Chapter 14 – Siena
SIENA
T he penthouse is too quiet without him.
I wander from the bedroom into the living room, cradling the last of my coffee in Giovanni’s large mug.
The city skyline cuts sharp against the bright morning, but inside it’s sterile.
Sleek leather couch, spotless glass tables, a massive TV on the wall.
Everything screams wealth and precision, but none of it whispers home.
I trail my fingers along the back of the couch.
The leather is cool, smooth, impersonal.
No cozy throw blanket, no soft pillows that invite you to sink in.
On the shelves, there are crystal decanters, a few expensive bottles of whiskey, and perfectly arranged art books.
It looks like none of the books have ever been opened.
Even the walls feel bare. No photos. No childhood memories. No frame holding a silly snapshot of Giovanni laughing. It’s like he lives here, but he doesn’t live here.
A heaviness settles in my chest. This place doesn’t tell a story about him. Or about us. And maybe that’s what I want, a place that feels like us.
I set my coffee down and pull out my phone.
“Hey,” I say when Fia picks up.
Her voice is warm, cautious. “Hey. Everything okay?”
A small smile tugs at my lips. “Better than okay. I miss my friend, though.”
There’s a beat of silence before she softens. “I miss you too, Siena.”
I take a breath. “Do you want to have a shopping day with me? Maybe grab some lunch?”
“I’d love that,” she says without hesitation, and relief blooms in my chest.
“Can you pick me up? I’m at Giovanni’s. I’ll send you the address and wait outside.”
“Absolutely. Give me twenty.”
When we hang up, I glance around the penthouse again. The emptiness feels like an invitation. If Giovanni is serious about us, about me, then this space should reflect the life we’re building. And if I’m serious, I should help him make this place something more than four expensive walls.
Fia pulls up in her beat-up little car, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, sunglasses perched on her head. The moment I slide into the passenger seat, she gives me a teasing grin.
“You really are living in the clouds now. Giovanni’s penthouse, huh?”
I roll my eyes, but can’t fight my smile. “It’s just a place. And honestly? It’s kind of sad. It doesn’t feel like him at all.”
She raises a brow. “You planning on fixing that?”
I buckle my seatbelt, already picturing soft pillows, framed photos, a splash of color on those cold walls. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “I think I am.”
We spend the morning wandering through boutiques and little home stores. I pick up a deep blue throw that reminds me of Giovanni’s eyes, a set of wine glasses that aren’t crystal-stiff but inviting to use, and a picture frame I imagine filling with us.
Fia holds up a ridiculous heart-shaped pillow and snorts. “Too much?”
I laugh and shake my head. “Way too much. But thanks for making me laugh.”
She smiles, softer now. “I like seeing you happy. It’s been a while.”
We carry our shopping bags to a small café for lunch, where we sit by the window, the smell of fresh bread and roasted tomatoes filling the air. As we eat, I catch Fia watching me thoughtfully. And for once, it doesn’t feel like judgment. It feels like understanding.
“I love him, Fia.”
She nods, giving me a genuine smile. “I can see that. I’m sorry for everything I said. I’ve just seen you get hurt so many times with expectations you have from your dad and pretty much any guy in your life. But, it’s clear that this time I’m wrong.”
For the first time in a long time, it feels like I have everything I could ever want. I have my best friend and the man I love.
By the time Fia drops me back off, the sun is slipping low. The bags feel light in my hands even though I know they’re full. It’s the kind of lightness that comes from doing something that matters.
I slip into the penthouse quietly, my heels clicking against the marble floor. The silence greets me again, but this time it doesn’t feel lonely. It feels like a blank canvas.
I set the bags on the kitchen island and pull the throw blanket out first. It’s a rich, deep blue, soft beneath my fingers.
I drape it over the back of the leather couch, instantly warming the room.
The pillows are next. They are a similar deep blue with cream.
I place them on the couch and it makes me want to sink into them.
The set of wine glasses goes into the cabinet next to the expensive crystal decanters.
They don’t match the rest of the collection and that’s the point.
Next is the picture frame. I don’t even have a photo to fill it yet, but I prop it on the shelf beside a bottle of whiskey anyway. It’s a promise waiting to be kept.
I light one of the candles I’d grabbed at the boutique, a simple, woodsy scent that reminds me of late autumn nights. Its gentle flicker softens the edges of the room, making it feel lived-in.
I unpack a vase and grab the flowers I bought. A brightly colored collection of wildflowers that bring color and comfort to the kitchen when I center them on the island.
As I move around, straightening things, imagining dinners here, movie nights on the couch, and mornings spent tangled in his arms, my heart swells. For the first time, this space doesn’t just belong to Giovanni; it feels like it could belong to us.
I wander toward the floor-to-ceiling windows and take in the skyline. The city sparkles, alive and loud, but here in this quiet moment, it feels like it’s all ours.
The door clicks behind me, and my heart jumps.
“Sweetheart?” Giovanni’s voice fills the room, deep and warm.
I turn, a smile already tugging at my lips.
He’s standing there in his black coat, hair tousled from the wind, eyes soft when they land on me.
For a second, his gaze flickers to the throw on the couch, then the candle, then the flowers on the counter.
His jaw works, and something in his expression looks vulnerable, yet grateful.
“You’ve been busy,” he says quietly.
I shrug, feigning nonchalance, but my heart is thudding. “Your place was missing a little, you. And maybe a little me.”
He walks toward me slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. When he reaches me, he slides his arms around my waist and pulls me close, his breath brushing my ear as he whispers, “You just turned my penthouse into a home, Siena.”
I lean my head against his chest, inhaling the scent of his cologne mixed with the candle’s soft woodiness. “It’s a start.”
He presses a kiss to the top of my head, holding me tighter. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.” I tilt my head up to look at him. “I want this place to feel like us.”
His lips curve into a small smile. “Move in with me, Siena. Make this our home.”
My chest tightens so hard I think I might cry and laugh at the same time. He’s smiling and there’s this earnestness in his eyes I haven’t seen before, the kind that makes my whole body want to melt into him and never be afraid again.
I press my palm flat against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart under my hand. “You’re serious?” I whisper, ridiculous as it sounds.
“I’ve never been more serious about anything,” he says. “I want you here. I want to wake up to you. I want this to be yours as much as it’s mine.”
A dozen practical things scream at me. What about my rent, my shifts, Fia’s raised eyebrow when she finds out, my father’s mess?
But underneath all of that is something quieter, stronger.
The idea of curling up on his couch in sweatpants.
Of arguing over pizza toppings in his kitchen.
Of not having the apartment feel like a temporary stop between his nights and mine.
“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “This is huge, Giovanni. I like my little apartment. I like my routine. I don’t want to lose who I am.” My voice trembles because the thought of losing myself terrifies me more than anything.
He steps back only far enough to look at my face, to read every flicker and shadow there.
“You won’t,” he says quietly, conviction threading each word.
“You keep your job, your friends, your Saturday mornings in sweats. I don’t want to take anything from you.
I want to add to it with comfort, safety, and someone who’ll fight for you when you need it.
I want you to stay yourself, not become a version of me. ”
Relief and fear war in me. “And Fia? She was worried. She thinks—” I stop, because still, that seed of doubt sits in my chest like a stone.
“She’s going to be okay,” he promises, fingers sliding up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “And if she’s not, we’ll talk to her. I’ll talk to her. I’ll make it right.” There’s no arrogance there, only a promise.
The penthouse feels suddenly less like a showcase and more like a promise.
I picture the throw I just laid over the couch, the picture frame waiting on the shelf, the wine glasses with their imperfect warmth.
I imagine little rituals we’ll create together with morning coffee, arguments about which movie to watch, him pretending not to like romcoms and then secretly loving them.
“I don’t want this to be because it’s the easy option,” I tell him, needing to be honest even as my throat tightens. “I want it because it’s right for both of us.”
He takes my hands in his and presses them to his heart. “Then we’ll do it on our terms. No surrendering yourself. No disappearing. We build it together. Small moves. Try it out. If it doesn’t work, we fix it. But I want to try.”
Something about the way he says we, so steady and sure, unravels the last of my hesitation. I laugh, a small, incredulous sound, because as terrified as I am, I’ve never felt more certain of anything.
“Okay,” I say, voice barely more than a breath. “Okay. Let’s do it. We’ll try.”
He grins like a man who’s won something sacred. He kisses me, slow and full of promise, and when he pulls back his forehead rests against mine.
“Best decision I’ve made,” he murmurs.
We stand there for a long minute, foreheads touching, hands twisted together, both of us listening to the gentle boom of the city below and the steadier beat of our hearts.
Then, as if by agreement, we walk through the apartment together.
“Movie or pizza?” he asks, the old, ridiculous debate that suddenly feels like home.
“Both,” I say, smiling for real this time. “And you’re doing the dishes.”
“Deal,” he says, and it’s the kind of domestic promise that sounds ordinary and completely miraculous all at once.
We collapse on the couch, and the small things that make it feel homey settle around me. I can do this. We can build something. We’ll try. And for the first time in a long time, that feels like enough.