Outtake from Cross and Catherine ~ The Teens!

Hey, loves!


Today is outtake day. I had a lot of requests from readers for outtakes of Cross and Catherine's kiddos. So for today, I took them into their teenage years, and let you get a glimpse of them at that period in their lives.

Next week, I will take them back to their younger years. Maybe Cece's first day at school ...

If you have outtake requests, you can drop them HERE. I do not personally guarentee to write outtakes, after all, the muse has to be willing, too. If you want to read more of my outtakes for several of my series, you can find them HERE.



The Teens

Catherine POV
Unruly Era

The front door to Catherine’s Newport home slammed shut with a loud bang. Stomping and teen girl screeches soon followed.
“Ma! Ma, where the fuck are you?”
Catherine rolled her eyes as she pulled a casserole from the oven. “In the kitchen, Cece.”
All too soon, the seventeen year old tornado that was Cecelia Catherine Donati stormed into the kitchen. She looked every inch like her mother—Catherine’s features, her smile, and more stared back at her.
But those eyes?
All brown, and soul-deep.
That hair?
Currently chopped to shoulder-length, and black as night.
And good God …
Her attitude?
Sometimes snarky, and often times, aloof. Occasionally restless, and lately, a touch too much of smartass.
All of that?
Cross Nazio Donati right out of bed.
Catherine saw a younger mirror of herself when she looked at her daughter, but sweet Jesus, she found Cross reflecting back, too.
“Could you not cuss the moment you walk through the front door?” Catherine asked. “Just save it for elsewhere, Cece.”
Her daughter clicked her tongue, and rolled her eyes upward. “Like you don’t swear all the time, Ma?”
She had Catherine there.
Another con to add to the list about having children that might as well have been your little twins.
A person couldn’t get away with shit.
“What happened now?” Catherine asked.
Maybe if she moved Cece back onto the issue at hand—whatever it was that sent her storming into the house—then her teen would stop looking like such a smug little shit.
It was still worth a shot.
“Well?” Catherine asked. “What happened?”
“The same thing that happened last week when I agreed to drive Naz’s spoiled ass home, Ma. What else?”
All at once, annoyance and exasperation shot through Catherine. She hadn’t known it was possible to feel those two things in such extreme ways at the same time until her kids became teenagers overnight. Teens who seemed hell-bent on driving each other—and thus, their parents—crazy.
“I’m sure Naz didn’t—”
“Ma, he dumped a whole can of soda on Frankie’s head, and then he threw the can at his face.”
Cece stared hard at her mother like she was trying to let that statement sink in. All Catherine could do was press her lips together to keep from smiling. She was ninety-nine percent sure that was not the reaction Cece was looking for at the moment.
“And do you know why he did that, Ma? Do you know why?”
“No, but I assume you’re going to tell me.”
“Because Frankly may have looked like he was possibly touching my ass with his hand after he hugged me goodbye in the parking lot.”
That would do it for Naz.
Nazio was terribly protective of his older sister even being four years younger than her. Age didn’t make much of difference for Naz—his position was always made clear where his sister was concerned.
Like a giant bloody line in the sand.
Bloody, because he had no problem using the next fool’s blood to make the line stand out more when needed.
 He didn’t like guys messing with his sister. Not all guys, of course. There were a select few boyfriends Cece had in which Naz made an effort to tolerate.
Still, he hated far more of them than he liked. And he had absolutely no problem with letting them know that, too.
“Ma, you have got to tell him to back off,” Cece said.
Catherine had.
So did Cross.
Nazio was just … Naz.
Far too much like his father. Difficult to a particular point. Fiercely protective, and beautifully good in his heart.
“I will speak to Nazio,” Catherine told her daughter.
“Speak to me about what?”
Nazio leaned in the doorway looking like every inch a thirteen year old tsunami full of piss, vinegar, and hormones. The smug as shit smirk he wore—a mirror of his father in every single way—said he had probably been listening to their conversation in the hallway.
“Ugh.” Cece threw her hands high, gave her brother a glare, and then said to her mother, “Deal with him, Ma.”
Nazio smiled at his sister as she huffed, and stormed from the kitchen. Catherine gave her teenage son a look for instigating more trouble. Naz only shrugged in response.
“Really?” she asked.
“Why do you antagonize her, Naz?”
“Because I can.”
Catherine pointed at the table. “Take a seat.”
Nazio strolled leisurely into the kitchen, and dropped his too-tall frame into a chair usually reserved for his father. Only thirteen, but puberty had kicked in hard for Naz over the last year. His voice had dropped a couple of octaves, the facial hair was coming in, and he was getting taller by the damn day.
Sometimes, she wished he would slow down a little bit. Just be her baby boy for a while longer.
It wasn’t possible.
Catherine headed around the island, and went to the table. She pulled her son’s beanie from his head, and dropped it to the table in front of him.
“You know the rules,” she said.
Naz smiled over at her. “No hats at the table.”
“Mmhmm. Now, why can’t you just let your sister and her boyfriend be, huh?”
He cocked a brow. “Frankie is a tool, Ma.”
“But you know Cece can handle herself.”
And she could.
She did.
Catherine and Cross made sure of that.
Naz shrugged. “Cece doesn’t even really like Frankie. He’s a distraction until Juan gets back into town. I’m not going to pretend to like the asshole until then. That’s all I’m saying, Ma.”
Catherine sighed. “You don’t know what she’s waiting on Juan, now.”
“Ma, everybody knows she’s crazy as fuck over him.”
“Stop swearing at the table.”
“Whatever—you can’t deny I’m right about Cece and Juan, though.”
There was something about Miguel’s nineteen year old son that Cece couldn’t escape from the time she was fifteen. Of course, being Catherine’s right hand man meant Miguel’s family often mingled with theirs. Juan and Catherine had grown from being children to young adults together, and now … this.
“Naz, just …”
“Lay off a bit.”
Naz meh’d under his breath. “I’ll try.”
“Try what?”
Catherine found her husband leaning in the kitchen entryway. Leave it to Cross to smell food and come looking after all the trouble was finally taken care of. His way of dealing with Naz was to take the boy to a shooting range, or out to work on … whatever. Cece, on the other hand, Cross simply let the girl do whatever she needed to do to get her spells out of her.
It was their life, though.
Their children were not like other children.
They had and lived a different life.
Catherine sighed as she stood from the table. “Your son poured a can of soda over Cece’s boyfriend’s head after school.”
“And then threw it at his face,” Naz added. “You can’t forget that part, Ma.”
Cross nodded—appreciatively.
“Frankie?” Cross asked.
“Yep.” Naz stood from the table, asking, “Are we good, Ma?”
“As long as you remember what I said.”
“I will,” her son promised.
And likely not listen to it, either.
“Go find your sister, apologize the best you can so she will be a little bit pleasant when she comes back downstairs, and then tell her supper is ready,” Catherine ordered. “Do not antagonize that girl more than you already have, or so help you God, Nazio, you will not like what happens to you when you get back downstairs.”
Nazio gave his mother the two finger salute, not even the least bit concerned about her threat. “Got it.”
As her son passed Cross in the doorway, Nazio snatched a hundred dollar bill from his father’s raised hand. Cross’s smirk grew as Catherine gave him a look.
What the hell?
“Well done,” Cross murmured, never looking away from Catherine. “I appreciate it.”
“Thanks,” Naz said, laughing. “I would have done it for nothing, too.”
“I bet, son.”
“Cross!” Catherine snapped, finally understanding the exchange between father and son. “You did not pay him to do that to that boy!”
Her husband didn’t even have the fucking decency to look ashamed over what he had done, or that he got caught doing it, either.
“What? I hate that fucking Frankie prick, Catherine.”
“He’s a tool.”
And he wondered where Nazio got it from. 


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