Dom and Sloane BONUS STORY

Three years after the epilogue of Scorned Beauty

Dom

It was 12:30 am when I let myself into the penthouse. I had been clear across town, and the Manhattan traffic was chaotic with holiday revelers. The streets were gridlocked. One would think after Christmas it would ease up, but everyone seemed to have taken off the week between Christmas and New Year. A smile touched the corners of my mouth as I remembered the New Year’s Eve Sloane and I snuck around in a secret relationship.

Now, she was my wife.

I stepped into the foyer. 

A wife who should have been asleep, but she was in the kitchen with the smell of something burnt on the stove.

“Firecat?”

Sloane was rarely in the kitchen. I did most of the cooking. After almost two years of marriage, that hadn’t changed. 

My wife was busy whisking something in a bowl, frustration evident on her face. I disliked seeing her brow furrowed like that. It triggered my protective instinct. But when her annoyance was directed toward an inanimate object, there was nothing I could do except maybe destroy it.

Ginger was in her usual position on a bar stool, sitting sphinx-like, seemingly judging Sloane for staying up late when she should be resting.

She looked up and groaned. “I’ve been at this since 10 o’clock.”

I surveyed the chaos in the kitchen. The sink was full of whisks, pots, and spatulas. The milk, cream, and sugar were on the countertop. “I can see that.”

She snapped up and glared at me. “Hey.”

I chuckled, walked up behind her, and engulfed her in a hug she seemed to need, my hand splaying over her rounded belly. I kissed the side of her cheek while peering into the yellow mixture in the bowl. “Is this for tomorrow’s get-together at Ma’s? I told you I got that covered.” This year, I would make Ma’s famous four-cheese lasagna. Sera made it last year. We held family meetings in mid-November to plan out the holiday gatherings. The clan was expanding and it was getting harder to get everyone together. Luca and Natalya didn’t make the trip to New York  this year, what with dealing with a newborn. 

I gently turned Sloane around, and tipped her chin up, marveling at her gorgeous green eyes, although I was concerned at the exhaustion I was seeing there. “What’s going on, baby?”

“You’re going to laugh or get mad.” She pouted.

I raised an eyebrow. “Why would I get mad?”

“Because you’re such a stickler for me getting enough rest, and I had promised you I wouldn’t exert myself too much when I got pregnant,” she said.

“That’s true, but you know your last checkup eased the bulk of my fears.” I leaned back and stared into Sloane’s face. “Doc said we were going to have a healthy baby boy. My worry was the first trimester.” I could see where my wife was coming from. The ghost of her miscarriage had lingered for a few years. When Sloane announced she was pregnant three months ago, I was excited and terrified at the same time. I’d become a drill sergeant in any kind of activity or work that would stress her out until she put her foot down and yelled at me that I was the one stressing her out.

“You did ease up,” she laughed lightly. “You were driving me nuts with limiting my movements and treating me like crystal about to shatter.”

I winced inwardly. Sloane had been ready to conk me over the head with a mop after I went ballistic when I found her cleaning the kitchen. I was no messy cook,  but Sloane hadn’t shed her “cleaner” instincts and would spot a drip of oil or sauce and no simple wipe would appease her. It would turn into a full kitchen scrub-down. 

 She said it was because she was a nurse and sterile environments were second nature to her, but I think she became OCD after she became pregnant. I also figured her agitation right now was because of the mess she was creating.

“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” I drawled. “Tell me what you’re making?” Or attempting to make. “That’s a lot of seized chocolate in the pots.”

“Ugh, I know! I wasted so much,” she wailed. And that seemed to set her off, tears springing to her eyes. I was still getting used to her rollercoaster moods. Hormones. Sandro and Matteo warned me. 

I hugged her close. “Was there a certain chocolate dessert you wanted?” My mind was already going down the phone tree of who was the best baker in the family—Renz, Bianca, Aunt Ava, and Ma. 

“Not exactly,” she whispered, looking up at me. “Hot chocolate. Why do bakeries close at 4:30? I tried to leave Delphine early, so I could make it to Arrah’s, but the traffic was horrendous, and you forbade me from using the subway.”

I had five bodyguards on her. There was a time she ditched them to use the subway because she was late. They lost her in the crowd, and I almost fired every single one of them. Sloane felt so bad after that she promised not to do it again. That was her only lapse. At that time, she was still getting used to being in a relationship with a Don. Someone like me had enemies, and her security was non-negotiable. That was our compromise. She could continue working as long as she had a full security detail on her, especially when I wasn’t around.

“I could send someone to get you one. Maybe Renz—”

“Do not bother anyone at this time!” she exclaimed. Her face fell. “Besides, no offense to Renz. No one can quite top Arrah’s hot chocolate. Believe me, Bianca and I did a hot chocolate crawl last week. It’s the custard on top.” I swore I could almost see her salivate. “Now, I can’t get it out of my mind.”

“Arrah’s you said?” I slipped out my phone and Googled the name. “They open at 7:30. I can take you there or order one of the soldiers to pick it up for you.”

Sloane smiled sadly. “Takeout will never do. It’ll be cold by the time it gets here. Besides, you’ll be busy cooking tomorrow, not indulging your wife in one of her cravings.”

I tightened my arms around her. “Are you done trying to make the hot chocolate yourself?”

“Yes.” Her shoulders slumped in defeat. Like my sister, Sloane was a terrible cook in the kitchen. For her to attempt a custard or to temper chocolate, she must have been desperate. The disappointment clear in every line of her body simply didn’t sit right with me as her husband. My wife had an independent streak and was incredibly street smart, so it was a rare event when I had to step in. I enjoyed being my wife’s problem solver, and I didn’t get as many chances as I’d like. It was almost a challenge to fulfill each and every one of her cravings. No, not a challenge. It was my job. I wasn’t about to fail.

“I’ll clean up here. Why don’t you relax in our bedroom…hmm? Take a warm bath. Have you tried the bath set I  got you?”

“I planned that tonight.” Her eyes pensively surveyed the surrounding clutter. “I can’t leave the kitchen like this.”

“Listen,” I told her. “I’m just going to mess it up again tomorrow. If it doesn’t meet your standards, I’ll hire a whole cleaning crew to scrub it spotless.”

That earned me a sparkle of mirth in her eyes. “Promise?”

I chuckled. “Promise. Now give me that hello kiss.”

She obliged, and the second her lips touched mine, tasting like chocolate, I swept my tongue inside and gave her a deeper kiss. I forced myself to step back. There was a mission to accomplish.

“You taste good,” I murmured.

She grinned at me and sashayed away. 

I waited until Sloane was halfway up the staircase before I snatched my phone and swiped Trevor’s number. He was at The Underground working on some intel for the syndicate.

“Yo, man,” he said. “I was not expecting you to call again.”

“Listen, drop everything you’re doing.”

There was a significant pause. “Okay…what’s up?”

“I need you to find an address.”

Sloane

My husband kidnapped a pastry chef. Oh my God, I have no words.

After soaking in a tub, I took my time pampering my skin with lotion, hoping this self-care would ease my craving. One would think the warm bath would dispel the desire for Arrah’s hot chocolate, but it didn’t. My pregnancy brain and appetite were screaming for it. I didn’t think I could even wait until morning, and even then I doubted Dom would let me go alone with the bodyguards.

I’d been in the bedroom almost an hour, maybe a little over. Poor Dom, he was probably still cleaning up the dirty dishes and pans in the  kitchen. I better check on him.

I heard voices when I was at the top of the stairs. 

Shit, did something happen? I went back to the bedroom to throw on pajamas and a thick robe. Dom hadn’t changed in the past three years. He was still possessive as fuck and got bent out of shape when I so much as showed a nipple shadow or too much leg. It drove him crazy when we girls got together for a fun night. And he’d joined the Obsessed Husbands club with stalking us during our girls’ night out.

But when I made it to the first floor and stepped into the kitchen, I had to blink when I saw Arrah Castille in the kitchen. She had been the pastry chef at a Michelin-star restaurant before she opened Arrah’s Bakery. 

“Here she is,” Dom said  as if there was nothing unusual about finding a renowned pastry chef in our kitchen at 1:45 in the morning. 

“What’s going on, Dom?” I asked sharply.

And I knew Arrah wasn’t here willingly by the stiff way she was moving from counter to counter, barely acknowledging my arrival. Trevor was standing in a corner, trying to control a grin. 

“You wanted hot chocolate from Arrah’s Bakery, you’re getting it.” He was sitting on a bar stool and reached out to drag me between his legs, but I evaded him and rounded the counter, glaring at Trevor along the way. If he was complicit in this kidnapping, and it looked like he was, he was going to get a piece of my mind.

Arrah still wasn’t looking at me. Up close, I could see how hard her jaw was clenched, and she was pale. But she didn’t look like she was scared; she was fuming.

She poured chocolate pellets into a bowl.

“You don’t have to do this. I can tell my husband to take you home. He’s not intimidating you into making hot chocolate for me.”

She glanced at me. “Are you pregnant?”

My eyes widened. “Well, yeah.”

“Did you spend hours trying to recreate my hot chocolate?”

I nodded.

She sighed. “Your husband didn’t threaten me or my business. He was very persuasive.”

“Then why did you look pissed?”

“It’s my resting bitch face.”

I snorted a laugh.

A trace of a smile softened her stern features. Her ash-blonde hair was pulled back in a severe knot, revealing an appealing triangular face. Her skin was smooth except for a few lines along the edges of her eyes. Arrah didn’t seem like a woman who smiled often, but she definitely looked like a woman who earned her accolades in the pastry world. 

She went back to work on the hot chocolate. “Honestly, your husband reminded me of the autocratic chefs who bossed me around when I was  a mere stagiaire.”

I glared at Dom, whose face was inscrutable, but he was watching our interaction like a hawk. 

“I’m sorry he brings back bad memories.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong; they only pushed me to work harder, and they were invaluable life lessons.”

“Okay.”

“So don’t worry about me. Making hot chocolate for you tonight is an unexpected detour in a busy season, but your husband offered a strong incentive with the bonus of making his pregnant wife happy.”

It seemed Arrah Castille had a soft spot for pregnant women and their cravings. Were all dessert chefs this way?

“Come here, baby,” Dom said with a pout in his tone. “I was hoping we’d enjoy this chef experience while you sit on my lap.”

I rolled my eyes, but Arrah chuckled as she faced us briefly to grab the cream. “I can appreciate a man who spoils his wife by going the extra mile.”

This was way beyond the extra mile. It reminded me about the story of Matteo Sera told me when he hired a lobster truck right out of Maine. De Lucci men in obsession were a different breed. 

I rounded the counter and sat on Dom’s lap. “What’s the incentive?”

“She’s in a bidding war for a second shop here at Hudson Yards. I’ve offered to smooth the way for her since De Luccis control that retail space.”

“Oh my God.” The implication of what that meant filled me with warmth and excitement. I couldn’t wait to tell Bianca.

“That means, baby, you’ll have your hot chocolate within walking distance.” 

“Oh my God,” I repeated, my mind still spinning at the extent my husband would go through just to make sure I was never disappointed. I glanced at Trevor. “I guess we have you to thank for all the sleuthing.”

He chuckled. “It wasn’t hard, plus the payoff is worth it.”

It really was.

When Arrah served us the steaming cup of hot chocolate topped with the rich crème anglaise, I let out a groan of pleasure at my first sip. Silky custard mixing with smooth hot chocolate was a taste and texture nirvana meant to be savored. 

“Hmm,” Dom said. “I definitely could understand my wife’s obsession with this beverage.” I have since moved onto another bar stool, but he had his hand on my thigh. He leaned over and stopped with his mouth millimeters from mine. “You have cream on your lip,” he murmured before licking my upper lip and delivering a sweet, chocolate-flavored kiss.

“Ahem.” A clearing of the throat switched our attention to Arrah, who had been in a conversation with Trevor while we all sipped hot chocolate. “I prepared extra. Reheat only via stovetop. The extra crème anglaise needs to be reheated via bain-marie.”

“A hot water bath,” Dom murmured.

“How do you know that?” I mean, I knew he was kitchen savvy, but even that sounded too technical—at least for a non-cook.

“Italian family with a mother who loves to cook. I’ve chopped chocolate for her before. If I remember right, that’s to prevent the chocolate from seizing.” 

I sighed with contentment. I uncovered  layers to my amazing husband every day. 

“For the custard, it’s to keep the silky texture, but you can serve it cold.”

Arrah gave us more instructions on how to serve her hot chocolate before she left with Trevor. I thanked her profusely at the door and apologized for how we had interrupted her evening. I wasn’t sure how she didn’t slam the door on Trevor, but maybe that was why Dom sent him to “fetch” the pastry chef because he had one of the most trustworthy faces among the guys. 

I poured myself a half-cup and swirled a teaspoon of custard in the chocolate as I joined Dom in the living room. He had since moved on to whiskey.

It was almost three thirty in the morning.

“That was wild,” I murmured. Light snowflakes fell from the sky. It was glorious. And perfect.

Ginger jumped onto my lap.

Dom sat beside me and dragged me into his arms. Ginger transferred to his lap.

The traitor. She reminded me we needed to pick up Harriet for the get-together tomorrow. She was very much a part of the De Lucci crime family.

“Anything for you, baby.” He kissed my temple.

“I don’t think I’ll sleep soon. What time do we need to be at Lottie’s?”

“Noon. Don’t worry, baby. There’s other food there besides lasagna.”

“But it’s tradition.”

“It is. Doesn’t mean we can’t start new ones.”

“Hot chocolate evenings?”

“Yep. We can add that to the agenda for next year.” He grinned into his whiskey.

“I love you. I have no words for what you pulled off this evening. This giddiness. I’ll be carrying it for days,” I gushed happily.

“Only for you, Firecat.”

Day and night, month after month, year after year, Dom continued to show me I was always his priority.

The girl who didn’t think she belonged in his world was long gone. 

I was here, confident in his love and devotion as I was utterly in love with him.

He rested his palm on my baby bump. Dom loved doing that. I could already tell he was going to be a great dad.

He was going to spoil us rotten.

I can’t wait.

Coming May 8, 2026