Page 9 of Vicious King

“She’s not alone.”

I’ll kill whoever she’s with.

“What the fuck do you mean, she’s not alone?”

Mateo’s eyebrow wings up. Rome swears under his breath, and Julian tilts his head to the side.

“She has a kid with her, and he looks just like you.”

Two

RINA

“Mom! My hair is sticky.” My amazing, perfect, gorgeous son is yelling at me from his stool at the kitchen island where he’s eating pancakes.

I let my head fall back between my shoulder blades and let out a sigh. I’m so fucking tired.

“Why is your hair sticky?” I call back.

My own hair is still half wet, and we’re going to be late for school.

“Because I used my fork to scratch my head.”

His tone says Duh.

Doesn’t everyone do that?

“We don’t have time for this,” I tell him as I twirl my hair up in a messy bun, resigned to not having time to finish it, slather some moisturizer on my face, and brush mascara on my eyelashes before I rush out to find that my perfect child is still in his Iron Man pajamas. “Charlie.”

He blinks up at me, those blue eyes so much like his father’s that it makes my chest ache every time, and innocently says, “What?”

“We’re already late. I put your clothes on your bed for you, and you should have put them on before pancakes.”

“I don’t like those ones.”

I let out a breath, and then, instead of getting angry, I pull him against me and kiss the top of his head.

“I love you. You’re an amazing boy. But you have to go to school.”

“Maybe I don’t have to today.”

“You do.” I kiss him again and then pull away. “Let’s wipe off your hair and get you ready to go. Come on.”

“Aww, man.” He hops off the stool and trudges toward his bedroom as if he’s headed for the gallows. “What if I’m a genius and I don’t have to go to school?”

“What’s twelve times twelve?”

He wrinkles his nose. “I dunno.”

“You have to go to school.”

I smirk and help him into his clothes, even though he requires no help at all: I just don’t want to wait until I’m fifty for him to get it done. After ten more minutes of getting his hair clean and combed, his teeth brushed, and shoes on his feet, we’re headed out the door.

“Get school lunch today,” I tell him. Charlie’s picky when it comes to food, but we’re in a rush this morning. I open the back door for him, and he climbs in and buckles himself into his booster seat, and I get in and start the car.

“Okay. I think it’s spaghetti today.”

Thank God he likes spaghetti.