Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
“It’s easier to hate him when he’s cruel. It’s the kindness that’s dangerous.”– Aria Boschett.
I don’t know what to do with his kindness; not when cruelty would be easier to hate. Now, I’m left alone with the mess he created inside me. The car hums along as we wind back toward Cyan’s Crescent Bay estate, but my mind refuses to settle. It keeps replaying the day in jagged fragments.
First, that receptionist, all glossy lips and hungry eyes, practically drooled over Cyan like he was a winning lottery ticket with abs.
My thoughts keep circling back to what he did for Nonna.
She’s safe, happy, and well taken care of…
hell, I am thankful. Now my mind is tangled with the question: Why?
Cyan went to such lengths, spending that kind of money and making sure my grandmother had not just a place to sleep, but a home?
Why build her an entire world where she could wander and still be safe?
I didn’t even get to thank him. Once he finished his phone call, he gave one brief apology—he had to leave.
Collin’s on his way to pick him up. Then he was gone, leaving me alone with my questions and the echo of his absence.
Somewhere beneath the possessiveness and the threats and the violence, there’s a man.
Not only a ruthless criminal, but someone I’ll maybe like to know. That’s na?ve. Isn’t it?
Shaking my head, pushing the thought aside as I focus on something I can understand–my Nonna’s beaming smile.
Spending the afternoon with her went better than I could have hoped for.
Even though she still didn’t recognize me, we’d gone grocery shopping together.
The grocery store looks like a real one, complete with aisles and a cashier.
Except no one used actual money. It’s all part of the dementia village experience, ensuring that its residents felt independent while remaining safe.
The best part? She liked me. She actually asked if I’d visit her again.
I clutch my phone a little tighter, remembering how I’d also exchanged numbers with Dr. Saaha.
She was new to the area, and when she asked if I could show her around sometime, I said yes without hesitation.
Maybe it’s her easy-going personality, or maybe I’m craving some kind of normalcy.
I’m looking forward to something for the first time in a long while.
Walking into the house, I’m enveloped by the rich, mouthwatering aroma of caramelized onions and searing meat.
My stomach growls in response, but the sensation is secondary to the unexpected warmth curling in my chest. It feels like my past. Like home.
The thought unsettles me so much I nearly back out the door.
I follow the smell into the kitchen instead.
Rosa stands at the stove, humming softly as she stirs a pot, absorbed in her own little world.
She doesn’t see me at first. I stand there watching, and it hits me all at once.
For a heartbeat, I’m thirteen again, chin propped on the counter, watching my Nonna cook.
The low hum of her voice, the clatter of wooden spoons against cast iron.
The way the kitchen wrapped around us in warmth and steam.
My chest tightens. It’s stupid. It’s just Rosa cooking.
But the way she moves with effortless ease, the quiet joy, is the same.
A lump rises in my throat. I shove it down.
Rosa turns, finally noticing me, and startles, a hand flying to her chest. “Diyos, Aria—you scared me!”
I force a smile, trying to smooth away the ache in my ribs. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. You just looked... happy.”
Rosa blinks, surprised, then her face softens into a warm smile, the corners of her eyes wrinkling. “Cooking makes me happy.” There’s something so simple and genuine in the way she says it. That throws me a little off balance.
I glance toward the stovetop, needing something, anything, to redirect the tug in my chest. “So what’s on the menu?”
“Do you like Italian?”
I huff out a laugh, grateful for the shift. “Does a right angle equal ninety degrees?”
Rosa chuckles. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
I lean against the counter as she rattles off the menu: spaghetti bolognese, freshly baked garlic bread, tiramisu cooling in the fridge.
I should be wary of her. She betrayed me once.
She’s loyal to Cyan. Somewhere along the way, I stopped pretending to tolerate her company and started looking forward to our nightly dinners.
I tell myself it’s just because she’s the only person I really talk to these days, but that’s not the truth.
I respect her.Despite everything, she remains loyal to her family.
That loyalty may have worked against me once, but I understand it more than I want to admit.
“Thanks for keeping your word and checking on my gran,” I say, swallowing past the lump forming in my throat. “I know you didn’t have to.”
Rosa brushes the gratitude away with a flick of her wrist. “This family takes care of its own.”
I stiffen; she means me, and I don’t know what to do with that.
“I appreciate it, Rosa,” I manage. “It means a lot to me knowing she isn’t alone.
You’re a very loyal, caring person. Your boys are lucky to have you.
” She waves a dismissive hand, but something unguarded flickers in her eyes before she tucks it away.
“To show how grateful I am,” I add, forcing a smile, “let me help you?”
Rosa raises an eyebrow. “Only if you really want to.”
“I do. I love to cook.” Before she can protest, I slip away to change. When I return, Rosa hands me tasks of salad prep, shaping bread loaves, while she tends to the sauce.
We fall into a peaceful rhythm, the kitchen fills with the steady chop of vegetables, the quiet simmer of tomatoes, the soft clink of metal against cast iron. It’s harmonious in a way my life hasn’t been in years. Familiar, even.
“Aria, taste.” Rosa nudges a wooden spoon toward me.
I take a bit into my mouth. The flavor blooms across my tongue: rich tomatoes slow cooked to sweetness, deep umami from the meat, garlic, and oregano whispering through caramelized onions, and that faint tang of Parmesan settling warm and soft on my palate.
My eyes close. “Divine,” I breathe. The word leaves me like a prayer.
“How did a Filipina woman learn to cook Italian food so well? It’s as good as my Nonna’s. ”
The warmth on Rosa’s face dims. Her stirring slows something shifts.
It’s subtle but unmistakable. “My first husband was Italian,” she says finally.
“He ensured his mother taught me.” Her tone is off, far from the Rosa I’ve come to know this past week.
Rosa turns back to the stove, stirring absently, her gaze drifting somewhere far beyond the kitchen.
I set aside the dough, step closer. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
She shakes her head. “No, no... It’s not that.
” Rosa exhales, then glances at me with a small, wistful smile.
“I was just thinking about my late husband, Calum. Johnny’s father.
Cyan’s uncle. The funny thing is, I wouldn’t have met the love of my life if I hadn’t first met Roberto.
” I hesitate. I’ve read about Calum MacBrady’s death.
He died in the same way as Chester, in a violent, bloody drive-by, I wonder if that is the ending men in Cyan’s world seem destined for.
But the way Rosa speaks his name… with such reverence.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Rosa.”
Her eyes glisten, but she gives me a tender smile. “Thank you, Aria. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss them.”
Oh, to love like that. To be loved like that. I saw it once, with my parents. I’ve always wanted the same.
I return to shaping the dough, but my curiosity nags. I want to know more. “Rosa... how did you and Calum meet?”
She sets the wooden spoon aside, resting it carefully against the pot.
For a moment, she just watches me, weighing whether to let me in, whether I deserve this piece of her.
Rosa turns her back to me. She puts the spice bottles back into the drawer one by one, with the small, steady motions.
I think she won’t answer, then I hear her voice.
“You see, Aria, life has a way of choosing paths for us, often when we least expect it.” Rosa lets out a heavy sigh.
“My first husband, Roberto, used to beat me.”
Her confession makes my head snap away from the dough and straight to her. “One night, he beat me so badly he thought I would die. That bastard dumped my body in a dumpster in an alley, right next to Calum’s barbershop.”
I see the slight tremble of her lips, but she doesn’t falter. “Calum found me and rescued me from death’s door.”
She closes the drawer, and a heavy silence settles between us.
When she speaks again, her voice is barely a whisper.
“My sweet baby girl didn’t survive.” My heart cracks open.
Rosa knows the worst pain a mother can have.
Losing a child. A shaky breath escapes her.
“I was eight months pregnant when he tried to…when he did that to me. To us.” The kitchen fades away.
The simmering pot, the warm air, the smell of yeast—all gone.
There is only Rosa. Her hand trembles as she touches the jagged mark along her cheek.
The scar wasn’t just carved into her skin, but into her very soul.
Every time she looks at her reflection, she faces her loss.
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I force myself to speak.
“Rosa…don’t” My voice fractures. “I–I’m…”
She shakes her head. “I don’t tell you this for pity, Aria.” Her fierce gaze hooks mine; steady, she is a survivor. “I tell you because life can be cruel. But sometimes…sometimes it leads you exactly where you’re meant to be.”