Page 37 of Devour (Blood and Roses #1)

Luca

L ike a man on a mission, I head straight to Noah’s bedroom. Ariel was still in bed when I woke up, her back turned to me. I leaned down and gave her a quick good morning peck on the cheek, but she didn’t react.

I know she’s awake, probably still moping, so I let her be. When I get to Noah’s room, his nanny tells me he’s in the playroom, so I head there.

As I walk through the door that connects his bedroom to the playroom, I spot him sitting in the center of the plush carpet, surrounded by robot dinosaurs.

His back is to me, all his attention focused on the little prehistoric battle unfolding in front of him. He doesn’t even notice someone has entered. Not wanting to interrupt just yet, I stay still and watch him play.

He picks up a smaller dinosaur, a Velociraptor and with a dramatic swoosh, he sends it flying straight toward a larger T-Rex.

The big dinosaur topples over with a thud, and Noah urges it to get up, his little hands lifting it slightly before letting it fall again, acting like it’s too weak to stand.

“Little T-Rex wins!” he cheers joyfully.

I must’ve made a sound while cheering along with Little T-Rex without realizing it, because he suddenly notices me. He turns around slowly, his bright eyes locking onto mine.

“Are you, my father?”

I’m caught completely off guard by his straightforward question. It takes me a second to figure out what to say. A whole Luca Falcone stunned speechless by a seven-year-old.

“Yes,” I reply with a short nod, suddenly feeling nervous. “May I join you?” He turns back to his toys, and for a second, I think I’ve just been ignored. But then he says softly,

“Sure.”

I walk over and sit opposite him; legs crossed on the carpet. We sit in awkward silence for a moment as I try to figure out how to start a conversation.

Pointing to the big dinosaur in front of him, I ask, “What’s this one called?” I know exactly what kind it is, but I just want to get him talking.

“It’s a Spinosaurus, but I call him Big T-Rex,” he says proudly. “He’s the biggest of them all.” Makes sense—especially since he had called the smallest one Little T-Rex. I picked up a smaller figure—not quite as small as Little T-Rex.

“What about this one?”

“That’s a Stegosaurus.”

He picks up another.

“And this is a Triceratops.”

He starts explaining the names and powers of each one, his voice filled with excitement. I just sit there, soaking it all in, watching the way his eyes light up. I can already see pieces of Ariel in him. When the moment feels right, I gently bring up what’s been weighing on my chest.

“You know… your mom’s really beating herself up. She thinks you’re mad at her.”

“I’m not mad at Mom.”

The T-Rex—he’d named it Crusher, I think, he marches it across the carpet toward another dinosaur. But then pauses halfway, as he struggles to find the right words. I can see the confusion flicker across his face when he speaks.

“She says it’s bad to lie.”

“She’s right,” I say gently. “It is bad to lie. But sometimes… adults say things or hide things to protect the people they love.” He looks up at me, his voice quieter this time.

“Do you love my Mum?”

Without a moment of hesitation, I answer, “With all my heart. I love you both.” He finally looks at me fully, and for the first time, I glimpse the vulnerability in his eyes.

“May I hug you?”

He gives a small nod—once—almost like a silent plea. I move closer and gently wrap my arms around him, feeling the weight of his unspoken emotions settle between us. I whisper into his hair, trying to offer comfort in the only way I know how.

After a moment, his tiny hands wrap around my side, and his small frame begins to tremble softly against me.

“I’m… glad… you’re… alive.”

His words break apart as he tries to hold back the sobs.

I’ve never comforted a crying child before.

I don’t really know how. But I remember how my father was with me, how he became my anchor when I felt like I was sinking.

His tough love, his strength, the way he let me cry but never let me fall apart.

I plan to give my own son that same strength. So, I let him feel everything. I let him cry. And when the tears begin to slow, when the sniffles replace the shaking—I gently pull back.

“I’m here now,” I say softly, brushing his hair back. “And I promise to make up for all the times I missed.” He lifts his tiny pinky finger, holding it up in a silent pinky swear.

I can’t help but chuckle at the gesture. He’s been acting so mature for his age that I almost forgot—he’s still just a kid. I link my pinky with his, then we press our thumbs together to seal it.

“Now, let’s clean those tears,” I mutter, wiping his cheeks with my hand. “We Falcone men don’t show weakness in front of anyone.” Once he’s calm and smiling again, I nudge his shoulder playfully. “Now that we’ve made things right between us, how about we make things right with Mum too?”

He nods eagerly. “I have an idea,” I say, leaning closer like it’s a secret. “Why don’t we make her favorite breakfast?”

“Scrambled eggs and toast!”

“Perfect,” I grin.

With our arms around each other, we march off to the kitchen like two men on a mission. His doctor hasn’t cleared him to go outside yet, but he’s free to move around the house and right now, we’ve got something important to do.

I’d already told Griselda to take the morning off, so it’s just Noah and me in the kitchen. It takes me a while to figure out where everything is.

Noah is propped up on one of the kitchen stools while I rummage through the drawers for the right pan.

Why are there five different pans? I’m having a brain stroke just trying to pick one. I really should’ve paid more attention when Griselda was cooking. This is chaos. I don’t even notice Noah beside me until I hear his little voice.

“The small nonstick pan looks like the one Mum uses.”

Oh, thank God. “This one?” I hold it up. He nods confidently. I grab it, relieved he knows what he’s doing—because am already stuck and we have not even turned on the stove.

He helps me choose the right spatula for stirring the eggs. Once we have the utensils, the next step is ingredients. I know we need eggs—beyond that, I’ve got nothing. I’m standing in the walk-in pantry, surrounded by shelves full of spices and ingredients.

My hand is hovering in the air, pointing at nothing, and the mini basket I’m holding only has eggs in it. Noah, who’s been trailing behind me, quietly drops something into the basket. I glance down.

Milk. “Dad.”

The word stops me cold. He just called me Dad. I was not expecting it so soon, and my insides turned to mush. I look at him, eyes warm. “Son.”

“Have you made scrambled eggs before?” he asks. I consider lying—but after the heart-to-heart we just had, I decide honesty’s better.

“No. I’ve never made scrambled eggs… or any other kind of food.” He grins.

“I’ll help you. I watch Mum do it all the time.”

Boy, am I glad he does. Because I was this close to calling Griselda and pretending this whole ‘dad and son breakfast bonding moment’ never happened.

“We need…” he starts, listing everything required to make it work. Most of the ingredients are on the top shelf, so as he names them, I grab each one and place it into the basket. He peeks into the basket in my hand.

“I think we have everything we need.”

We march back into the kitchen, and he begins to guide me through making it. Since I’m a fast learner, it actually turns out pretty well.

We make the toast next; it’s a lot easier and doesn’t take much time. Just as the last batch pops out of the toaster, Arie walks in wearing a short sundress with a low slit at the front.

“What are you two doing?” she asks, a curious smile tugging at her lips.

Noah answers before I can.

“We’re making your favorite breakfast, Mum!”

“Really… you two made this?”

She looks around at the mess in the kitchen as she pulls out a chair and sits down at the counter. “Ignore the mess and try this,” I say, helping her plate scrambled eggs and toast before handing it to her.

Noah and I both lean forward eagerly, waiting for her first bite. She rolls the eggs around on her plate with her fork like she’s unsure if she wants to try it but then she does, just to please us. As soon as she takes the first bite, I study her face, trying to read her expression.

“So… is it good?” She chews slowly, clearly contemplating.

“…It’s really good.”

“Yes!”

Noah and I shout in unison, pumping our fists in celebration. We eat together, chatting and laughing.

“You’re quite capable, you know,” she says with a small smile.

“When you say I’m capable, do you mean in the kitchen… or the bedroom?” I murmur the last part low, just for her ears, as I clear the plate from the counter.

She chokes on her orange juice, and I quickly drop the plate and rush to her side, gently patting her back while she coughs. When she’s caught her breath, I lean in and whisper,

“You still haven’t answered my question.” She gives me a playful punch on the shoulder.

“Stop it.”

“Ouch. That hurts,” I wince.

“Oh—I’m sorry,” she says, her expression shifting as her hand lands gently on my bare shoulder. I’m wearing a sleeveless shirt, so her fingers graze the bandaged side.

“I didn’t mean to hit the injured one.”

I exaggerate my pain, putting on a pitiful face. “It really hurts.” She leans forward and blows on it like she’s trying to soothe the pain, then I whisper against her ear,

“I don’t want your mouth there. I want it somewhere else.” She pulls back, blinking at me.

“What?”

I drop my gaze suggestively to my crotch. Flustered, she swats my chest.

“Seriously, Luca. Be serious for once.”

I snicker. “Give me a pet name. I don’t want you calling me ‘Luca’ when we’re alone.” Noah, watching us, suddenly groans dramatically.

“I’m going back to my toys,” he says as he hops down and heads out of the kitchen, "am not mad at you mom he calls back from the doorway before leaving. Smart kid.