19. Gianna
Chapter 19
Gianna
I ’m in the laundry room, kneeling beside a makeshift bed of towels I arranged for the tiny gray kitten I found two nights ago in the storm. She stretches her spindly legs, mewls once, and proceeds to curl into a tight little ball. A small pang of affection tugs at my chest. I’ve done my best to keep her safe and warm—slipping her bits of boiled chicken, letting her sip water from a cereal bowl—but I know it’s not enough. She needs real supplies.
Since Luciano let her stay, he hasn’t once complained about her presence. That, in itself, is as shocking as when he pulled out the first-aid kit when I burned my hand—and as shocking as the two kisses we’ve shared. My cheeks still heat whenever I recall them.
I stand up, pressing my uninjured hand to the dull ache in my bandaged one. That dull ache reminds me of the complicated swirl of emotions I feel whenever Luciano is near—equal parts fear, attraction, anger, and something that might be dangerously close to hope.
My stomach flips as I hear footsteps approaching. The faint squeak of the laundry room door warns me to look up. Luciano stands there, arms crossed over his broad chest. His dark eyes flick toward the kitten, then back to me.
“Get your shoes on,” he says. No greeting. No explanation. Just an order, as usual. “Bring the cat.”
I blink, carefully bundling the kitten into my arms. She squirms, squeaking in protest at being awakened from her nap, her tiny claws pricking through my dress. “What? Why?”
“You need supplies for it, don’t you?” His tone is clipped, a sign that if I press him, he might close up. There’s a tension in his jaw that warns me not to make a big deal out of this unexpected offer.
“You’re taking me to get cat stuff?” I ask, hesitant to believe my own ears.
Luciano scowls. “I’m taking you because I don’t want a dead cat in my house. That’s all.” His fingers drum against his bicep, where his arms remain firmly crossed.
Right. Of course. The last time I believed he was being kind, I ended up with my emotions in knots. But I can’t keep a small smile from ghosting across my lips. I press the kitten close—she’s so warm and trusting, which only makes the pang in my chest sharper. “Then… let me get my shoes,” I murmur. “I’ll be right out.”
He gives a curt nod. I slip into the hallway, grab the pair of sandals I keep by the door, and carefully secure the kitten in the crook of my elbow. She wriggles, big, curious eyes looking around the house. My pulse thrums with a faint thrill. He’s taking me out for cat supplies. This is new.
Outside, the sky is bright with early afternoon sunshine. The storm from two nights ago, the one that brought the kitten into my life, has given way to crisp blue skies and a warm breeze. I settle into the passenger seat, kitten on my lap, while Luciano starts the engine. There’s a tension in the air—like we’re both aware of the oddness of this errand.
He pulls out of the driveway, jaw set, eyes fixed on the road. I stroke the kitten’s tiny head with one finger, marveling at how something so small can survive a storm so fierce. But I guess, in a way, she’s just like me.
Halfway down the street, Luciano breaks the silence. “You still haven’t named it.”
I blink, letting the kitten bat at my sleeve. “I’m still deciding.”
“You had two days,” he mutters, as though he’s personally offended by my lack of efficiency.
I shrug. “I want to get it right.”
He makes a noise—somewhere between a scoff and a grunt. I press my lips together to hide a grin. There’s something almost endearing about how perplexed he is by my indecision.
I meet his eyes briefly, and my stomach flips. He’s not glowering, exactly, more like he’s extremely inconvenienced by the idea of me taking so long to pick a cat name. But even inconvenience is better than cruelty, and for that, I’m weirdly grateful.
We pull into the PetCo parking lot, which is a bit more crowded than I expected on a weekday. The sign’s neon pawprint flickers in and out. I haven’t been to a place like this in—God, how long? The last time I remember stepping into a pet store was as a child, guided by a nanny to buy fish food. Fish were the only pets my father let me have.
Luciano parks near the entrance. He cuts the engine, stares at the store sign for a second, and sighs. “Let’s get this over with.”
There’s a dryness in his tone that suggests he’d rather be anywhere else. Still, he’s here, isn’t he? Doing this for me and the kitten. My chest tightens, uncertain of how to process this new, contradictory side of him.
I open the car door, cradling the kitten; she is content to be carried. The warmth of the sun contrasts with the cool blast of PetCo’s air conditioning as we step inside. The store smells of cedar chips and pet food—an oddly comforting mix. A handful of customers roam the aisles, pushing carts filled with dog toys, litter, and giant bags of kibble.
“Which aisle?” I ask softly, scanning the overhead signs. “Cat supplies…” My eyes land on a sign labeled Cat Food I want the gentle side I got a glimpse of. Is that so wrong?
As we pull into the driveway. Luciano kills the engine and sits in silence for a moment. Cupcake stirs, yawning, her tiny pink tongue peeking out. God, she’s so cute.
Luciano rubs his brow in something that feels like exasperation. “Let’s get this over with.”
He pops the trunk, and I gather Cupcake while he loads his arms with our PetCo bags. Inside, I lead him to the laundry room, quickly setting up the litter box in one corner and a small scratching post near the door. The entire time, he stands in the doorway with his arms folded, watching me as though I might do something rebellious at any second—like decorate the entire house in pink glitter.
I place Cupcake on her new bed, and she immediately sniffs around, her tail swishing in curiosity.
“There,” I say, stepping back. “All set. Cupcake has everything she needs.”
He rolls his eyes at the name but doesn’t comment further. Cupcake, for her part, tries to climb the post, promptly falls off, then mewls at me as if demanding help.
When I glance up, I catch Luciano looking at me. Our eyes meet, and a flicker of electricity zings between us. I want to thank him properly but the words lodge in my throat.
He breaks eye contact first and clears his throat. “I’m going upstairs. Don’t let the cat in the bedroom.”
I nod, watching him go. My heart twists again. With him, it’s always two steps forward, one step back—a careful dance I’m still learning the rhythm to. He shows me softness, these precious glimpses of warmth, then retreats behind commands and warnings like a turtle pulling back into its shell.
“He’s a tricky one, Cupcake,” I whisper, scratching her chin. “But we’ll figure him out.”
In my chest, a small seed of hope takes root. If he can care about a helpless kitten, then maybe he can learn to care about me, too. And even if that caring started as ownership, maybe it can become something akin to genuine affection, or even love, if we both stop fighting it so hard.