Chapter Thirty-three
Serena
I look at the twins and I still cannot fully comprehend how beautiful life can be.
They are so small. So perfect. Their tiny chests rise and fall in sync, their fingers curled into fists like they are holding onto the world already. Sometimes I just sit here and watch them breathe, terrified and in awe at the same time.
If someone had told me ten months ago that I would get pregnant, kidnapped by a mafia family, and give birth to twins, I would have laughed in their face. I would have called it ridiculous. Something out of a badly written thriller.
And yet, this is my reality.
My life has changed more in ten months than it ever did in the years before. I am not the same woman anymore. I feel it in the way I think, in the way I move, in the way I no longer second-guess my instincts. I am stronger. More grounded. Less naive. I know now what I can survive.
I have been in the hospital for two weeks since my C-section.
I was supposed to stay one, but the doctors decided I needed closer monitoring.
They used words like precaution and recovery, but I think they saw something in my eyes too.
Exhaustion. Shock. The aftermath of too much trauma packed into too little time.
Now, finally, they are letting me go home.
I push myself up from the bed slowly, bracing for pain that never quite comes.
The first days were terrifying. Every movement felt like my body was tearing itself apart.
I could not stand straight. I shuffled around hunched over, moving like an old woman, afraid that one wrong step would undo the stitches holding me together.
Now the pain is quieter. Controlled. A dull reminder instead of a scream. I take painkillers, careful with the dosage, aware of every pill I put in my body.
I could not breastfeed.
I tried. I wanted that connection, that closeness everyone talks about. But nothing came. Not even a drop. The doctor told me it was normal, that not all women can, that it does not define motherhood. I nodded and smiled, but it still felt like a small failure tucked deep under my ribs.
The babies are on formula now. And they are thriving. Growing stronger every day. Their cheeks are fuller. Their cries louder. Proof that love does not come in one single form.
Everything is packed. I was moved to the West Wing into a private room, one that somehow became cosy over time. The sterile white softened into something familiar. Safe. Now my bags sit by the door, and all that is left is waiting.
Waiting for Lorenzo.
Butterflies flutter low in my stomach, the nervous kind that make me feel ridiculous and young.
He has been here every day. Always present. Always attentive. But something about him feels different. Careful. Like he is afraid to touch me too hard, say the wrong thing, breathe too close.
Like he is walking on glass.
It makes me wonder if he knows something I do not.
The door opens.
And suddenly, everything else disappears.
He stands there, filling the doorway like he belongs everywhere he steps. Dark curls fall messily over his forehead. Shadows sit under his eyes, proof of sleepless nights and worry he never voices. He is dressed simply, black pants, black shirt, sleeves rolled up, tattoos exposed.
Tired. Unpolished. Devastating.
He smiles when he sees me, and my chest tightens in a way that still surprises me.
“Hi, beautiful,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to my cheek.
I become hyper-aware of myself. Of my body. Of the scars hidden beneath fabric. Of the way my hips feel different now, heavier, changed.
Do I still attract him the way he attracts me?
“Hi,” I whisper.
He smiles again, slower this time, reassuring, like he knows exactly where my thoughts are going and refuses to let me spiral.
I remind myself that what connects us now goes far beyond attraction. That love is not fragile. That I am not replaceable.
There will always be someone younger. Prettier. Easier.
What matters is being the most beautiful woman in the eyes of the man who chose you.
And I know, deep down, that I am that woman for him.
“The car is outside,” he says. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
I step out of my fluffy slippers and into my heels. Of course I am leaving the hospital in heels. I am wearing my corset for support, a baby blue fitted winter dress that hugs me in all the right places. My makeup is subtle. My hair straight and long down my back.
I feel his gaze the moment I straighten.
From my eyes.
To my chest.
To my legs.
Back to my lips.
Heat rushes to my face.
“Oh,” I say, grasping for something to break the tension. “Is it hot in here, or is it just me?”
“It is just you,” he replies, voice low, eyes still on my mouth. “That is hot.”
Oh.
He lifts the baby carriers with ease, Celeste in one hand, Maddox in the other.
And suddenly, my heart does something strange.
Watching him walk through the hallway carrying our children makes my chest swell painfully. Nurses glance our way. I feel proud. Possessive. Ridiculously soft.
His muscles flex with every step, protective and effortless.
I swear it gives me baby fever all over again.
And for one dangerous moment, I find myself thinking that maybe, one day, I would do this again.
Just to see him walk like this.
The car ride home is comforting in a way I did not expect.
The city hums quietly around us, lights sliding past the windows, the engine steady beneath us. The babies are asleep, wrapped in soft blankets, their breathing even and calm. For the first time in weeks, my body is not braced for pain or fear. I feel. . . held. Contained.
We talk the entire drive. Mostly about me.
I tell him how I manage the pain, how some movements still pull sharply while others feel almost normal again. I explain how strange it is to relearn my body, to move carefully without feeling fragile. He listens without interrupting, his focus steady, attentive.
Then I talk about the twins.
About Maddox.
He is stubborn already. Fierce in a way that feels almost intentional. He knows how to get what he wants. One sad face, one dramatic little pout, and suddenly I am bending to his will. The second he gets his way, he is smiling again, satisfied, like nothing ever happened.
And then there is Celeste.
She is patience personified. Soft. Calm. She rarely cries. When she is upset, she does not scream. She simply draws my attention, quietly demanding it. She watches me with those big eyes, already knowing I will come. She is such a mommy’s girl.
Maddox is content being left alone, already independent in his own tiny way. Celeste craves closeness. Touch. Reassurance.
Lorenzo listens patiently, his eyes drifting to me whenever he can safely glance away from the road. He smiles, and that smile makes me talk more, repeat myself, add details I already mentioned, just to see it again.
“Oh no,” I suddenly remember.
“What’s wrong, baby?” he asks immediately.
The way he says it makes my chest tighten. I am painfully aware of how much I care about his tone, his attention, his reactions.
“I need groceries for the diet the doctor recommended,” I say as he pulls into the entrance of the house. “But it’s fine. I can go later.”
“We’ll go now,” he says without hesitation. “The babies are sleeping. Bianca is home anyway. We can leave them with her and go together.”
Together.
The word settles warmly in my chest.
Lorenzo Giovanni Moretti walking through a supermarket with a trolley is something I did not know I needed to witness until now.
Bianca appears the moment we stop the car.
“Oh my,” she says warmly. “You’re turning more beautiful every day.”
She hugs me gently, careful of my body, then leans in to look at the babies, still sound asleep. “And look at them. They are beautiful. Exactly like their mother.”
“Ouch, what about me?” Lorenzo asks, pretending to be offended.
I laugh. “What about you?”
“I contributed too,” he insists jokingly. “They look like me as well.”
Bianca plants her hands on her hips.
“I’m serious,” he says, playing along.
She laughs. “Yes, yes. I’m sure you contributed a lot.” Then she points at Maddox. “This one will cause trouble. Just like you did when you were little.”
I laugh again, because she is right. Maddox may be a new born, but he is already Lorenzo. In his looks. In his energy. In that quiet intensity.
“We need to go grab a few things,” I tell her, trying not to feel guilty about leaving the babies behind. “We’ll be back soon.”
She smiles softly. “Take your time. I’ll stay with them.” Her gaze flicks between Lorenzo and me. “Spend some time together.”
Even groceries count as that.
Lorenzo helps Bianca carry the babies inside, then we get into his black G Wagon and head toward the supermarket.
The trip itself is unexpectedly fun. Watching Lorenzo carefully check labels, examine organic cucumbers, and follow the list for my diet with almost alarming seriousness makes me smile more than it should.
We buy everything we need. And then more.
By the time we pay, we have six full bags of groceries.
I love this. Something so simple. Something so normal. Something that feels quietly important.
“Oh,” I hesitate, then ask, “do you need any help?”
“Excuse me?” he says, clearly offended.
I watch him pick up three bags in one hand and three in the other. “With the bags?”
He laughs. “Cute.” A smirk follows. “If those heels start hurting, baby, I can always throw you over my shoulder.”
Heat rushes to my face. I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
I watch him walk toward the car, muscles flexing, arms full, still opening the door for me like it costs him nothing.
Freaking hell.
When will this man stop being such husband material?
“Uhm,” I say softly as I notice the turn, my heart skipping when I realize we are not heading home. “Where are we going?”
Butterflies riot in my stomach. Lorenzo’s hand rests on my thigh, heavy and warm, grounding me while he drives with the other hand like this is the most natural thing in the world.
“Just a small stop before we get home,” he replies calmly.
And then the Moretti Grand Hotel appears in front of us.
Excitement rushes through me first. Quick and dizzying.
Guilt follows immediately after.
I want to be here with him. I really do. But the thought of the babies at home while I am somewhere else presses against my chest.
“Oh,” I say as he parks. “What are we doing here?” I hesitate, then ask quietly, “Are we staying long?”
He turns toward me, reading me the way he always does. His hand lifts, fingers brushing my cheek, and I lean instinctively into his touch.
“Love,” he murmurs, voice warm. “You’ve been in the hospital for two weeks.” His touch is feather-light, comforting. “The babies are okay. They’re exactly where they should be.” He exhales quietly. “Now let me make sure you are too.”
I breathe out slowly.
Bianca is at home. Bianca has raised more children than I have ever seen. They are safe.
“Okay,” I whisper.
As soon as we step inside, music hums through the lobby.
“Feel It” by Jacquees plays low and smooth, wrapping the space in something intimate. The hotel feels eerily empty, almost suspended in time.
“Where is everybody?” I ask. This place is usually full of life, voices, movement.
He takes my hand and leads me to the reception desk, where only one woman stands.
“I cleared it for today,” he says casually, lips curving into a smile that makes my toes curl. “I didn’t want anyone to disturb us.”
Oh.
“Mr Moretti,” the woman greets him warmly. Then her gaze shifts to me. “Mrs Moretti.”
My breath catches.
I do not correct her. I never do.
“The spa room is ready,” she continues. “If you need anything, there is a reception phone inside. Everything has been prepared as requested, Mr Moretti.”
“I appreciate it, Sydney,” he replies.
He does not let go of my hand as he guides me down the hallway. The space feels familiar. I am almost certain this is the same wing where I once came with the girls, but this feels different. Quieter. More deliberate.
“I don’t have a swimsuit,” I say lightly as we step inside the room.
And then I see him.
My breath leaves me entirely.
Lorenzo Giovanni Moretti stands there, completely naked, unapologetic in his presence. For one suspended moment, I forget how to think.
“You don’t need one,” he says, voice low and husky.
The thought crosses my mind, dangerous and reckless, that maybe four weeks could somehow become two.
Then he reaches for a towel and wraps it around his waist, and disappointment settles sharp and immediate.
I reach for the zipper of my dress. The sound feels loud in the quiet room. Fabric slides down my arms, pools at my feet. I step out of it slowly, fully aware of his presence behind me.
I feel his eyes on me without needing to look.
He is not staring. Not openly. His gaze flicks, controlled, never lingering where it wants to. His jaw tightens. A muscle ticks in his cheek.
I am wearing matching baby-blue lace. Chosen on purpose. Not accidental.
His jaw flexes harder.
I undo the corset next, loosening it slowly. The relief pulls a soft sound from my throat before I can stop it.
That is when he looks.
Just for a second.
Hunger flashes across his face, raw and unmistakable, before he looks away again, turning slightly, like distance alone might save him.
I remove my bra, letting it slip from my shoulders. Cool air brushes my skin. My breasts free.
His eyes lift immediately to mine.
Not my body.
My eyes.
Because if he looks anywhere else, he will lose control.
I slide my panties down last. Step out of them. Stand there completely naked.
He does not look away now.
But he does not look down either.
His gaze stays locked on my eyes, his breathing slow and measured, his jaw clenched so tight it looks painful.
He knows if he looks, really looks, there will be no stopping what follows.
He hands me the towel without a word.
Our fingers brush.
His breath stutters.
Mine does too.
I wrap the towel around myself, my hands trembling slightly, and only then does he take my hand, firm but controlled, guiding me toward the room reserved just for us.
The tension between us is thick, coiled, dangerous.