Chapter 7 Home Is a Loaded Word

Chapter 7 Home Is a Loaded Word
If there was one thing I took from growing up in a Brazilian orphanage, besides abandonment trauma and the ability to throw a street-fighter punch, it was how to cook a breakfast so good it shut people up for five full minutes.
The skillet danced over the burner, releasing the buttery scent of pão de queijo rising like little golden miracles. Meanwhile, boiling water for café passado hissed like it was exhaling every ounce of goodwill I had left for humanity before 9 a.m.
“Zoey, if you run one more time, I’m letting Sasha shave your bangs in your sleep!”
My voice was calm. Too calm. If you knew me, you’d know that was the most serious threat a woman could make especially a woman who once peeled a pineapple with a fork.
Upstairs, a pair of little feet pounded down the hallway, followed by a shriek in full opera pitch. “NOOOO! I don’t want bath! Bath is for babies! I’m a cheetah!”
Sasha, poor Sasha, our live-in nanny with the patience of a nun and the stamina of a Navy SEAL, yelled back, “Zoey, you cannot go to school smelling like a tiny gorilla!”
I nearly spilled the pan laughing.
I poured Zade’s coffee first, because of course he liked it black and bitter, like the way he looked at his enemies. Mine came second—lighter, a little milk, sweet enough to fake a friendly personality during small talk.
The office door was closed, but I could hear Zade’s voice behind it. He was talking to Aram. Quietly. Intently.
Someone was probably going to die today. Hopefully not me.
I plated a few slices of bolo de cenoura—the carrot cake I baked last night, Brazilian style, with a chocolate glaze that melted just right. Zoey loved it. Though, to be fair, she also loved eating sand and kissing the TV remote, so her standards were still under review.
“Mommyyyy!! Sasha’s trying to murder me with SOAP!!” Zoey barreled into the dining room wearing nothing but a towel and a face full of betrayal.
“If you don’t shower in the next five minutes, I’m telling Daddy you farted on his pillow last night,” I said, scooping eggs onto her plate.
Her mouth dropped open. “You swore you’d never tell!”
I shrugged, zero remorse. “Then go scrub your butt, cheetah.”
She huffed and ran upstairs again. Sasha passed by, pointed at me like I was Satan herself. I raised my coffee in a toast.
Five minutes of peace.
At best.
I tasted one of the cheese rolls and let the nostalgia hit. It tasted like childhood—the warm kind, somehow, even though the reality wasn’t. That orphanage was chaos. Hungry eyes. Thin walls that couldn’t muffle midnight sobs. But once in a while, there were quiet afternoons. Me and Steccy splitting a stale bun, pretending we’d grow up into someone.
Now I had a designer kitchen, gold-plated cutlery, and a mafia husband.
Unexpected glow-up.
The office door opened. Heavy footsteps followed behind me.
“Bee,” came the voice, deep and gravelly from morning sleep.
I didn’t have to look. That smug smile was audible.
Warm arms wrapped around my waist from behind. His scent clung to the sweater I hadn’t returned for three days—because yes, I was still wearing his clothes.
“What’s the prettiest woman in the house cooking this morning?” he murmured against my ear.
I smirked. “You could look with your eyes, or do you need me to spoon-feed you, Your Majesty?”
Zade chuckled softly. “God, you're dangerous in the morning.”
He kissed my shoulder, and somehow, in the middle of all this mess—threats, childhood baggage, and a certain ghost named Darius .. his touch still felt like quiet.
Like home. And I hated how much I was starting to like it.
///
The car purred like a handsome man who knew he was handsome. Basically, Zade in vehicle form.
Zoey sat on my lap, her doll shoes hammering the dashboard like it owed her a concert. Meanwhile, I was locked in a full-blown wrestling match with a bundle of black hair more stubborn than my teenage years.
“Sit still,” I muttered, pulling her ponytail into place with a grip firm enough to qualify as love.
She winced like I was extracting her brain. “MOMMY! You’re hurting my brain!”
“All that’s in there is sugar and drama, sweetheart.” I tightened the band and angled my head toward Zade at the wheel. “Please remind your daughter she’s not a Hollywood star.”
Zade chuckled, one hand lazy on the steering wheel, those ridiculous blue eyes glancing back at us like he knew exactly what he was doing.
“You’re pulling Princess Zoey’s hair too hard, Bee,” he said, trying to sound serious but failing.
“Mommy’s pulling until my brain’s in my eyeballs!” Zoey wailed, then slumped against me with one hand over her chest like she’d just survived brain surgery without anesthesia.  “Daddy, tell her!”
I held myself back from rolling straight out the window.
"Bee, you're torturing a mafia princess," Zade said flatly, but his eyes were sparkling. "Careful. She might call her lawyer."
“Her lawyer’s an Elsa doll,” I muttered, tying the last ribbon with equal parts spite and pride.
Zoey caught her reflection in the window, tilted her head, then smiled like she was about to step onto the Cannes red carpet.
“Okay, I’m perfect now,” she announced, hugging Zade from the front seat. “Daddy, do I look beautiful?”
Zade nodded without missing a beat. “You’re more beautiful than anyone on this planet.”
God. This man should be getting paid to be a professional dad.
The car slowed to a stop in front of the school gate, and before I could kiss her cheek, Zoey lunged for Zade instead. She kissed his cheek, then turned to me with the grin of a tiny villain.
And yeah—well, the little gremlin stuck her tongue out at me before waving sweetly to Sasha.
“Bye, Mommy! Don’t ruin Daddy’s day!” she sang, hopping out like a ballerina who failed the audition but didn’t know it.
I stared at Zade, torn between laughing and stirring my coffee with a fork.
“Twelve hours of labor,” I muttered, slumping into my seat. “And now she’s your number one fan.”
Zade reached over and touched my thigh, warm and slow. “She gets it from her mom. Full of charm. Impossible to predict. Annoying in the most adorable way.”
I looked at him, trying not to smile. “You know that’s not enough to make me forget you dragged me out of bed at six a.m. to make waffles.”
“You said you were bored at home,” he replied easily, shifting the car into drive. “We’re going to Neroil today. I’ve got meetings. You can glare at my overly flirty secretary.”
I grinned. “You really know how to make a girl smile.”
“I also know how to make you scream,” he said smoothly.
I sighed, half amused, half turned on. “Zade.”
“Bee.”
I turned to the window, letting the morning breeze kiss my face as the car slid away from the school, heading toward the place where money moved and men like Zade wore the crown.
And somehow, in the middle of all this chaos, including my psycho ex playing pretend as a bodyguard, I felt like the luckiest woman to ever break a razor in an orphanage.
Because apparently, feeling safe… could come from a man with blood on his hands and a heart that beat only for me.