23. Lucia
23
LUCIA
I don’t know what came over me last night. Saverio and I were pressed against one another, our sweat-slicked bodies intertwined, our hearts beating in sync as we came down from our shared orgasm. The afterglow should have been blissful, a moment of pure connection, but that’s when the little voice in my head decided to pipe up. It urged me to shatter the perfection, to ruin this rare instant of intimacy. And I listened.
I hate myself for what I did; he didn’t deserve my cruel response. But the leftover vodka clouded my judgment, and the reminder that he forcibly cut out my birth control implant was enough to drive me over the edge. Before I knew it, words were spilling out of my mouth like venom. I said things I can’t take back.
“I’ll apologize,” I tell my reflection as I smooth out the front of the dress I wore to Tate’s. It’s crumpled from a night on the floor, but no one will see it. I’m getting coffee when I leave, and then I’m headed home. The Starbucks barista isn’t going to care if I’m wearing a wrinkled dress or a clown suit. My fingers tremble slightly as I attempt to tame the worst of the creases, a futile effort that does little to quell the churning in my stomach. At least the promise of caffeine offers a small comfort, a temporary distraction from the mess I’ve made. As I grab my purse and keys, I silently pray that the rest of the world is too preoccupied with their own lives to notice the guilt written all over my face.
I take a deep breath, trying to steel myself for the inevitable confrontation with Saverio as I make my way downstairs. The tension from last night lingers in the hallways, clinging to the pictures on the wall like an oppressive fog. My footsteps are soft on the stairs, each creak of the floorboards feeling like a thunderclap in the silence, but my heart is pounding in my ears, drowning out everything else. I pause at the bottom of the stairs, my hand resting on the banister, gathering what little courage I can muster before walking into the kitchen.
I have to say I’m sorry, I reassure myself. That’ll ease the tension, and then I can go home.
When I reach the kitchen, Saverio is already there, his presence filling the room like a storm cloud. He sits rigidly at the table, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him, his expression unreadable. His eyes, usually sharp and perceptive, are focused intently on the mug.
His bodyguard, Raffaele, a hulking figure in a crisp suit, stands a few feet away, his posture deceptively relaxed but unmistakably alert. He looks like a well-trained guard dog waiting for a command, his eyes constantly scanning the room, pausing briefly on me before continuing their vigilant sweep. The sight makes my stomach clench in dark anticipation, a cold sweat breaking out on my palms.
I clear my throat to get their attention. Saverio’s gaze lifts to meet mine, and I force a small smile onto my lips. My nerves feel like the frayed edges of a worn blanket. “I’m leaving,” I say, keeping my voice steady. All thoughts of apologizing fly out the window. “I’ll see you later.”
Saverio doesn’t respond right away. His eyes catch mine as he takes a slow sip of coffee, the tension in the room trickling down my spine like a slow leak. He sets the cup down with deliberate care and leans back in his chair. “Not so fast,” he says, his tone calm but with an edge that makes my stomach drop. “Raffaele will be going with you.”
I blink, caught off guard by Saverio’s statement. “What?” The word escapes my lips before I can stop it, my voice a mixture of confusion and disbelief. My eyes dart to the stoic bodyguard standing nearby, and for the first time, I notice a sleek black suitcase resting by his side. How had I missed that before? “Why?” The question comes out sharp and biting, sounding more like an accusation than an inquiry.
His lips curl into a faint, humorless smile. “You seem hellbent on thwarting my plans to have a baby.”
I mentally kick myself as the memory of last night floods back. The alcohol, the anger, the stupid threat I made about getting a Plan B pill. God, I was such an idiot.
I swallow hard and try to regain composure. “I don’t need a babysitter,” I reply between gritted teeth. “No offense.” I flash Raffaele a sarcastic look.
Raffaele just shrugs, his expression neutral and unreadable. He’s probably used to his boss’ outlandish requests by now, having worked for him long enough to become desensitized to the bizarre. I feel for the guy; I do—it can’t be easy catering to the whims of someone like Saverio. But my sympathy does not go far enough to willingly accept him shadowing my every move like some kind of high-end security detail.
But Saverio doesn’t budge. “I don’t care,” he says, his tone final. “From now on, Raffaele is your shadow. Wherever you go, he goes. And then he reports back to me.”
My chest tightens with a mix of frustration and resentment. “Saverio, this is ridiculous?—”
“It’s necessary,” he cuts me off, his gaze hardening. “Raffaele has been given strict instructions. He’s to keep an eye on you, ensure you don’t get in trouble, and physically remove anyone from your presence that I would disapprove of. Which means,” his eyes narrow, a dangerous glint in them—“no more pity dates for Brookie Cookie or anyone else you want to help out.”
I glare at him as my hands ball into fists at my sides, nails digging crescents into my palms. “Saverio,” my voice carries a desperate edge that threatens to crack, “this is too much. You’re treating me like a prisoner, not your wife.” I can feel my face flushing with anger.
But Saverio remains unfazed. “You brought this on yourself, Lucia.”
A wave of helplessness crashes over me, filling my ears with the dull buzz of animosity. He won’t back down; it doesn’t matter what I say. This is Saverio—stubborn, possessive, controlling—and there’s no reasoning with him when he’s like this. The worst part is that a tiny, treacherous part of me is relieved. Relieved that he cares this much, even if it’s twisted and overbearing.
But I can’t let him see that, or else he’ll never let up; I won’t give him the satisfaction. So I lift my chin defiantly, squaring my shoulders and doing my best to appear calm and collected even though I’m seething inside with barely contained rage. “Fine.” I struggle to maintain my self-control in front of these men. “Let’s go, Raffaele.”
I turn sharply on my heel, not bothering to wait for a response as I stride toward the door. My heels click loudly against the floor, each step punctuating my anger. As I walk away, I can feel Saverio’s gaze burning into my back, but I stubbornly refuse to look at him. Instead, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, eager to escape this suffocating room and the man who both infuriates and captivates me.