Chapter Thirty-two
Serena
Something warm and wet slides over my toes. I jerk my leg away, groggy and confused, but it follows, sloppy and persistent, until my entire foot is covered in sticky warmth.
I blink into the dim morning light.
“Lorenzo, stop licking me,” I mumble, half-asleep, nudging him with my foot.
The sensation returns, on my other leg this time. Hot. Wet. Eager.
“What the hell...” I sit up quickly and glance down.
Two sets of dark, curious eyes blink back at me.
Two dogs.
Big, fluffy, terrifyingly alert dogs, with wiggling tails and overly affectionate tongues. One of them, golden brown with an intimidating gleam in his metal-tipped teeth, is already going to town on my shin again.
“Lorenzo,” I hiss, nudging him harder now. “Lorenzo, wake up. There are dogs. In the bed. Your bed.”
He doesn’t move. He’s sprawled out like a Greek statue, shirtless, one arm resting over his abs, the other behind his head, his mouth parted slightly. Peaceful. Sinfully gorgeous.
“Serena,” he mutters, eyes still closed, “stop licking my leg. It’s weird.”
I stare at him. Is he serious?
“It’s not me, you idiot!” I shove him harder this time, and finally his eyes flutter open. Just in time to be greeted by two canine faces hovering inches above him.
He blinks. “Pancake?”
The tan one barks and jumps into the space between us like it’s a trampoline. The other one, pure black with glinting teeth and pale blue eyes, starts barking as well and climbs over Lorenzo’s chest, licking any part of him he can reach.
“Come here, Milkshake.” The black one bounds toward his voice immediately and flops down half on top of Lorenzo’s stomach, still licking. I can’t help it, I let out a laugh.
“Are these... your dogs?” I ask as Pancake turns his full attention to me and starts licking my face with enthusiasm. I pet him, trying not to get drooled on too much, while Milkshake stays right beside Lorenzo, glaring at me like I’ve stolen his spot in the pack.
“Yeah. Pancake and Milkshake.” He grins, running his fingers through Milkshake’s fur like a proud dad. “What are you guys doing here, huh?” he says to them, and they bark in response, like they understand him. They probably do.
I blink. “I didn’t even know you had dogs.”
“You never asked.”
Fair enough.
I scratch behind Pancake’s ear, and he melts into me instantly. Meanwhile, Milkshake watches every movement I make like he’s deciding whether to bite or simply growl.
“Why is Milkshake looking at me like I’m the intruder?”
“Because you are the intruder,” Lorenzo says, still smirking as he sits up and stretches. Even the way his abs shift is hot. “He’s just doing his job.”
I narrow my eyes. “Well, I like Pancake better anyway. At least he’s not judging me.”
Pancake lets out a little whine of approval and plants himself squarely in my lap. He’s heavier than he looks, and now I’m pinned under a drooling, metal-toothed fluff ball.
Speaking of which... “Why do they both have metal teeth?” I ask, eyeing the silver gleam again. “That seems... excessive.”
Lorenzo’s voice is casual. “For the bones.”
I blink. “What kind of bones?”
He stands, grabbing a pair of grey joggers and slipping them on effortlessly. I’m trying not to stare at his V-line, but that’s a battle I’m rapidly losing.
“Human bones.”
I stare at him, mouth hanging open.
“What?”
He gives me a look, somewhere between innocent and entertained.
“I hope you’re joking.”
No answer. Just that maddening smirk.
“Lorenzo! Are your dogs trained to eat people? Is that why you gave them dessert names? That’s not cute, that’s psychotic! Are they going to eat me?”
He walks over, kisses me on the forehead, and leans in with that voice that melts everything inside me.
“Don’t be dramatic, princess. I’m the only one around here who’s allowed to eat you.”
I blink. I’m blushing so hard it’s probably visible from space.
He turns away, pulling a white shirt over his head, muscles shifting under the fabric as he speaks. “Now get dressed. If the dogs are here, it means my uncle is too.”
He tosses me one of his oversized shirts and a pair of gym shorts that will absolutely not fit me properly. The waistband is ridiculous, and the legs are practically pants.
“I don’t think these count as clothes on me,” I grumble, still flustered.
“You’ll survive,” he calls over his shoulder as Milkshake trots after him like a trained soldier, guarding the bathroom door.
I look down at Pancake, who is now fully curled up in my lap like he lives here. I sigh.
Breakfast, murder dogs, and a man who makes my blood boil and my thighs clench.
The way I look right now is... tragic.
Wearing Lorenzo’s oversized T-shirt that falls halfway down my thighs and a pair of gym shorts that practically swallow me whole, I feel like a child playing dress-up in her older brother’s closet.
My hair’s a mess from the bed, my legs still sore, and I haven’t even glanced in a mirror.
Honestly, I don’t want to. I’m clinging to the last scraps of dignity I have left.
Lorenzo walks ahead of me toward the kitchen, the dogs flanking him like trained soldiers, their ears alert and tails swaying in unison.
I trail behind, barefoot, trying to fix my hair with my fingers, suddenly self-conscious.
But then Bianca turns and gives me that warm, motherly smile, and it melts a bit of the anxiety crawling beneath my skin.
I smile back. Gosh, I could get used to mornings like this.
Around the dining table, two men are already seated with steaming mugs of coffee in their hands. One of them, a younger guy in a bulletproof vest with a gun holstered at his waist, barely glances at me. The other, older and effortlessly poised, is clearly the one in charge.
My eyes flick to Lorenzo’s expression. It's unreadable.
“Uncle,” Lorenzo says with a short nod, moving in to shake his hand.
“Sebastian,” he adds, addressing the guard. Sebastian nods once in return.
His uncle. That makes sense. He looks early forties, tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp Italian features softened by a few smile lines. He’s handsome in a cold, dangerous kind of way. Definitely a Moretti. Probably the youngest brother, considering Lorenzo’s father was well into his fifties.
“I came with the dogs as soon as I heard you were out,” his uncle says warmly, looking down as Pancake and Milkshake nuzzle at his feet. “Didn’t want you missing them too much.”
Then his gaze shifts. He sees me.
And for a split second, there’s surprise. His eyes quickly take me in, bare legs, wrinkled T-shirt, tangled hair. I feel the heat rise to my cheeks.
I step forward anyway, keeping my voice polite but steady. “Hi. I’m Serena.”
I extend a hand.
“Dante Moretti,” he replies smoothly, and instead of shaking my hand, he takes it and kisses the back of it like an old-school gentleman. I blink in surprise.
Definitely runs in the family.
We sit at the table. Bianca places a plate of biscotti in front of me, and I mumble a soft thank you while pretending not to feel the full weight of Dante’s gaze on me.
The conversation quickly turns to business.
They talk about shipments, names I don’t recognize, and something about Florence.
Apparently Lorenzo’s mother is still there and not doing well, relying too heavily on antidepressants and surrounded only by staff.
Dante urges him to visit. The guilt flickers in Lorenzo’s eyes for a second before he shuts it down again, his features returning to stone.
I try to keep my focus on the coffee mug in my hand, but I catch Bianca glaring at Dante from across the room. It’s subtle but unmistakable. Whatever history lies between them, it’s not a good one.
The conversation shifts again, now into Italian, faster, more intense. I only catch a few words, but it’s enough to know it’s not good.
“Don Luciano sta diventando un problema che dobbiamo affrontare,” Dante says, his tone low and grave.
Lorenzo doesn’t even flinch. “Why?”
Dante hesitates. Then glances at me. The room feels heavier.
“He’s becoming greedy.”
Lorenzo stiffens, his jaw tightening, but his voice remains calm. “I already told you what I think.”
Dante leans back, fingers wrapped around his mug, and exhales through his nose. “Your father is gone,” he says softly. The way he says it strips Lorenzo of his walls, just for a second. “I need someone I can trust.”
Then, just as he stands to leave, he adds, “Dobbiamo ucciderli, in fretta.”
Charming family talk over morning coffee.
Dante gives Lorenzo a nod and then looks at me with that same unreadable look. “It’s been a pleasure, Serena,” he says in that lilting Italian accent, and I give him a polite smile in return as he and Sebastian leave.
“Well, that wasn’t terrifying at all,” I say, trying to keep the mood light. Lorenzo doesn’t laugh. He’s still somewhere else, lost in his head, jaw tight, leg bouncing under the table.
I crawl into his lap without thinking, wrapping my hands around his face and forcing him to look at me. Those ocean-blue eyes, always stormy, finally meet mine.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Are you okay?”
He kisses me, soft, slow, but distracted. “Yeah. But I need to go out for a few hours.”
“Can Bianca make you something?” he asks, already pulling away.
I hesitate. I want to say yes. I want to disappear into this little bubble for another day, or ten, but reality is clawing its way back in.
“I actually need to go home,” I admit. “It’s been one week.”
He looks at me like I’ve just said something in another language. “So?”
“So,” I say, laughing nervously, “I have a job. Assuming they haven’t fired me. And I haven’t checked on my apartment in days.”
“Will I see you later?”
He studies me for a second, then gently trails his thumb across my cheek, down to the fading bruise near my jaw. My breath catches. The memory of that night rushes back and settles like lead in my stomach.
“I haven’t forgotten about this,” he says, voice quiet, eyes dark.
“I have,” I lie.