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Jazz melodies twirled and danced within the sweltering Louisiana air.
Kaz—the new doting father—pushed the stroller with a huge smile on his face, even as I broke down every gruesome detail from J.P.
Emilio, lay comfortably ensconced. Occasionally, he reached out his tiny hands as if to grasp the colors and sounds that swirled around him.
Up ahead, Max, Paolo, and Harlem were a whirlwind of energy and laughter, engaging with the world in a way that only they could.
My heart swelled with love for this moment—so simple, yet so rich in sensations and emotions.
We stopped by a congregation of street artists.
Here, the scent of oil paint ran thick in the air.
Each stationed themselves before large easels. Their canvases displayed the life and soul of New Orleans.
I finished unloading the heavy details to Kaz, and a sudden fuss from the stroller caught our attention.
Emilio whimpered and scrunched up his tiny face in discomfort.
“Aww.” I tried to walk to the front of the stroller.
“No, mysh.” Kaz held up his hand to stop me. “Mommy always consoles. Sometimes the Lion wants to calm his cub.”
I smiled. “Okay, baby.”
Kaz moved to the front of the stroller.
As he leaned down, his biceps flexed.
Emilio sobbed some more.
With a gentle ease Kaz lifted Emilio out of the stroller and spoke in Russian, “What is wrong? Tell papa.”
Emilio’s transition from discomfort to calm was immediate, as if our son recognized the security in his father’s arms.
Emilio sniffled and looked up at him.
Smirking, Kaz wiped Emilio’s tears. “The stroller is not as comfortable as my arms?”
Emilio rested his head against his chest and relaxed.
“You are becoming as spoiled as me.” Kaz chuckled. “Can our mouse handle two spoiled lions?”
A group of women nearby, who had been casting stolen glances in our direction, suddenly became more animated and pointed our way. Their excited sighs and murmurs filled the air, and I knew that their attention was fixed not only my adorable baby but on the man whose huge, muscular arms cradled him.
Some of these chicks are about to get shot. Like. . .it’s too much.
I gazed back at my two babies, gushed at the sight too, and decided to leave the women alone. The display of masculinity and tenderness was just too much of a panty-wetting combination for any healthy women to resist.
Fine. I’ll let them live.
Still, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of possessiveness mixed with pride. Kaz was mine, and our family unit was a sacred circle that others could only ever gaze upon from the outside.
Kaz put his view on me. “So, we have black market organ harvesters in Colombia?”
“Yes, the Cali Cartel.”
“Then, there are the Mexican transporters.”
