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Chapter Forty-Two

Lux

“I can’t wait to see it,” I say happily bouncing in the passenger’s seat of our new, more family-friendly SUV.

“We’re almost there, Tigger,” Rafael says, sticking his arm out and settling his hand on my bump. “Calm down, you’ll rattle the Bean.”

The Bean. Our little nickname for the baby. Our tiny bean.

I settle back into my seat, content with staring out at the scenery flying by. Green pastures filled with wildflowers surround us.

I scream with delight when we pass a herd of cows munching grass by the freeway barrier. Tall, elegant mountains loom in the distance, flecked by groups of dense pines.

“Are you sure you don’t mind living so far outside the city?” he asks for the millionth time, shooting me a concerned look. “You don’t really strike me as a small-town girl, Luxy.”

“I never thought I could be,” I admit, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. “But after everything that happened last month, I would love to spend a few years far, far away from there.”

“If you say so,” he agrees lightly.

“And we always have the townhouse for weekends in the city,” I say quickly, trying to meet him in the middle. I know he doesn’t want to leave the city. He’s doing it for me, which makes me feel all sorts of guilt.

“And I can always bunk up with Enzo in the penthouse if you kick me out for snoring too loud or eating crackers in bed.”

“That too,” I laugh. He turns the car onto a long driveway that leads to a circular stone yard. We hop out of the car and my mouth drops open at the beautiful home in front of us. It’s a historic, fully-restored Victorian house.

My eyes rove over all of the delicious features. From the scalloped shingles to the decorative pillars and spandrels, it’s like a gingerbread house. And it’s pink. I spin around and yelp in surprise as Rafael grabs me by the waist and spins me around.

“Like it?” he whispers in my ear, setting me down.

“Love it,” I confirm, drawing him into a deep kiss right there in the driveway. The realtor pulls up a few minutes later and ushers us inside, giving us a grand tour. We follow her around from room to room, marveling at the original, beautifully restored features.

“And it’s only a five-minute drive from Willowdale,” she continues, leading us to the backyard. “Which is a great little town with independent coffee shops, boutiques, and really great schools.”

“It sounds perfect,” I sigh, my eyes misting over at the image of Rafael pushing little Bean on the hand-carved swing. I can see the three of us climbing up into the treehouse for picnics and midnight stargazing. We can fly kites out here, or chase butterflies—there’s so much space to run.

With this home, and this man beside me, I can give my child the childhood I didn’t have. The one that was ripped away so forcefully and suddenly that I barely had time to grieve. I glance up at Rafael and can almost hear him thinking the same thing.

“Thank you,” he nods at the realtor. “We have a few more homes to look at, but it’ll be hard to top this one.”

“Of course,” she blushes, subtly checking him out. If she didn’t resemble a kind, wholesome grandmother with cotton candy hair, I might have been jealous.

“Take the time you need,” she adds, leading us back out front. “But homes like these rarely sit on the market too long.”

We say our goodbyes and head to our respective cars. Rafael fires up the engine and we glide down the long driveway, the perfect little house getting smaller in my sideview mirror. I feel so sad that I almost cry, but I blame it on the hormones and push the thought away.

It really is the perfect house.

“Next one is just down the road,” Rafael says once we’re back on the main road leading to town. “Then we can grab lunch in town.”

“Sounds good,” I say, rubbing my belly.

The next turn takes us down a short driveway to a smaller, older farmhouse. This one looks like it needs some work, with broken floorboards on the porch and peeling paint on the exterior walls.

“Maybe it’s shockingly nice inside?” Rafael whispers in my ear, laughter in his voice. The grumpy old owner leads us inside, showing us the different rooms.

With every room, my mood deflates. I know this one is more budget-friendly, but I can’t stop thinking of the pink farmhouse.

We walk through an outdated 1970s kitchen, navigating a cramped floorplan. The yard is overgrown with weeds, and piles of rusted junk are scattered on the sunburned grass. The owner glares at us, arms crossed as we wander around.

“Needs some new paint,” Rafael jokes when we file back inside and encounter the broken staircase.

“Original features,” the owner snaps rudely. “Wouldn’t expect a couple of city kids to appreciate it.”

Rafael and I quickly glance at each other, both of us silently screaming bad vibes. We thank the owner and quickly scuttle out of the home, practically running to the car. As we slam our doors shut, we both burst out laughing.

“You know how every horror movie from the 2000s starts in a small town with a creepy dude in a farmhouse?” I ask, gasping for breath.

“Let’s save the horror movie jokes for once we’re off his property, okay?” he laughs, peeling out of the driveway.

We joke about the experience during the short ride to town and park on the main road. It’s a quaint, charming street with adorable shops and eateries. Wooden signs, pastel colors, and flowerboxes make it look like an old Americana painting.

I’m in love. This is the perfect place to raise a child. Nothing like the gritty streets of the city.

I point out an adorable cafe with a small outdoor patio. It’s partly covered with a pergola dripping in wisteria, making it so picturesque that it looks like a movie set. We make our way over, snagging the last table and then we pore over the menu.

“You like this place,” Rafael says softly, studying my face.

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re glowing so much that you’re blinding the other patrons,” he jokes. “Quick, pull out the sunglasses.”

“You’re really stepping into your new role with the dad jokes, you know that?” I laugh, swatting him with the menu. “What do you think about the sun-dried tomato chicken sandwich?”

“I think you’re more delicious,” he whispers in my ear, subtly kissing my neck. I melt a little inside, bursting with love and happiness at having found Rafael, no matter how difficult and dangerous it was.

We place our orders with the waiter and lean back in our seats to people-watch. Parents stroll down the street, letting their kids run ahead of them without a worry. A group of elderly men play chess in the public park. High-schoolers duck in and out of shops, giggling together.

“What do you think about an orange grove?” he says suddenly, breaking the reverie.

“Like…politically or in general?”

“Politically?” he glances at me, confused. He shakes his head in mock exhaustion. “How can you even have something against orange groves politically? You know what, never mind…just in general.”

“In general,” I pause dramatically, grinning up at him. “I like them.”

“Would you like to get married in one?”

“To whom?”

“Lux,” he warns, shooting me a dark look.

“Oooh, to you?” I bat my eyelashes, playing the part of a schoolgirl with a crush.

“I’m serious,” he grumbles, crossing his arms and shaking his head. I laugh at his fake annoyance, snuggling up closer to him.

“I mean, I’d love to, but why an orange grove?”

“We drove by one on the way here,” he shrugs. “It was beautiful. Reminded me of you…with the sunshine and sweetness and all.”

“Aww, Wolfie,” I gush, placing a big, sloppy kiss on his cheek. “That’s so disgustingly sweet. I love that idea!”

“Whatever,” he grumbles, his cheeks on fire. “Just thought it’d be nice.”

Once the food arrives, we get down to discussing logistics. We both agree that Willowdale is the perfect place, at least for a few years. Who knows what will happen in the future, but right now, it’s a great backdrop for Bean’s childhood.

“How are you going to manage, though?” I wonder, keeping my eyes on my food. “With your…work?”

I’ve been wanting to ask him this question ever since we started discussing the possibility of moving out of the city. Even though we checked out a few houses within the city limits last weekend, none of them felt right.

I also know he’s been working for the last month, mafia business, but I wasn't sure to what capacity. To his credit, he never came home covered in blood anymore, so I was happy to turn a blind eye for now.

“I’m not sure,” he admits, clearing his throat. “I guess I would have to commute. Maybe work from home whenever I don’t have to be there.”

“Would you consider…quitting?” I finally ask, sucking in my breath.

That’s the question we’ve been skirting around all this time, trying our best to avoid. This topic always brought out the worst in us—my anger at his career choices and his determination to carry on the family name.

“Honestly, I don’t know if I can do that,” he admits, pain flaring up in his eyes.