The letter taped to the door read: “Back by 7. Don’t kill him– Ciao!”
Beside it stood Leo. He stood there—dimples deep, hair a riot of curls—wearing the smug little grin of someone who knew they were about to push you right over the edge and was already enjoying the show.
We were never supposed to end up in Amalfi. Certainly not with a baby in tow, or an artifact that probably belongs behind bulletproof glass. But somehow, here we were—with all of it.
We were supposed to be lying low. Drinking overpriced cocktails, maybe skinny-dipping. Not wiping applesauce off pants and googling "Can toddlers eat caviar?"
But of course, if anyone could turn a harmless party into an international relic heist, it was Jia.
It started with the damned party in Mumbai. Velvet sarees. Suspicious billionaires. And Jia, who couldn’t stop making enemies or being the most unhinged woman in any room.
We entered like sin in daddy's money. Her hand looped through my arm, neckline low enough to have me sweating.
Heads turned; some in admiration, others in horror.
Most in, "Oh no, she’s back."
Everyone remembered the last party. The champagne tower. The slap heard across the lawn. The guy who ended up in the koi pond. That was Jia.
Tonight? She was worse.
Barely one flute of overpriced champagne in, and a finance bro slithered over.
"Did it hurt?" he asked.
She blinked. "When I fell from heaven?"
"No. When you landed in my section of the party."
She stared at him. Then at me.
"Baby," she purred. "Tell him what happens to guys who use the 'heaven' line on every girl with legs and trauma."
"They get audited."
"Damn right."
Then he touched her arm.
My glass hit the tray. Sharp. Loud.
"I'd rethink that move," I said.
"You scared I'll steal her?"
"No. I'm scared you'll bleed on the Versace."
One hit. Down he went. Security started toward us, but I was faster.
"Escort him out. And make sure he doesn’t touch another wrist tonight unless it belongs to an lawyer."
She smiled like the devil’s favorite daughter.
"You're not going to lecture me?"
"Hell no. That was kinda hot?"
We were still basking in the afterglow of violence when Sebastian appeared—diamond-studded loafers, two women trailing.
"You two are iconic. Come to the VIP room, no negotiations."
"Do we get snacks?" Jia asked.
"There’s a caviar fountain."
We went.
The VIP lounge was absurd. Gold walls. Fur chairs. A mechanical bull in a Versace harness.
"Tonight’s theme," Sebastian declared, "is Games Only Rich People Understand."
We barely lasted a round of Truth or Dare before we were declared "Couple of the Year" for outfit swapping which had me ended up in nipple tape and her six inch heels.
On the way out, she saw it.
"Is that a Fabergé egg?"
It gleamed beneath a spotlight like it knew it didn’t belong there.
"Isn’t that a priceless Russian artifact?"
"So technically no one owns it."
“So let me get this straight,” I said, staring at the glass case. “You want to steal a piece of royal history, break at least five international laws, and call it... what, activism?”
She grinned. “No. I call it a rescue mission.”
I sighed, because of course she did. Because I’d follow her anywhere, even into felony "Let’s Ocean's Eleven this."
"You’re in heels."
"I'm committed."
She flirted with the guard. I walked past like I wasn’t a grown man in my girlfriend's bodycon dress. The pedestal hummed as I touched it.
Then—it clicked off.
"Did I just deactivate a Fabergé alarm by accident?"
"You're the chosen one, Potter." she whispered, appearing beside me.
We bolted. Egg in hand.
The valet tossed keys mid-run. We dove in.
"We’re so getting arrested," she said, mascara smudged from crime.
"But fashionably."
"Do we keep it?"
"We hide it. Then make love on top of the hiding spot."
"Symbolic."
Of course we escaped. You don’t steal a Fabergé egg and then go back to brunch. You flee to Amalfi, kiss your partner-in-crime under a hundred sunsets, and pretend this was the plan all along.
No phones. No Sebastian yelling, "You owe me a heist!" Just me, her, a Fabergé egg named Sir Eggward the Third...
...and Leo.
Leo, the baby. Big cheeks. Curls. Bib that says "Chick Magnet." Eyes that say, "You're screwed."
I point. He points back. Like a showdown.
"Jia!" I call.
Nothing.
Leo burps.
I step back. He blinks like a cat. Or a tiny war general.
"JIA! There is a tiny Italian criminal on our porch and he’s been left in our care! This is not a drill!"
She appears at the top of the stairs like a goddess summoned by yelling. Toothbrush in mouth. Espresso in hand.
"What?"
I point at the child. "There is a CHILD!"
She raises a brow. "Did you touch it?"
She strolls over. Scoops him up. "Leo!"
He giggles and chews her hair. She doesn’t flinch. I nearly scream.
"This is a hostage situation."
"Oh come on. Look at his face."
He's licking the window.
~
She's in the kitchen. My shirt. One sock. Holding Leo like a seasoned pro. He smacks a wooden spoon against a lemon.
Then Leo turns. Looks me dead in the eye.
"Bastard!"
She drops the spoon.
"WHAT DID HE SAY?!"
"...Master?"
"You taught him that word!"
"I just said it. Once. Maybe twice. In context."
Leo hits the lemon again.
"Bastard lemon!"
"Fucking hell." I groan.
"Facking 'ell", Leo echoes, grinning at me.
Later, she's in a soft yellow sundress. Barefoot, laughing while chasing Leo around the patio.
He calls her "pretty."
He calls me "bastard."
"He just called you a bastard with love," she says.
"He's correct though."
Nap time: Leo’s asleep on her chest. She's whispering baby songs.
"You're gonna make me knock you up."
She pauses, smile faltering for a second. “You mean that?”
“Yeah. Maybe. One day.”
She nods. “Okay.”
And that was it. Just a sliver of the future cracking through the chaos.
I wrap an arm around her. The other around Leo. Perfect.
She’s radiant in her lemon-yellow sundress.
I kiss her, softly.
Then—WHACK. A chubby palm smacks my cheek.
Leo. Furious. Banana breath. Betrayed.
"NO!"
"Are you jealous??"
He kisses her nose. Glares at me.
"MY mama."
"I’m being out-alpha’d by a toddler."
Leo pats my face with banana hands.
"You... bass-turd."
She’s wheezing.
I kiss her again.
Leo screams.
We laugh until it hurts.
Later, we’re all curled up on the couch. Leo draped across her. Her dozing off.
And me? I’m still watching them. Because I’ve never wanted anything more than this.
And possibly... another heist. Or a baby. God help us if it's both.
The next morning, Leo toddles over, all puffed cheeks and crayon-stained fingers.
“Gift,” he says solemnly.
He hands us a wrinkled sheet of paper, colours scribbled in a storm of joy. Three lopsided stick figures: one in a yellow triangle (her dress), one with an enormous head and what might be a Fabergé egg, and one smaller figure in the middle with curly hair and a suspicious smile.
Above it: “My famlee.”
Written backwards. In pink.
She chokes up. I pretend I’m not about to cry. Leo picks his nose.
“Hang it,” she says, already taping it to the fridge.
I kiss her temple, soft, reverent. Then Leo’s forehead.
“This isn’t exile,” I murmur.
She smiles. “No. It’s home.”
Then Leo sneezes directly into her coffee.
“Still home,” she mutters, wiping her face.
And somehow, yeah—she was right.
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