28. Lucia
28
LUCIA
I t’s been a week since Raffaele moved in, and I still can’t decide whether to be annoyed or comforted by his presence.
I have no idea when he sleeps because he’s often up and reading in the living room long after I go to bed. But every morning, without fail, I wake up to the enticing smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the house, a sure sign that Raffaele has already been up for hours. I’m not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, but the idea of him silently going about his routine—making coffee, cooking breakfast, tidying up a bit—before disappearing like a ghost into his room or out the front door feels oddly reassuring. It’s as if his quiet presence has become a constant, grounding force in my otherwise chaotic life, even if I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it yet.
Today is no different. I shuffle into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from my eyes with clumsy, uncoordinated movements. And there it is—coffee ready and breakfast waiting on the counter. A generous helping of fluffy scrambled eggs, golden-brown toast with a pat of melting butter, and a perfectly sliced avocado fan with sriracha sauce artfully drizzled on top. The aroma is mouthwatering, a mix of savory and spicy that makes my stomach growl in anticipation.
There’s no sign of Raffaele, of course. He’s already vanished into thin air, like a phantom chef who leaves only tantalizing evidence of his presence. He’s probably out patrolling the perimeter of the property for potential threats or doing whatever other mysterious tasks mafia bodyguards occupy themselves with when they’re not making their prisoners gourmet breakfasts. I can’t help but wonder if this is standard procedure for all captives or if I’m receiving some sort of special treatment. Either way, the dichotomy between my comfortable surroundings and my actual situation isn’t lost on me as I reach for the steaming mug of coffee.
It’s good, just how I like it—strong, with a hint of bitterness that’s perfectly balanced by the rich, creamy texture. I hate that he knows that, that he’s somehow managed to nail my coffee preferences without me ever telling him. I have no doubt that Saverio’s told him everything I like, probably down to the specific number of chocolate chips I put on my pancakes (exactly twelve, arranged in a circle).
The food Raffaele makes each morning is simple but delicious, and as I eat, I can’t help but feel a pang of gratitude, even if I don’t want to admit it.
It’s weird having him around. Who expects to have a full-grown, tattooed bodyguard living in their spare bedroom, cooking them breakfast every morning? I keep reminding myself that this is all Saverio’s doing, his way of ensuring I’m ‘safe,’ but it still feels like an invasion of my privacy.
I text Saverio my frustrations.
Lucia
Take your goon back.
My phone buzzes a few seconds later. I roll my eyes as I open it, starting the morning annoyed.
Saverio
I love you, too!
I let out a frustrated groan, stabbing at the toast with my fork. This has become our routine—me telling him to take Raffaele back, him responding with declarations of love and infuriatingly sweet emojis that make my heart melt despite my best efforts to stay angry. It’s like he thinks this is cute, like I’m some damsel in distress that needs constant protection. I’m a fucking Terlizzi, for Christ’s sake. I’ve known how to protect myself since I was three years old when Father taught me how to throw a proper punch and where to aim it. The thought of needing a babysitter now, after everything I’ve been through, makes my blood boil.
But what really gets to me—the shit icing on the shit cake, if you will—is how easily I’m starting to get used to this. A part of me likes waking up to coffee and breakfast prepared for me. A part of me that feels a little safer knowing Raffaele is nearby. Comfort is a dangerous feeling because it proves that Saverio might be onto something. And I don’t know what to do with that possibility.
Later in the day, I’m in my classroom, going through my usual morning routine with the students. They’re working on a math assignment with their heads down, pencils scratching on paper, when I glance out the window. All week, I’ve seen Raffaele leaning against a tree in the parking lot with his arms crossed over his chest. Today is no different. His eyes scan the area like some kind of sentinel. And I have to wonder why the administrative staff doesn’t call the police on him.
I grit my teeth, irritation flaring up inside me. This is supposed to be my space, my time away from all the chaos Saverio brings into my life. My second graders don’t know anything about Family wars, revenge, or arranged marriages. They fight about who has the coolest pencil holder and who will be ‘it’ at recess. Seeing Raffaele out there, watching, waiting—it’s suffocating. I can’t escape Saverio, even for a few hours.
I pull out my phone under the desk and quickly type another message.
Lucia
Seriously. This has to stop. He’s in the parking lot again. I’m going to call the cops.
Saverio
Call the cops. See what happens, Dandelion.
Lucia
This isn’t a game, Saverio.
Saverio
I know. It’s your life. And I take it very seriously.
I huff in frustration, exiting our chat and tossing my phone onto my desk with a soft thud. It’s like talking to a brick wall, trying to reason with someone who refuses to listen or change. Saverio’s not going to budge an inch, his stubbornness as unyielding as ever, and Raffaele isn’t going anywhere—he’ll keep lurking in the shadows, a constant reminder of my impending future. This is my life now, I realize with a sinking feeling in my stomach—a life of being watched, controlled, and manipulated at every turn. I glance out the window, catching a glimpse of Raffaele’s car, and feel the walls of my world closing in even tighter.
I guess it’s not all bad. In the evenings, when I’m curled up on the couch with a book, Raffaele is usually nearby, silent and unobtrusive. Sometimes, he’ll sit in the chair across from me, scrolling through his phone or reading something himself. We don’t talk much, and I’ve come to appreciate that. There’s a strange kind of companionship in silence, a shared understanding that words aren’t always necessary.
It’s during these quiet moments that I realize things are changing. I’m allowing Saverio to have his rule over me, to dictate the terms of my existence, even though a year ago, I would have fought him tooth and nail, rebelling against every restriction and demand. Every day, he wears me down a little more, chipping away at my resolve like water eroding stone. I worry, in the darkest corners of my mind, that one day, I’ll give in to him altogether.
I text him again, just to make my point.
Lucia
If you don’t call him off, I’m going to start taking my frustrations out on you.
Saverio
Please do, gorgeous. I’ll take anything you give me.
I can’t help but smile despite myself. It’s infuriating, truly, but there’s also something oddly endearing about the way Saverio handles my complaints. He sees right through my blustery facade, knowing I’m not really angry, just annoyed that I no longer have control over our situation. The balance of power has shifted, and he’s savoring every moment of it. He has the upper hand now, a position I’m sure he’s dreamed of for years, and he’s going to hold onto it with both hands for as long as he possibly can.