Page 29 of Gardener for the Mafia

Even though we’ve moved to a sweeter stage of our relationship, with our wedding day being the sweet as candy zenith, there’s still this savage want that burns within both of us like fire.

I thought the girls might change that, but they haven’t, not at all.

Lorenzo loves and desires me, shaved or unshaved, baby weight or no baby weight.

“I love you,” I whisper, kissing him in a brief moment of tantalizing sizzling contact.

“I love you more,” he growls, sliding his hand down my body and clutching onto my hips. “And I just know you’re going to be incredible tonight. When you were rehearsing for me last night, I almost cried.”

“Ha ha,” I mutter sarcastically, jabbing him in the side again. “As if you’d ever cry.”

“Well, not cry, perhaps,” he allows, smiling banteringly. “But it moved me so much. And all the views and support you have online just goes to prove your talent is unquestionable. You never use auto tune, Lena, or any editing trickery to enhance your voice. You just are amazing, in every goddamn way, and I’m so glad I followed your song that day in the garden.”

“Me too,” I whisper, blinking rapidly as tears threaten to slide down my cheeks. “But you need to stop all this talk before I ruin the little makeup I’ve managed to put on.”

“It wouldn’t matter,” he whispers, leaning down and kissing me firmly, our lips singing out a song of pure joy and pleasure. “You’d be just as beautiful without it.”

“I can’t believe I used to be your gardener,” I whisper, giggling. “And now I haven’t stepped foot in the garden for ages, I’ve been so busy.”

“That’s just fine,” Lorenzo smiles. “Because we’ve made our own perfect Eden right here, with the four of us.”

“And soon we’ll have more, Lorenzo. I just know my womb is desperate to give us more little DeLucas. I can feel it.”

He grins, leaning down for another kiss.

“There you go again, my queen, giving me savage ideas.”

Extended Epilogue

Ten Years Later

Lorenzo

I stand at the grill, feeling like a primordial man who’s just lugged home a kill and is now going to feed his family. A glowing sense of belonging infuses me as I watch the smoke rise into the air and listen to the hiss of the barbecued meat.

Hope stands at my side, grinning up at me with her dark hair tied back in a ponytail. Her hair is almost the same color as mine but without the silver, and as I look at her I see my own eyes staring back at me.

“Daddy, can I help?” she says.

“What did we talk about?” I ask.

She furrows her forehead.

When she does that, I know that I was wrong, she isn’t one hundred percent me. That forehead furrow is her mother through and through, the same way she looks when she’s concentrating at her writer’s desk, laying out the lyrics for her next hit single.

Lena has flourished as a singer songwriter in these past ten years, going from that first sensational gig at the theater to venues packed ten thousand deep with adoring fans, all of them screaming her name.

She’s done collaborations with pop stars and rappers and, through it all, she’s retained the Eden like beauty and grace that made me fall in love with her to begin with.

She’s just Lena.

She’s just perfect.

And I’m the luckiest man in the world that she’s mine.

“Be careful,” Hope says, with an eye roll. “I know, Daddy. But I’m nine now. I’m basically a grownup.”

I shake my head, grinning. “How about this? I’ll lift you up and you can flip the burgers? But you have to be very careful.”

“Okay, Daddy. Yay.”

I tuck my hands under her armpits and lift her up, letting her pick up the spatula and carefully flip the meat. Once everything has been placed on the fresh side, I put her down and move to ruffle her hair.

She pouts at me, dancing away. “Daddy you’re always messing up my hair,” she giggles.

“Would you prefer your hair to be messed up, or to go to Tickle Land?”

Her face lights up and she jumps back, raising her hands. “Daddy, not Tickle Land,” she giggles. “You’re such a weirdo.”

But she can’t stop laughing as I chase her around the garden, and soon Leo and James are running after us, my seven year old and six year old like little tanks, running around like miniature versions of their father with their shirts off, little barbarians.

I fall to the floor as all three of them leap on me.

“Got you, Daddy,” Leo laughs.

“I got his legs,” James says. “Leo, look. I got Daddy’s legs.”

I grin. James is always seeking Leo’s approval, the most loyal little brother he could ask for.

I sit up and wrap them all in my arms, looking up to see that Lena has taken over grill duties. Grace stands next to her with her microphone and little pink boombox in her hand, something she rarely goes anywhere without since we got it for her last birthday.

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