4. Serena
SERENA
“Ican’t keep you here.”
For a second, I think Rocco means he can’t keep doubting me.
Then he opens the drawer where he keeps his second phone. The black one.
The phone he uses when family business stops being legal enough for the silver one.
“Matteo,” he says when the call connects. “Get the Edinburgh flat ready.”
My mouth opens.
“Rocco.”
He turns away from me.
“Four men. Private car from the airfield. Nobody outside the protection team gets the address.”
My ears start ringing.
“Rocco.”
“Use the east route. No marked family cars.”
I walk around the desk and take the phone from his hand. He lets me.
That frightens me more than if we fought over it.
“Matteo, hang up.”
There’s a pause on the line.
“Mrs. Castellano?—”
“Hang up.”
He does.
I put the phone on the desk. Very carefully.
Throwing it would feel better, but I’m trying to maintain the dignity expected of a woman whose husband has just accused her of sleeping with a crime lord before breakfast.
“I am not going to Edinburgh,” I say.
The man who kissed me against our front door last night is gone. This is the boss.
I hate him. That’s a lie. I wish it weren’t.
“You can’t stay here,” he says.
“Because you don’t believe me.”
“Because Vittorio saw the video.”
“Claudia brought him into the room.”
“It doesn’t matter how he saw it.”
“It matters to me.”
“Rafe will know soon. My family will react. His family will react. Every man who thinks I’ve been made weak will start testing the walls.”
“So fix it.”
“I am.”
I laugh once. It hurts my throat.
“By sending me away.”
“By putting you somewhere secure while I find out what happened.”
“I told you what happened. Someone made a fake video.”
“I need more than your word.”
Plain this time. I need more than your word.
My husband needs more than me.
I turn my wedding ring around my finger. Once. Twice. It feels too tight.
“How long?” I ask.
“What?”
“How long are you sending me away?”
His face changes. Good. Let the words hurt him too.
“I am not sending you away.”
“Then I can go upstairs and get back into our bed.”
He says nothing.
“That’s what I thought.”
“A few days,” he says. “Maybe a week.”
“Until the video becomes fake?”
“Until I know.”
“Serena.”
“You know me.”
He looks down.
I almost break then.
Not because he’s angry. I can handle Rocco angry. I’ve watched him put his fist through a cabinet and then apologize to the cabinet maker.
I can’t handle him refusing to look at me.
“I am four months pregnant,” I say.
His head comes up.
“I know.”
“We lost the last baby.”
His face goes white.
I hate myself for using it. I hate him more for making me desperate enough to try.
“Do not,” he says.
“Do not what? Mention our child? Mention that I still check for blood every time I go to the bathroom? Mention that I wake up at night and put my hand on my stomach because sometimes I’m convinced the baby stopped moving?”
“Stop.”
His voice breaks on the word. Mine doesn’t.
“You want to send me to another country while I’m carrying our baby.”
“With a doctor available. A full protection team. Anything you need.”
“Except my husband.”
He goes still. That one lands.
For a stupid second, I think it might be enough.
Rocco comes around the desk. His hand lifts like he wants to touch my face.
I wait.
He stops before his fingers reach me.
“I can’t think with you here,” he says.
I take one step back. Then another.
“Thank you for finally being honest.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“It is exactly what you meant.”
I leave the office before he sees me cry.
Packing a marriage takes forty-two minutes. Three years don’t fit into two suitcases.
The wedding photographs stay on the dresser. The blue mug Rocco hates stays beside the bathroom sink. The ridiculous cashmere socks he bought me because my feet were cold during the first pregnancy stay tangled in his drawer.
I pack maternity clothes, flat shoes, underwear, my passport, and prenatal vitamins.
Practical things. Nothing that remembers him.
My green dress is still on the floor. I pick it up.
For one terrible second, I can feel his hands on me again. His mouth against my neck. His body moving inside mine while he called me his.
Mine apparently has an expiration date.
I drop the dress into the laundry basket. It lands beside his shirt.
That’s where I lose it. Not gracefully.
I sink down on the bed and cry into both hands until my chest hurts.
The baby moves once. A tiny flutter.
I put my palm over it.
“We’re okay,” I whisper.
I don’t know if I mean the baby and me or Rocco and me.
I know which answer is smarter. I also know I’ve never been especially smart about my husband.
A knock comes at the door.
I wipe my face. “Come in.”
Claudia opens it. Of course.
She has her coat on now. She looks ready to leave after a difficult but satisfying meeting.
“I wanted to see if you need help.”
“With what?”
Her eyes move to the suitcases.
“Packing.”
“Were you worried I’d forget my toothbrush during the exile?”
She flinches.
“Rocco’s trying to protect you.”
“Did he ask you to tell me that?”
“No.”
“Then you’re volunteering. How kind.”
Claudia closes the door behind her.
I stand.
“Open that.”
She blinks. “What?”
“The door. Open it.”
“Serena, I know you’re upset.”
“You do not get to close a bedroom door with me today.”
Her face changes. Something hard looks out through all that softness.
Then she opens the door.
“I never wanted this,” she says.
“Which part?”
“Any of it.”
“You called my husband after midnight.”
“Because I thought he should know.”
“You brought Vittorio into our office.”
“He saw me upset and followed me.”
“You’re never upset where someone can’t see it.”
The words surprise both of us.
Claudia’s mouth tightens.
“Grief makes people suspicious.”
“So does being framed.”
“You think I made the video?”
“I think you’re standing in my bedroom while my husband sends me away, and you’re the least surprised person in the house.”
She looks down.
“David betrayed me for years,” she says. “I wouldn’t do that to another woman.”
“You already did. You handed Rocco the knife. Maybe you didn’t make it, but you made sure he used it.”
Her eyes fill. I almost admire it.
Mine get red and swollen when I cry. Claudia’s get brighter. Even her tear ducts have training.
“I hope you can forgive me someday,” she says.
“I hope you leave now.”
She does.
Rocco is standing in the hall behind her.
He looks past me at the suitcases.
“The plane’s ready,” he says.
“Wonderful.”
His eyes move over my face. He knows I cried. He doesn’t mention it.
“I’m coming to the airfield.”
“No.”
“Serena.”
“You said you can’t think with me here. Start practicing.”
Something shuts in his face.
I zip the second suitcase.
Rocco steps into the room and takes the handle from me.
I almost tell him not to. Then I let him carry it.
It’s the last husband thing he does for me that day.
Matteo sits across from me in the car to the private airfield.
Rocco stands on the front steps as we leave. He does not come after me.
I look back once. That’s one time too many.
The house disappears behind the trees.
Matteo keeps his eyes on the window.
“You can look at me,” I say.
He does not.
“I’m not contagious.”
His mouth shifts. Not a smile.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He finally meets my eyes.
There’s shame in his face. Not his shame. Rocco’s.
Maybe mine too.
“Am I allowed to leave the flat?” I ask.
He takes too long to answer.
“With protection.”
“Am I allowed to see my sister?”
“That will need to be cleared.”
I laugh. It sounds close to crying, so I stop.
“Cleared by whom?”
Matteo looks away again.
“Mr. Castellano.”
“My husband.”
“Yes.”
“The man sending me away because he thinks I slept with Rafe.”
His shoulders tighten.
“I did not say that.”
“Nobody says anything in this family. It’s our most popular hobby.”
The driver’s hands tighten on the wheel.
“Do you think it’s me in the video?” I ask.
Matteo looks at me.
“I think you told him it wasn’t.”
That lands somewhere I wasn’t guarding.
It’s not the answer I asked for. It’s better.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Matteo nods once.
At the airfield, the plane waits with its stairs down and engines already running. One of Rocco’s assistants meets us beside it with a leather folder.
Inside are travel papers, medical contacts, security numbers, and a bank card in my name.
I pull it out.
“What’s this?”
“Mr. Castellano arranged an account for your expenses,” the assistant says.
Expenses. Clean money washed through Meridian so it can sit in a card with my name on it. My husband has turned our marriage into a business trip.
I hand the card to Matteo.
“I don’t want it.”
“Mrs. Castellano?—”
“Put it back in his wallet.”
Matteo takes the card. He doesn’t tell me that’s impossible.
Another point in his favor.
I board the plane without looking behind me.
The plane takes off twenty minutes later.
I keep my eyes open.
I’ve always hated flying. Rocco knows that. On our honeymoon, I held his hand so hard during takeoff that I left nail marks in his palm. He kept them for three days and showed everyone like he had survived a knife attack.
This time, the seat beside me is empty.
Matteo sits across the aisle. He pretends to read something on his phone.
The wheels leave the ground. My stomach drops.
I grip both armrests and count backward from twenty.
At fourteen, a hand appears in the aisle. Palm up.
Matteo doesn’t look at me.
“For takeoff,” he says.
I stare at his hand.
It’s a ridiculous offer. We barely know each other. He’s my husband’s guard, not my friend.
I take it anyway.
His grip closes around mine. Steady. Nothing more.
When the plane levels, I pull my hand back.
“Thank you.”
“Of course.”
He returns to his phone.
It should be a small thing. Today, small things are doing most of the damage.
An hour into the flight, the baby decides she hates private aviation. Or he does. We don’t know yet.
I make it to the bathroom before I throw up, which feels like an achievement worthy of a small parade.
When I come out, Matteo is standing in the narrow aisle with a glass of water and a packet of plain crackers.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“I know.”
He holds out the crackers.
Same thing Rocco said last night when the room tilted. The memory catches under my ribs.
I take the packet.
“Did you bring an entire emergency supply of boring food?”
“Mrs. Doyle did.”
That nearly makes me cry. Of course she did.
The Castellanos may be experts at breaking a woman’s heart, but their housekeeper won’t let her do it on an empty stomach.
I sit down and eat one cracker.
Matteo takes the seat across from me again.
“How long have you worked for Rocco?” I ask.
“Nine years.”
“So you knew him before me.”
“Yes.”
“Was he always like this?”
Matteo glances toward the front cabin.
“Like what?”
“Terrified of being wrong, so he arranges the world until someone else pays for it.”
His face stays neutral. He really is good at his job.
“He believes distance keeps people safe,” he says.
“He should marry distance, then. They seem very happy together.”
Matteo looks down. His mouth moves.
That’s twice I’ve almost made him smile. Under better circumstances, I might make it a project.
His phone rings. The screen shows only one letter.
R.
Matteo stands. “Excuse me.”
He walks toward the back of the plane.
I can still hear him. Not every word. Enough.
“Yes, boss.”
A pause.
“The route was clear.”
Another pause.
“No issues at the airfield.”
Rocco’s checking. My heart does the pathetic thing and lifts.
I wait for Matteo to say I’m fine. Or that the baby’s fine.
“She was sick once,” Matteo says.
Silence.
He checks me.
“No. No pain. She says the baby’s moving.”
I didn’t tell him that. He noticed my hand on my stomach.
Rocco says something long enough that a muscle ticks in Matteo’s cheek.
“I understand.”
The call ends.
Matteo returns to his seat.
I wait.
He opens his phone.
“That’s it?” I ask.
“What?”
“Did my husband have a message for me?”
Matteo goes still.
There’s the shame again.
“He said you should rest.”
I laugh. This time it does turn into a sob.
I cover my mouth quickly and look out the window.
Clouds. Endless white. Nothing solid anywhere.
“Mrs. Castellano?—”
“Please don’t.”
He stops.
He does not touch me. He does not tell me Rocco loves me. He does not insult us both with a promise that this will work out.
He just sits there while I cry.
After a minute, he puts a box of tissues on the table between us.
Not in my hand. Close enough if I want them.
I take one. Then another.
“This is humiliating,” I say.
“No.”
“You are paid to say that.”
“I am paid to keep you alive.” His voice is quiet. “Nobody pays me to lie.”
I look at him.
For the first time all day, somebody looks back without doubt.
I turn toward the window before that kindness finishes me completely.
Seven hours later, Edinburgh is gray and wet.
The protected flat is beautiful. Of course it is.
Cream furniture. A kitchen stocked with food I didn’t choose. Fresh flowers on the table.
The windows don’t open more than four inches. The door has three locks that answer to Rocco’s men, not to me, and a car sits at the curb with someone in it who never turns the engine off.
Protection. Such a useful word for a room you can’t leave alone.
Matteo carries my suitcases into the main bedroom.
“Your sister hasn’t been told you’re here,” he says.
“Why?”
“Security.”
“That word does a lot of work in this family.”
He looks tired.
Good. I’m delighted we’re all having a bad day.
“I need to check the perimeter,” he says.
“Naturally.”
He leaves.
I sit on the edge of a bed that smells like clean linen and nobody.
My phone is in my hand. I don’t remember picking it up.
Rocco hasn’t called. There are no messages.
No apology. No demand to know whether the baby handled the flight. Nothing.
I should call Lucia. I should call a lawyer. I should throw the phone across the expensive room and make Rocco pay for a new one.
Instead, I call my husband.
Once. Only once—I won’t become a woman who calls twice.
The line rings. And rings. And rings.
Then his recorded voice, calm and certain, tells me to leave a message.
I hang up before the beep.
Pregnant. Three hundred miles from my own bed. Holding a phone that just played me my husband instead of giving me one.
I don’t cry this time. That’s the part that frightens me.