Chapter 27 #4
Rava knows. He always knows when to read the silence.
"Because it was tied to the case or some shit.
Evidence. Emotional contamination. Whatever term they used.
" I let out a laugh with no humor in it. "I’ve tried to take this bike back. So many fucking times. Letters, calls, lawyers. But I’ve got a damn record.
They see my name and shut the door before I even open my mouth. "
I look at him, still holding that photo like it hurts him too. "I loved that bike," I say, quieter now. "He did too. It was the only thing we built together. I remember every sound it made."
I step into my boots, bend down to lace them up. "It’s stupid, I know. It’s just metal, but it felt like home."
He reaches out, fingers brushing mine.
We end up standing by the door. Me fully dressed now, jacket in hand. Him still barefoot in my shirt, Lulu circling his ankles like he belongs to her now.
I’m sorry, girl, I was there first.
I look at him and smirk, trying to lighten the air again.
"Funny, huh? Little Ravioli never thought he’d end up alone in my house with my cat."
He raises an eyebrow, smirks right back. "Little Gio probably did not imagine moaning my name out loud in pleasure. Stay humble."
I laugh, grabbing the doorknob. "Wait who says I didn’t—" He shoves my shoulder. "Go. Text me how your mom’s doing."
…
I kick the stand up, roll out of the alley, and the engine purrs. Wind hits my face as I take the first left. At the red light, I drum my fingers on the tank, in rhythm with that fucking song Rava wouldn’t stop humming in my kitchen last night.
"Dance with somebody." Goddamn Mando Diao.
Swear to god, I didn’t even like that song at first. I’ve known it for years, never actually liked it. But the second I found out it was Rava’s favorite??
Boom. Suddenly it fucking slaps. Like my brain just went, "Hey, maybe you didn’t really listen to it the first time." And now it hits different.
Maybe it’s because I’m obsessed with anything that makes him feel something. I don’t even care. If he tells me his favorite sound is static, I’ll probably loop a fucking radio station with no signal just to see what he hears in it.
The light is still red when another bike pulls up beside me. Clean machine, sleek lines, matte black.
Someone who knows what the hell they’re doing. I can feel eyes on me. Then comes the click. The visor lifts.
A girl.
She looks young. She winks. I stare forward. "Nice Ducati," she says with a casual voice. I nod. "Thanks."
She tilts her head, amused. "Wanna race?"
For just a second, I think about it. The wind. The roar. The burn. I used to ride like that was all I had left.
Like nothing mattered. Like my life was mine to throw away, and I wanted it to go down in flames. But now I have a man in my bed. Not just a man. That man. Smart-mouth, glasses, too-good-for-this-world and sitting in my shirt with my cat on his lap.
So I shake my head. "Maybe another time. Ride safe," I say. Then the light changes and I take off. Balanced. And that’s the part that scares me most. Because I’ve never been balanced before.
Every turn is clean. Every movement natural.
He changed something in me.
I can feel it every time I don’t lean into the chaos.
Every time I pull back. Every time I say not now instead of fuck it.
That wasn’t me. But it’s becoming me. Because I have something to lose now.
And it’s home, curled up in my bed, probably rereading the same page three times because Lulu won’t stop pawing at his book.
And I love that. I love knowing he’s there, safe. In my space.
I pull into the hospital lot. Park slow. Engine dies with a final purr. Helmet off. I look up at the building. Mom is up there.
I push the door open with my elbow, helmet still in my hand. I step in quiet. Don’t want to wake her, if she’s sleeping. But she isn’t.
She turns her head toward me the second I enter. Her eyes light up. "Giovanni," she says, smiling. I drop the helmet gently on the little side table, walk toward her slow, letting the quiet stretch a few seconds longer.
"You look better," I say with a weird calm voice. Not the one I use with cops or bartenders or even Lorenzo. She laughs, small. "I feel better today." And yeah, she looks better too.
Color back in her cheeks. Hair brushed. A book open beside her. Less wires. Less fragility. I exhale through my nose. It’s such a fucking relief seeing her like this.
We weren’t that close, not really, but what happened scared the shit out of me. Shook me in a way I didn’t expect.
Made me realize how much I actually care.
Deep down, no matter how messy things are, I do care.
I don’t want anything bad to happen to her.
Yeah, she wasn’t the best mom. She wasn’t around when I needed her most. But she didn’t hurt me either.
And sometimes, that’s enough to keep the hate from sticking.
Sometimes, it’s enough to still give a fuck.
I sit down beside her, lean my elbows on my knees. "How’s the food?" I ask.
"Still tastes like cardboard."
I smile. "How’s the nurse who smells like garlic?"
She grins. "He was off today. Thank god."
I laugh. She watches me. Then, after a moment, she tilts her head. Her eyes narrow slightly. That mom-squint that means she’s scanning me like a laser. "…what’s that on your cheekbone?" I blink. Shit.
Reflexively, I touch it, don’t even feel the bruise anymore, but I know it’s still there. Dull purple, edge of yellow. "That?" I shrug. "Ah…Charles."
Her jaw drops. Her face shifts. Even in the goddamn hospital bed she starts to sit up, like she’s ready to go fight him herself.
"Hey," I lean forward, placing my hand on her arm. "Don’t. Don’t do that."
"Giovanni, he—"
"I know," I cut her off quietly. "I know. But I’m fine."
"Did he—"
"It’s a long story," I say. "And not one I want you stressing over right now." Her lips press tight. I run my thumb over her wrist slowly. "It’s handled. I swear. Rava handled it," I add.
Something passes through her face. Surprise. I sit back in the chair, let go of her wrist, but not her hand. I stare at the edge of the bed, then at the window, then at the little blinking light on her IV. My heart is hammering.
God. This is stupid. She doesn’t need to hear this now.
She’s recovering. She doesn’t need my drama.
But still. Still. I’ve spent years feeling like I don’t have a mom anymore.
Not really. She’s there, breathing, existing.
But not with me. And I miss her. I miss having someone to tell things to.
Even the soft things. Especially the soft things.
I take a breath. Then another. Then I turn to her, lift my gaze. "So… I’ve got something to tell you."
Her whole body perks up. "You’re going to jail?"
I choke. "What the hell, mom?! No."
"Is Lorenzo going to jail?"
I start laughing. "Jesus—no!"
"Did you kill someone?"
"Mom—"
"Is it drugs?"
"No!"
"Oh god, did Lorenzo kill himself on accident?!"
I lose it. I bend forward, laughing into my palm. "Nobody killed anyone! Nobody’s in jail!" I look up, breathless. "You’re insane, woman."
She grins. A little proud of herself. "So what is it then?"
Christ. I feel like I’m fifteen again, about to confess some dumb shit about my first kiss. It’s ridiculous. Actually ridiculous.
"Well I can’t say it if you’re looking at me like that," I mutter. "Giovanni," she says. "You’re scaring me."
I exhale. Run a hand through my hair. Then I look her in the eyes. "I told Rava I love him."
There’s a long silence. Her fingers tighten a little in mine. Her eyes shine. Not with tears, but with some mix of panic and motherly instinct that doesn’t know which direction to go. She looks like she wants to hug me and shield me from the world in the same breath.
"Oh…oh, sweetheart. I—I’m so sorry."
My head jerks. My brows shoot up. "Wait, what? Why are you apologizing?"
"I just—I thought he was, you know… straight, after all. I didn’t want you to get hurt." I snort. Loud. Lean back in the chair.
"Trust me," I say, smirking. "He’s not. Not even close." She stares at me. "And he said it back," I add. "That he loves me too. Actually, he doesn’t just say it. He shows it. Every day."
Her hand is still in mine. I rub my thumb over her knuckles, gaze softening as I speak. I lean back in the chair again and rest my ankle on my knee. I glance down at our hands. Then look up at her again. "I don’t think you understand how good he is," I say quietly.
"He’s smart," I continue. "Like, scary smart. He remembers everything, and he notices shit no one else sees. But he doesn’t show off about it. He just…watches. And listens. And helps when no one’s looking.
" A smile creeps up my face before I even realize it.
"And he’s beautiful. Ridiculously beautiful. Come on, you know that too."
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the smirk tugging at her mouth. "And he’s so kind," I add. "Not just polite. He’s gentle, thoughtful. Not the fake kind of good. The real shit." I let the moment breathe. "Even Lorenzo’s obsessed with him," I say, laughing a little. "You know that’s not easy."
Her eyes widen. "Lorenzo? Our Lorenzo?"
"Yeah, you have no idea," I say. She laughs.
I look down again. "And he’s amazing with kids, mom.
The kind of guy who actually listens when a five-year-old tells a story about dragons or bugs.
And he never talks down to them." I bite my lip.
"But the best thing is…" I look up at her.
"He sees all my worst parts." I pause. "And he doesn’t leave. He doesn’t try to fix me like I’m broken. He just helps me be better."
Her expression softens. "And remember when you used to call him a dork?"
She raises a brow, defensive. "I did not—"
"You absolutely did."