Chapter 20 – Siena
SIENA
T he morning sun filters through the penthouse windows.
The city below hums faintly, but in here, it’s just the two of us.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee, the low hum of the espresso machine, and Giovanni leaning against the counter in a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
He looks unfairly good like this, hair tousled from my fingers last night, that barely-there smile tugging at his lips.
I pour my coffee, the steam curling between us. My nerves dance with excitement at the thought of meeting the realtor, of finally stepping toward a dream I never imagined.
“After I meet with the realtor this afternoon,” I say, glancing at him over the rim of my mug, “your mom invited me over to teach me how to make her lasagna.”
His eyes warm instantly, and he sets his cup down. “I’m proud of you, Siena. You’ve grown so much since we first met. You aren’t that shy woman hiding in the shadows anymore.”
His words hit somewhere deep, and for a moment, my throat tightens.
I tilt my head, setting my mug aside. The smooth granite island is cool beneath my palms as I lean forward, closing the space between us until I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.
I press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, letting my breath mingle with his.
“Is that how you saw me?” I whisper, searching his gaze.
He brushes his knuckles gently along my jaw, eyes locked on mine. “At first,” he admits softly. “You seemed fragile. Like if I breathed too hard, you’d disappear.”
A lump forms in my throat, but I force a teasing smile, even as emotion swells in my chest. “And now?”
His lips curve, that slow, devastating grin that always undoes me. “Now I know you’re fire. Stronger than you realize. You walked into my world, Siena, and you didn’t just survive it you lit it up.”
My heart squeezes so tightly it almost hurts. I slide around the island, fitting myself into his arms. His cologne wraps around me as he holds me close.
“I was scared,” I murmur against his chest. “Scared to want more. Scared to want you.”
His hand slides up my back, fingers threading into my hair. “And yet here you are. Building your business. Making my mother’s lasagna.” He chuckles softly, the sound rumbling against my ear. “Taking over my life.”
I laugh, the sound shaky but full of joy. “I guess I am.”
He kisses the top of my head, then pulls back just enough to look at me. “You deserve all of this, Siena. The business. The future you’re building. And you don’t owe anyone an apology for taking it.”
I nod, but deep down, I’m already making a silent promise that I’ll make this design company a success, not just because Giovanni believes in me, but because I finally believe in myself. And for the first time in years, that belief feels unshakable.
The smell of garlic and simmering tomatoes fills Maria’s stunning kitchen, wrapping me in a kind of cozy warmth I didn’t know I’d been missing. Her countertops gleam beneath the afternoon sunlight, and the soft strains of some old Italian love song float from a speaker on the windowsill.
I’m perched on a stool, pen in hand, scribbling every detail of her lasagna-making process into my notebook. How thin to roll the dough, how long to let the sauce simmer, the way she insists fresh basil changes everything.
“So, tell me how it went with the realtor,” she says, rolling the pasta dough with smooth, practiced motions.
“It went great.” I can’t hide the excitement in my voice as I set my pen down for a moment. “I love the storefront. It’s perfect. The light, the space, even the location feels like it’s meant to be mine. I’m going to talk to Giovanni tonight, but I really want it.”
She stops mid-roll, setting the pin aside. Wiping her hands on a towel, she turns to face me, her warm brown eyes crinkling with a smile. “You know, I feel like I’m living vicariously through you.”
I blink at her, caught off guard. “Through me?”
She laughs, the sound rich and a little wistful.
“I married Carlo when I was just nineteen. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I haven’t had a good life.
” She glances toward the window for a moment, her expression softening.
“But I never really did anything for myself. My life became about taking care of Carlo and Giovanni. Making sure they were happy, that they didn’t need for anything.
I took care of this house, made this kitchen my world, and somewhere along the way, I stopped asking what I wanted. ”
The confession lingers in the air between us. I can see her now not just as Giovanni’s mother, the poised, elegant woman who intimidates most people, but as someone who once had dreams of her own.
My chest tightens. “Maria.”
She waves off my sympathy but steps closer, resting a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t look so sad, sweetie. I love my family.
I wouldn’t trade them for anything. But I admire you, Siena.
” Her voice softens, and her gaze sharpens, almost searching.
“I know Giovanni isn’t his father, but the world they’re in can suck the soul right out of a person.
And if I’m being honest, I saw it happening with Giovanni. Until you.”
My throat tightens, and for a second, I can’t find my voice. The weight of what she’s just admitted, the tenderness in her words all settles heavy and sweet in my chest.
“I don’t even know what to say,” I manage, my voice thick. “He’s done so much for me. He’s everything I didn’t know I needed.”
Maria smiles knowingly, her thumb brushing against my arm in a maternal gesture that nearly undoes me. “And you’re everything he didn’t know he needed. Don’t ever doubt the place you have in his life, Siena. You bring light to a world that can be very dark.”
Emotion wells up behind my eyes, and I blink hard, forcing a smile. “Thank you, Maria. For saying that. For making me feel like I belong.”
“You do belong.” Her voice is certain, steady. “Not just with Giovanni, but here with all of us.”
She picks up the rolling pin again, humming softly as she goes back to work, but her words linger in my heart like a promise I didn’t even know I needed.
I continue jotting notes in my little spiral notebook, every ingredient, every tiny trick Maria shares, excited to surprise Giovanni with this lasagna soon. My handwriting wobbles because I can barely contain the grin on my face. This feels domestic and safe like a future I never thought I’d have.
“Oh, shoot.” Maria opens a drawer, rummaging. “I need more mozzarella. I thought I had another ball in here.”
I glance up from the counter. “Do you want me to run and grab some?”
She shakes her head, already grabbing her purse. “No, I’ll go. You’re still learning, and besides…” She gestures at the half-finished lasagna. “This masterpiece needs your full attention.”
I laugh nervously. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” She smiles, soft and warm. “Just keep layering until you run out of cheese, and don’t panic if it looks messy. Lasagna forgives.”
“I think I can handle that,” I tease, even though my stomach twists with nerves.
She winks. “I won’t be long.” The door closes behind her, leaving the kitchen eerily quiet except for the faint simmer of sauce on the stove.
I wash my hands, humming under my breath to break the silence. I ladle sauce over the noodles, careful not to spill, then sprinkle cheese, adding another layer. My grin grows. Hey, this isn’t so hard.
“Maria?”
The deep, commanding voice freezes me mid-movement, the pasta sheet dangling between my fingers.
My heart leaps into my throat. “Siena? Where’s Maria?” Carlo steps into the kitchen demanding attention with just his presence. He opens the fridge without waiting for an answer, his movements unhurried, controlled. He’s danger wrapped in an expensive suit.
I swallow, my pulse thundering in my ears. “She ran to the store for more mozzarella. She’ll be right back.”
Carlo closes the fridge and turns toward me, pulling out a stool. When he sits, his posture is casual, but the weight of his gaze is anything but. He makes me nervous. He always has. There’s a chill about him that Giovanni doesn’t have, a calculation behind his eyes that makes my skin prickle.
“Anything I can do?” I ask, my voice smaller than I want it to be.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he watches me like he’s measuring every inch of my soul. “I don’t like injecting myself into my son’s personal life.”
I bite back the urge to roll my eyes. Could have fooled me.
“But,” he continues, “I see how hard you’re trying to fit in with us, and it’s remarkable.” His tone softens just slightly. “You’re a very sweet girl, Siena. Your heart is bigger than most people I know.”
The unexpected compliment makes my chest loosen for a second, and I can’t help the small, grateful smile that slips out. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”
“You’re a strong girl,” Carlo adds, his gaze narrowing slightly. “Especially having a father like Robbie Costa.”
The air seems to thicken. The mention of my father’s name burns like a slap. “That’s a low blow,” I manage, trying to steady my voice.
He takes a slow sip of water, never breaking eye contact. “Speaking of Robbie, have you talked to Giovanni about that?”
A nervous laugh slips from me. “About what?” My brow knits together, but a creeping dread slithers through my veins.
Carlo leans back on the stool, casual in posture but sharp in delivery. “About how Giovanni killed your father because he owed him so much money.”
The words land like a grenade in the quiet kitchen.
The pasta slips from my fingers and splatters onto the counter, streaking sauce across Maria’s perfectly clean workspace. My hands are trembling so hard, I can’t even wipe them on the towel beside me.
“You’re lying,” I whisper again, but even to my own ears it sounds like a plea. A desperate hope that he is lying.
Carlo doesn’t flinch. He just takes another sip of water, the movement maddeningly calm, like he hasn’t just torn a hole straight through the life I thought I knew. “I’m sorry,” he says, but there’s no apology in his tone. Just cold, brutal certainty. “I thought he discussed it with you.”
My pulse is like thunder in my ears, my breath coming shallow and uneven. Giovanni’s voice, his promises, the softness in his eyes, all of it floods my mind at once. But it’s now tangled with the image of Giovanni having blood on his hands, the man I love standing over my father.
I force myself to look at Carlo, my vision blurry with tears I refuse to let fall. “Why would you tell me this?”
His expression is unreadable, carved from stone. “Because you deserve to know the man you’re building your life with. And because my son—” he pauses, his jaw tightening—“he’s not the saint you’ve convinced yourself he is.”
A sharp, shaky breath escapes me, and I step back again, bumping into the edge of the counter. My notebook tumbles to the floor with a soft thud, pages fluttering.
“You’re wrong.” My voice cracks. “He would have told me. Giovanni would never keep something like that from me.”
Carlo’s eyes narrow, but there’s a flicker of pity or maybe regret in their depths. “He would if he thought it would make you stay.”
The kitchen suddenly feels too small, the walls closing in, the scent of simmering tomatoes now nauseating. My chest is tight, like the air’s been sucked out of the room.
The sound of a key turning in the front door jolts me. My heart lurches as Maria’s voice calls out cheerfully from the entryway, “Siena, I got the mozzarella!”
Carlo straightens, his mask of calm snapping firmly back into place.
He gives me one last, almost unnoticable nod, like some dark transaction has just taken place between us.
Then he steps away, leaving me barely breathing as my world crumbles around me.
I rush out of the house, Maria calling after me as I slam the door.