How To Own A Mafia Boss

Chapter 10: The Angel You Make

Simone wheels Jason into the kitchen for the first time today. The traffic has slowed down in the bakery a little, and I can afford to take a breather. I wash my hands and go to them. I see as his eyes drink in the kitchen, cataloging its strengths and flaws with one swift gaze.

I should go shopping for more products and clothes for him. For some reason, I don't want him to keep wearing Quentin's. Mostly because he's much bigger than my twin. It isn't much obvious now that he's sitting, but once he's out of the wheelchair, we won't be able to hide it anymore.

His skin is glowing with health, his hair shining and luscious, and his eyes seem to f*cking glitter. I find myself wanting to run my hand through his hair and find out if it's as soft as it looks, but that easy familiarity takes some time, so I smile at him instead. "Jason."

His eyes dance, and even though his lips don't go up, it feels like a smile. It makes my own grow in return. "AJ."

I look at Simone. "How are you?" She usually comes in to greet me before going up to see him, but she'd made a beeline for his room today.

"Jason wanted to come in and say hi."

"I'm asking about your child."

"Oh." She looks down at her rotund belly. "Depends on which of them you're asking about."

"The one in your stomach, Simone, not the ones on your chest."

She grins slowly. "Look! The grumpy bakery owner is making a joke! But really, my scan yesterday revealed twins."

I gasp, mostly because she didn't tell me she'd be going for an ultrasound. "Holy Spirit."

She laughs. "I know, yeah? But I want to go to another hospital. Just to get another opinion."

I take that in with a slow nod. "Which hospital did you go to first?"

She shrugs. "The one near the house."

I hide my smirk. "Oh, I wasn't aware there was a hospital there."

Her eyes turn shifty and she can't meet my dubious gaze. After minutes of complete silence, I probe, "Well?"

She sighs heavily. "I had a cam session with my mother's priest. He says I'm carrying twins."

My voice reduces amiably. "Oh. That scan."

She glares. "My mother would have killed me if I hadn't picked up. I'm telling you. Everybody knows better than not to listen to one's sixty-two-year-old Mexican mother. Especially when she gives the best advice. She's the reason I have so much good advice for everyone."

"Jason," I whirl around to face him, and realize he's watching us, amusement blooming in his expression. "You don't strike me as an impressionable kid, but don't ever, ever, listen to anything Simone tells you."

"Hey!"

I take the handlers on his chair and grin back at Simone. "You only need to bring out that tray of scones when the timer dings. Oh, chop those carrots for the meat pie, and tell DeBraun to join his brother at the counter when he comes back."

I begin to wheel Jason outside.

"What? All that work for a pregnant woman? You're leaving me here alone?" My smile widens as Simone lets out a string of profanity.

"Come now, Sim. Stop swearing so much. There are babies around here."

***

"You can walk when you're leaning on something."

"Yeah. And I can walk few paces without leaning on anything."

I frown. "You shouldn't be putting all your weight on your legs."

"I know."

I almost lose my frown at his unrepentant answer. "How about physical therapy? Would you like to speak to a doctor about it? Or a cane, perhaps?"

He pauses. "Physical therapy will be expensive."

And something we might have to leave Beachbay for since I don't know if our hospital is even equipped for it. "It's not something I can't handle," I say, instead of voicing my doubts. I can loan some money from DeBraun and DeAndre's parents if need be.

He stays silent as he takes in the pretty scenery of the park. "Don't worry about it. My legs aren't blown that badly."

I let out a heavy sigh. Egotistical male. "Jason. Listen, there's nothing you need to recover right now that I won't work to provide. Just trust me on this and don't worry about the expenses."

It is calm for a minute, and suddenly, his hand moves up to mine on his handlers. It's slow, the ascent of his hands. I have all the time in the world to prepare myself, but it's still a shock to my system when the palm of a huge hand rests on mine. I stare at it wonderingly, as he brushes my hand once, twice, then grabs it in a squeeze.

I realize that he's attempting to repeat my gesture of two nights ago. It tugs at my heart so bad, I can't find my breath for few painful seconds.

"It's been two weeks since I told you my name." That name. The whispered, forbidden one. "I'm surprised you haven't called me that yet."

"I've almost slipped and called you that a couple of times, actually. I'm trying really hard to forget it."

"Can I tell you something, AJ?" He waits for my noise of acquiescence before continuing, "That was the first time I said my name in thirteen years. I've been known as something else all this time. Several other names."

I force in a breath. He's giving me a slice of information about his past. Does this mean he's beginning to trust me? Why is my heart beating this fast? "I see."

"I don't mind if you call me that whenever we're alone. I want it."

My mouth goes dry. "No — that'll just make it easier for me to forget myself later. Don't give me that permission."

His eyes meet mine, soft and earnest. "Please."

Oh, God. How could I tell him no now with him looking this way up at me? He knew what he was doing, didn't he? Drawing me out with those gentle words and that plea, as if. . . he wanted to trap me. "But what if—"

"You won't forget yourself. I know you, AJ. You'll protect every part of me, even if it's just a name."

But it wasn't just a name, was it? It was more. It was him acknowledging my protectiveness over him. He was beginning to trust and was leaning into it. This isn't where this ended. With time, I'd have all his secrets and him, mine. It was just a matter of when.

It terrifies me. But I swallow it down. Later, I'll examine it...this thing between us. I'll make myself understand it. Now, I say, "Fine. Just don't expect me to ask you to call me Ashbourn. Or Jean."

He gives a crooked smile and turns his attention back forward, and I have to blink against the effect of that sight. I struggle to change the subject. "About physical therapy—"

"I've got this," he says, his voice a little low. He squeezes me again, then releases the hand I'd forgotten he still held. "Thank you."

"You have to stop thanking me, Jason."

He leans back to look at me, his head bending back to the neck of his wheelchair, and his face is alive, eyes dancing with amusement. "Why does it only sound good when you call it?"

"Because I'm the only one that wants to call you Jason."

"I noticed."

My lips curl at his fond tone. "You do like what they call you?"

He takes his head back, and a sneaking suspicion overtakes me that he's smiling. I suddenly have an urge to spin the chair around and see for myself. He shrugs, and his voice comes out soft. "I like what you call me better."