Is this enough?”
“Perfect.” I turned on the mixer. “Just add them slowly to the mixture.”
She tipped the bowl, and the pecans tumbled into the batter, their earthy, nutty scent mixing with vanilla and butter. The mixer incorporated them with a satisfying whir.
“Those look interesting.” Lorenzo observed from his post by the wall, his arms still crossed but his attention clearly captured by the baking process.
“Wait until they’re baked,” Joy said, grinning as she licked the mixing spoon. “They’re delicious. Trust me.”
Gianna carried her empty breakfast plate to the sink, then returned with eager energy. “What’s next? I want to help.”
Joy put down a couple of cookie sheets lined with parchment paper. “We roll them into little one-inch balls and bake for ten to twelve minutes at three twenty-five.”
“Like this.” I demonstrated, dipping a teaspoon into the dough and scooping out a portion. I dropped it into my palm—still warm and pleasantly sticky—and rolled it gently between my hands until it formed a perfect sphere. I placed it carefully on the cookie sheet. “See?” Easy.”
“Ah, I can do that,” Gianna said confidently, mimicking what I’d just done. Her first ball came out slightly lopsided, but she improved quickly.
We fell into a comfortable rhythm. On the television, George Bailey was in the middle of the bank run scene—one of my favorite parts.
I loved watching George and Mary work together, pooling their honeymoon money to save the Building & Loan.
Two people united against impossible odds, fighting to protect what they'd built together.
My hand stilled for just a moment on the dough as I watched. That's what Angelo and I were doing, wasn't it? Fighting together to protect our future, our family, our daughter. Except our threat wasn't a greedy banker—it was demons and hell itself.
But like George and Mary, we weren't facing it alone. We had each other.
"You okay?" Joy asked softly.
I blinked and realized my eyes were damp. Damn pregnancy hormones. "Yeah," I said, resuming my rolling. "Just... that scene always gets me."
Joy squeezed my shoulder, understanding without needing more explanation.
When we were done, Elena loaded the cookie trays into the preheated oven and set the timer with a satisfied click.
My mouth watered just thinking about how delicious those little balls of Christmas decadence were going to taste—crispy on the outside, tender and nutty on the inside, rolled into clouds of powdered sugar.
“Lorenzo.” My heart jumped at Angelo's voice. I wanted to call him over, to pull him into this moment—the warmth, the laughter, the normalcy we'd created. Come taste the cookie dough. Sit with us.
But the sharp edge in his tone stopped the words in my throat. It cut through the warm kitchen atmosphere like a discordant note in a Christmas carol.
I turned to see him standing in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes sharp with urgency.
“I need to talk to you.”
And just like that, my little bubble of Christmas joy popped. I knew that tone—the careful control, the underlying steel. It was his protective voice, the one that came out when he was about to tell someone to do something dangerous or important.
It meant only one thing.
Balthazar was on the move.