23. Serena #3
Flowers. Of course. Because apparently we’re being stalked by a man with a flair for props.
“Do not approach,” Rocco says.
His voice is calm. So calm. Deadly calm. But not cold to me.
“They’re leaving the flowers at the shop door,” Matteo says.
“No one touches them,” Rocco says.
“Obviously.”
“Matteo.”
“Sorry. Yes.”
The van door shuts through the phone. Lewis says, “Vehicle moving.” A beat. “Gone north.”
“Follow at distance,” Rocco says. “No engagement. Get shop footage. Flowers contained by bomb unit, not our men. Miriam keeps current positions for ten minutes, then returns to Serena’s approved layout.”
He looks at me again. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I manage.
“Serena says okay,” he tells Lewis.
Lewis pauses. “Understood.”
That pause isn’t confusion. It’s recognition. Something has changed. Orders go through me now too. Maybe not all of them. Not yet. But enough.
Rocco ends the call and sets the phone down. The kitchen is silent. He’s still inside me. But everything has changed.
Rocco doesn’t move. “Do you want down?” he asks.
His voice is rough. Strained. He must be aching. He doesn’t ask to finish. He asks what I need. Still hard. Still tense. Still wanting.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
“Okay.”
“I’m scared.”
He stops himself. Then he says, “Tell me where.”
The question breaks me open in a new place. Not why. Not of what. Where. As if fear is something I can point to and he can help hold without taking over my whole body.
I put one hand over his where it rests under my belly. “Here.” Then my chest. “Here.” Then the counter. “And here. Because I thought you’d answer and disappear.”
His breath shudders. There. That one hits.
“I didn’t,” he says. “I won’t.”
I close my eyes. He’s made this promise before, in other shapes, and broken every one. But this time my body has the evidence. He stopped. Mid-everything. He answered where I could see him. He’s still here.
I turn my head. He’s wrecked. Sweat at his temple. His eyes on my face like the rest of his body is a problem he’ll solve later.
Then the thought arrives. No drum roll. No permission. Plain and terrifying as a key turning in a lock I swore shut. I trust him to stop.
And behind it, worse. I trust him to come back.
My throat closes. “I want you to finish,” I whisper.
His eyes search mine. “For you?”
I nod. “And me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Rocco.”
His forehead drops to my shoulder. “Thank God.”
Then he moves. Slow first. Because he’s checking. Because the call changed the room and he knows it.
I push back against him. “Not soft,” I whisper.
His fingers dig into my hip. “Careful.”
“Not soft.”
He gives me both. Careful and not soft. His body drives into mine with enough force to make me grip the counter, but his hand stays under my belly, supporting, protecting. His breathing is broken now, restraint fraying at the edges.
Mine frays too. The fear doesn’t disappear. It turns into something else. Heat. Relief. Anger. Trust I didn’t agree to feel.
I come again fast, harder than before, his name caught in my throat and my hand over his where he holds the baby and me together.
Rocco follows a few strokes later, silent at first, then with one rough sound against my shoulder as he comes.
He stays braced around me after. Shaking. Not leaving. Not even reaching for the phone. Just breathing against my skin.
“Still here,” he says.
I start crying. Of course I do.
He eases out of me carefully and turns me slowly, hands on my hips, eyes on my face. “Bad cry?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
He pulls me into him. Careful of his side. Careful of my stomach. Careful of all the broken places still letting him close.
But in the kitchen, Rocco stays.
He cleans me with warm water and a cloth from Lucia’s tiny bathroom. He helps me back into my shorts. He fixes the floral pillow on the counter like hiding the evidence of sex from Lucia is a matter of international diplomacy.
“She’ll know,” I say.
“I know.”
“She may charge you for the pillow.”
“I deserve it.”
I laugh, watery and tired.
He looks at me like that laugh is another baby sock. Something small enough to ruin him.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Look like you’re hoping too hard.”
His face shifts. He nods. “Sorry.”
I take his hand before he can pull away. “I didn’t say stop hoping.”
His eyes come back to mine. Oh. That was a lot. Maybe too much.
I’m about to panic about it when his phone buzzes with a text. He looks at me first. I nod. He checks.
“Flowers are clean,” he says. “No explosives. No toxin. Card attached.” Then he turns the phone so I can read.
One line.
Pretty flowers for the pretty mother. See you soon. R.
Fear moves through me. It has claws.
Rocco watches my face. “Tell me what you need.”
I look at the phone. Then at him. Then at the locked door. I think about the call. The stop. The way he stayed. The way he came back before I asked.
“You,” I say.
His breath catches.
I hold his gaze. I am scared. I am still angry. I am not ready to call this forgiveness. But the truth is standing in the kitchen with us now, impossible to ignore.
“I need you,” I whisper. “And this time, I believe you’ll come back.”