19. Chapter 19
Naomi felt like she was living a dream.
At night, she slept in Tony’s arms. During the day, she was in the trenches, figuring out how to undo months of Tom Peterson’s influence over Mark and Jacob. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t fast. But slowly, carefully, she found the words, the consequences, the praise and rewards that worked.
The boys began to change.
They shifted from temperamental bullies to considerate, laughing, mischievous-but-teachable little boys who were becoming eager to learn.
It certainly didn’t happen overnight. Every day, she tweaked her messages.
Every day, she watched them wrestle with their impulses—and win more often than not.
The playground became a safer place. Slowly, other moms and nannies stopped scooping up their kids the moment the Peterson boys arrived.
Jacob, who had once sulked in frustration at the smallest challenge, was now piecing letters into words.
He struggled, yes, but for the first time, he wasn’t furious with himself for failing.
He was excited about learning. Proud even.
He was going to be ready for kindergarten, she realized with a thrill.
He wasn’t ready for Shakespeare quite yet, but he recognized letters and short words. Every success was a major triumph.
Mark, too, was making strides, his motor skills strengthening as he joined in his brother’s lessons, no longer content to be left out.
There were still steps backward—mornings with their father left them edgy and mean-spirited—but Naomi had learned to anticipate it, to counter Tom’s poison with patience.
And then, after the long days, came her reward.
She’d walk down the block to Tony’s house, her heart already racing before she reached the front steps.
As soon as she walked through the doorway, his arms would wrap around her, his mouth claiming hers.
Often, he was already cooking—delectable scents of garlic, basil, or rosemary filling the house.
Other times, the food would be warming in the oven, but forgotten for hours while he carried her straight to his bed and loved her until neither had the strength to move.
A long time later, they’d eat and share whatever wine he’d chosen for that meal.
He’d listen intently while she told him about the boys, their progress, their setbacks.
He rarely said much about his own day, but occasionally he’d share a funny story about one of his guards or a sweet one about Gianna.
One night, they’d had dinner with Sal and Catarina.
Naomi had cradled the tiny girl in her arms, her heart aching with a joy she hadn’t expected.
But the baby was swiftly plucked away—sometimes by Sal, often by Tony himself—two dangerous men suddenly reduced to bickering over who got to hold an infant.
Catarina only rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips. She never argued with them.
The rhythm of their nights grew richer, sweeter.
The sex was still explosive—even more so, now that she knew what he liked, what made him groan, what made his control slip—but it was also tender.
He learned about her needs as well. He knew she melted when his fingers stroked through her hair.
He knew when to light candles and pour her wine, when to draw her a hot bath and leave her alone to soak, and when to climb in beside her without a word.
Somehow, he always knew what she needed.
And she was in love with him.
Every day, every quiet moment, every shared laugh, every kiss only deepened her feelings for this quiet, enigmatic man. She didn’t know all the details of his life—he kept those shadows tightly locked away—but she was beginning to believe the details didn’t matter. The man in front of her did.
She never told him, though. Instinct warned her that revealing the intensity of her feelings might push him away.
So instead, she kept things light, teasing, fun.
She baked him cupcakes one night after a particularly long day, offering them to him with a sheepish smile.
Chocolate frosting, swirled high, with sprinkles.
She pretended it was casual, but when he kissed the frosting off her fingers, she thought she might combust.
And then there were the little gifts. Trinkets, really, that made her laugh or pause every time she found them.
A pair of quirky earrings tucked into her bag.
A bookmark shaped like a quill slipped into the pages of the book she always kept in her bag.
A silk scarf in her favorite color, folded neatly atop her purse one evening.
She’d never caught him doing it, but she knew that the small gifts were from him.
Tony wasn’t a man of words. He was a man of actions.
And he was spoiling her in ways that were subtle, thoughtful, disarming.
Sometimes, he whisked her out on dates she hadn’t expected.
A jazz bar where the music curled like smoke in the air.
A midnight walk along the riverfront, admiring the city lights reflecting in the water.
Once, he even took her to a hole-in-the-wall diner, the kind with cracked vinyl booths and waitresses who called everyone “hon.” He ordered for them both, then leaned back to watch her reaction to greasy fries and the best milkshake she’d ever tasted.
And every night, when she fell asleep in his arms, she thought the same thing: this couldn’t last. Men like Tony Mancini didn’t belong with women like her.
But her heart didn’t care.
Her heart was already his