TRAPPED WITH THE MAFIA BOSS
The door swings open—teak, its grain swirling like a fingerprint, creaking on brass hinges—and he steps in, gray suit rumpled from the jet, stubble dark on his jaw, eyes flaring when they find us.
JJ squeals—“Dada!”—and barrels across the floor, his socks slipping on the polished oak.
Jeremy drops to his knees on a silk rug, its sapphire threads plush under him, scooping JJ into a hug so fierce it squeezes my heart. “My little man,” he whispers, voice rough with relief.
He presses a kiss to JJ’s forehead, lingering on those wild curls, the scent of baby shampoo clinging faint.
I step closer, a smile trembling free; weeks of running—Monroe’s raid, the split, the dread—melt into this, a moment
Bab Populer