Chapter 18 - THE BREAKFAST TABLE DIPLOMACY
The kitchen of the penthouse was a masterclass in modern minimalist design, featuring brushed stainless steel countertops, a massive marble island, and floor-to-ceiling windows framing the awakening city.
Right now, however, it looked less like an architectural showcase and more like a playground annex.
Nora, dressed in bright yellow footie pajamas, sat in her high chair at the center of the island, rhythmically banging a plastic spoon against a silver bowl while babbling excitedly about a cartoon duck on the small screen propped up against the fruit basket.
Mrs. Gable, who had arrived precisely at seven a.m. as she did every single day, was expertly flipping blueberry pancakes at the induction stovetop, humming an old jazz tune under her breath.
When Rafe and Tessa walked into the room, arm in arm, Mrs. Gable turned around with a knowing, affectionate smile crinkling the corners of her eyes.
"Morning, sleepyheads," Mrs. Gable announced, sliding a plate of golden pancakes toward the empty seat at the end of the island. "I see the two of you finally decided to rejoin the land of the living. The coffee’s fresh, and the federal prosecutor’s office called twice already."
Rafe groaned softly, pouring himself a cup of black coffee from the French press. "Tell the prosecutor that if he calls before nine a.m. on a Saturday, I'll reassign his entire detail to traffic duty in the Bronx."
"You wouldn't dare," Tessa laughed, sliding into the stool beside Nora and wiping a stray smudge of banana puree off her daughter's cheek.
"Try me," Rafe muttered with a dry smile, though his eyes softened immediately as Nora looked up at him, brandishing her plastic spoon like a tiny sword and offering him a piece of half-chewed toast.
Rafe leaned down, gravely accepting the piece of toast and taking a solemn bite, earning an ecstatic giggle from the toddler.
Mrs. Gable shook her head, plating the food with practiced efficiency. "You're getting soft, Mr. Calder. Three years ago, if anyone mentioned business before nine o'clock, you had them thrown out of the building."
"Three years ago, I didn't have an audience of two holding me hostage with plastic cutlery," Rafe replied smoothly, taking a seat beside Tessa and covering her hand with his on the marble counter.
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Tessa looked around the bright, sunlit kitchen—at the steaming coffee, the golden pancakes, the laughing toddler, and the man who had once been the most feared name in the criminal underworld, now sitting patiently while a three-year-old smeared butter on his sleeve.
The wreckage of their past lives felt like a lifetime ago. They weren't hiding anymore. They weren't running. They were simply, beautifully, alive.
