10. Parallel Desires
Parallel Desires
Ezekiel
T he sizzle of butter hitting the hot pan fills my kitchen as sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
It’s barely seven in the morning, but I’ve been up for hours, my mind racing with thoughts of Eve’s safety and the growing threat from the Costa family.
Still, there’s something oddly peaceful about this moment—standing here in my gourmet kitchen, preparing breakfast for a seven-year-old kid.
I crack another egg into the pan, watching the white spread and bubble around the perfect yolk. Leo had mentioned wanting his eggs “over easy, please” in that polite little voice of his. The “please” had caught me off guard. It’s been a long time since anyone’s used that word with me sans fear.
The coffee maker hisses and steams behind me, filling the air with rich Colombian roast. Everything in my kitchen is top of the line—professional grade appliances, granite countertops, custom cabinetry—but this morning it feels different. Less like a showpiece and more like … home.
I shake my head at the thought. Home isn’t something I’ve allowed myself to think about since Sebastian and I left New York.
Sure, I own this house, the club. But they’re assets, not sanctuaries.
At least, they were until last night when Leo’s laughter echoed through these rooms like it belonged here.
The toast pops up, and I jump slightly. Christ, I’m getting soft.
But as I butter the perfectly browned bread and slide another egg onto the waiting plate, I can’t bring myself to care.
The kid needs breakfast, and Eve, well, she needs to see I can be more than the monster who killed Giovanni Costa.
Leo zips past me, nearly colliding with the island in his excitement. The sound of his small feet pattering across my kitchen floor makes me smile.
“Can I help? Can I help with breakfast?” He bounces on his toes, reminding me of an overexcited puppy. “I’m really good at cooking. Mom used to let me stir things.”
“Sure, kid.” I grab a spatula from the drawer. “Want to be my official egg flipper?”
His eyes light up like I’ve just offered him the keys to a candy store. “Really? You’ll let me flip them?”
“With supervision,” I clarify, pulling up a sturdy stool so he can reach the stove safely. “Here, let me show you the technique.”
Leo climbs up, his tongue poking out in concentration as I demonstrate the proper wrist movement. His first attempt sends egg flying, and he dissolves into giggles that are impossible not to join.
“Sorry! Sorry!” he gasps between laughs. “It went zoom.”
“That it did.” I wipe a bit of hot egg from my cheek, finding myself chuckling. “Want to try again?”
“Yes please.” The earnestness in his voice tugs at something in my chest I thought had died years ago.
We work together, Leo chattering away about his favorite breakfast foods and how Eve burns toast “like, every single time.” His laughter fills my kitchen, bright and genuine, transforming the space from its usual stark efficiency into something warmer.
“Mr. Zeke?” He looks up at me with those innocent blue eyes. “You’re way better at cooking than Aunt Evie. Can you make breakfast every day?”
The simple request hits me harder than any punch I’ve taken. “We’ll see, buddy. We’ll see.”
Watching Leo’s small hands grip the spatula, something tightens in my chest. His face scrunches in concentration, reminding me so much of Eve when she’s focused on a case. The morning sun catches his sandy blond hair, creating a halo effect that makes him look almost angelic.
Christ, when did I become such a sentimental old man?
Fifty-two years. More than half a century of life, and I’ve never experienced the simple joy of teaching a child how to cook breakfast. Never heard the delighted giggle of my own son or daughter as egg yolk splatters across the counter. It leaves a hollow ache in my chest.
“Look, Mr. Zeke! I did it!” Leo’s triumphant voice pulls me from my thoughts as he successfully flips an egg without breaking the yolk. His pride is infectious, and I find myself grinning despite the melancholy threatening to overtake me.
“Good job, kid.” I ruffle his hair, noting how natural the gesture feels. Too natural. Dangerous territory for a man my age to start thinking about what-ifs and could-have-beens.
Eve can’t have children. The thought sneaks in uninvited, sharp and painful.
She’d told me when we first dated, the same night I also found out she was a cop. An ovulation disorder makes it impossible for her to carry a baby even if by some miracle she conceived. It’s why that bastard Ryan had turned abusive—as if her worth as a woman was tied to her ability to reproduce.
I felt like shit vanishing on her after she told me. Her inability to have kids had nothing to do with it. Her profession is responsible for the distance between us.
Leo reaches for another egg, and I steady his hand, showing him again how to crack it without getting shells in the pan. His small fingers are warm under mine, trusting.
“Next time let’s make pancakes,” he says, eyes bright with hope for future mornings like this.
Next time. As if this moment isn’t already more than I deserve. More than a man like me should ever hope for at my age.
“Mr. Zeke?” His voice is hesitant as I set his plate of egg and toast on the counter. He rushes over to the stool and climbs up.
I lean against the counter, coffee mug warming my hands. “What’s on your mind, kid?”
He takes a deep breath, the kind children take when they’re gathering courage for something important. “Are Aunt Evie and I going to stay here with you forever now?”
The question catches me off guard. His blue eyes are full of hope, innocence, and a hint of fear that squeezes my chest. This kid, who less than forty-eight hours ago was terrified of me, now sits in my kitchen asking if I’ll be a permanent fixture in his life.
“Yeah, buddy.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. I clear my throat debating how much to tell him. He’s going to find out soon enough so we might as well tell him today.
“Actually, kid,” I set my mug down. “There’s something else I should tell you about your aunt and me when she comes down for breakfast.”
Leo looks up, fork halfway to his mouth, eyes wide with curiosity. A bit of egg drops onto his plate. “What is it?
“When your aunt comes down. We’ll tell you together.” I grab another egg and start making Eve some too.
I hear Eve before I see her—the soft pad of bare feet on hardwood, followed by a sharp intake of breath. The sound makes me smile, even as I keep my attention focused on the eggs sizzling in the pan.
“Good morning, love,” I drawl, not turning around. “Coffee’s fresh if you want some.”
“You … cook?” Her voice carries that sexy morning roughness that makes my body tighten in response.
Finally, I turn, taking in the sight of her.
She’s wearing tight jeans, highlighting miles of toned legs, with a gray police-issued t-shirt tucked in.
Her badge is clipped to her belt loop next to her holstered Glock.
Her dark curls hang wild around her shoulders, and there’s just a hint of makeup in her face. She’s never looked more beautiful.
“Surprised, Detective?” I flip another egg with practiced ease. “Did you expect me to have an army of servants catering to my every whim?”
Leo pipes up from his stool. “Mr. Zeke taught me how to flip eggs, Aunt Evie! And guess what? He said we can make pancakes tomorrow, your favorite. But this time they won’t get burned and set off the smoke alarm.”
Eve’s eyes dart between Leo and me, her expression a complex mix of emotions I can’t quite decipher. Suspicion? Confusion? Maybe a hint of something softer?
“I … I assumed you’d have a chef.” She takes hesitant steps into the kitchen. “With this house, the lifestyle…”
“I prefer to do some things myself.” I plate the perfectly cooked egg and hand it to her. “Especially breakfast. Nothing worse than overcooked eggs first thing in the morning.”
The wariness in her gaze is still there—there’s slight tension around her mouth, stiffness in her fingers when she takes the offered plate. But the burning anger from yesterday has faded, replaced by something closer to resignation. No, not resignation. Acceptance.
“Coffee?” I offer again, holding up a fresh mug. My voice cracks, betraying emotions I’d rather keep hidden.
She nods. When she reaches for the mug, our fingers brush. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm, and for a moment, we’re both frozen, connected by more than just ceramic and coffee.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, and I know she’s not just talking about the coffee. Her eyes flick to Leo, then back to me. She’s accepting this—all of it. The protection, the marriage, the way her nephew has somehow wormed his way into my morning routine.
The corner of her mouth twitches, almost a smile but not quite. It’s the same look she used to give me when we dated, when she caught me doing something thoughtful. Like she’s trying to reconcile the man she thought she knew with the one standing before her now.
Leo’s face lights up as Eve takes her seat. “Can you tell me now?” He bounces in his stool, unable to contain his excitement.
“Tell you what?” Eve looks between us, brows wrinkled.
“About our news.” I hold her gaze but she’s still not catching on. “Coming up in one week?”
“Oh, that.” Her shoulders drop but she doesn’t protest. I take it as a sign I can continue.
“We’re getting married. Your aunt is going to be my wife.” I clear my throat, my own nervousness coming out in my voice.
The words are heavy with promise and responsibility. It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud to someone outside my team and Eve, and the reality of it hits me like a physical force.
Eve. My wife. The thought sends an electric current down my spine.
Her eyes are still locked with mine, her expression unreadable. I start to speak but Leo’s excitement pulls my eyes off her and to him.