❝𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧, 𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐨. 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞.❞
❦
"What are you doing in my fridge?"
I immediately grabbed my knife strapped to my thigh and pointed it at the person behind me's throat.
"Seriously?" I whispered.
He wasn't even fazed by...
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[2 years later] nirah joy
I could hear the girls laughter from all the way down here while cleaning the kitchen after dinner.
As I crossed from the island to the stove Angelo came running in - already wearing his pajamas - making shooting noises.
He ran around the island a few times before I turned around, feeling my heart drop to my feet.
"Angelo!" I yell and he immediately stops, turning to me in shock.
I rush towards him, grabbing the gun from his hands.
"Where did you get this?" I ask and he looks confused.
"Daddy gave it to me."
"Why would he give you this?" I ask in confusion, hiding the gun behind my back.
"Because he was giving Ilaria a bath and I wouldn't stop..." he pauses in thought. "I think daddy used the words 'pestering him'. What does that mean?" he asks and I shake my head.
Taking a deep breath in, Angelo puts his hand out for the gun.
"Can I have it back now, please mamma?"
Sure, if it was fake...
"Just go upstairs and tell your father to get down here before I start pestering him."
"Okay," he almost cheerfully says before running out of the kitchen.
I turn around, holding the gun in both hands as I examine it. It's not loaded. But it looks weird. I bring it up to my ear, shaking it.
I hear Antonio's footsteps descend from the stairs and I turn around to see him finally walking into the kicthen while pushing the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows.
He smiles, trying not to laugh and my hand flies to my forehead in disbelief. He walks towards me and I drop the gun on the counter top.
"I know, I made you mad yesterday but trying to kill my child as punishment is a new low, even for you," I place my hands on my hips
He slowly nods, pretending to understand what I'm saying.
"He could have accidentally killed himself, or one of the girls, or you, o-"
"Nirah," he slowly says, gently cupping my face with both hands. "I've been raising children for eight years with you, I know not to give a child a loaded gun."
"Oh my God," I gasp, feeling my heart nearly stop. "He knows not to give my son a loaded gun," I breathlessly say in disbelief.
"I'm kidding," he laughs.
He lifts me up onto the countertop and rests his hand on my waist.
"Angelo wanted a real gun - like mine - so I had a replica made for him. The trigger is fake."
![[2 years later]nirah joy](https://img.wattpad.com/3ec490adbc141df989e70ea3c11da4d63c2ff835/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f524a51656277332d742d4e6370773d3d2d313233353338353936302e313666613138353361326431633535333330363532343531383539312e6a7067?s=fit&w=720&h=720)
