51. Saverio
51
SAVERIO
I t’s the middle of the night, and I’m dead asleep when I feel a hand shaking my shoulder. It’s not a gentle nudge. It’s more of a persistent shake like whoever’s doing it has no problem dragging me out of the deepest sleep I’ve had in days.
“Saverio,” Lucia’s voice whispers, but there’s an edge to it. “Saverio, wake up.”
I groan, blinking against the darkness, trying to figure out what’s happening. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
She’s sitting up in bed, her hair a wild mess around her face, and her expression is one I’ve come to know well over the last few weeks—her ‘I need something’ face.
“I’m fine,” she says quickly, her voice a little too sweet, like honey trying to mask the taste of something bitter. “But I’m hungry.”
I blink at her, still half-asleep, my brain not catching up to the situation just yet. The red numbers on the bedside clock swim into focus, and I squint at them in disbelief. “Hungry? It’s-it’s 2 a.m. The middle of the night, Lucia.”
She nods, her eyes wide and earnest, like this is the most urgent thing in the world. Her fingers fidget with the edge of the blanket, and I can practically feel the restless energy radiating off her. “Yeah, I know. I saw the time. But I really, really want pancakes. Like, I can’t stop thinking about them.”
“Pancakes?” I repeat, the word feeling strange on my tongue at this hour. I’m still trying to process what’s happening, my sleep-addled mind struggling to keep up with Lucia’s midnight craving. “Now? You want pancakes right now ?”
Lucia shifts, her hand resting on her belly, and she gives me this look—this irresistible, ‘I’m pregnant and carrying your child’ look that she knows I can’t say no to.
“Please?” she whispers, her voice soft and a little sheepish. “I can’t sleep. I’ve been thinking about pancakes for the last hour.”
I rub my face, letting out a long, exasperated sigh. “Lucia, honey, it’s the middle of the night. Where am I supposed to get pancakes at this ungodly hour? The whole city’s asleep.”
She blinks, completely unfazed by the impossibility of the request, her pregnancy-induced craving overriding all logic. “I don’t know,” she says with a shrug as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then, her face brightens with sudden inspiration. “IHOP? They’re open 24/7, right? Ooh, they have those strawberry banana pancakes I love!”
I stare at her for a second, realizing there’s no way I’m getting out of this. Not tonight. I swing my legs out of bed and stand up, grabbing my clothes from the chair. “Fine. Pancakes. But you owe me for this.”
She giggles, lying back down and snuggling into the pillows. “I’ll owe you forever. Just get them quick, please. I’m starving.”
I shake my head and head out into the night. This is my life now—running out at 2 a.m. to find pancakes for my pregnant fiancée. I’m supposed to be the guy people fear, the one in control, and here I am, on a pancake run because my woman can’t sleep without them.
I drive through the empty streets of Manhattan, the city eerily quiet at this hour. The glow of the 24-hour diner catches my eye, and I pull in, heading straight for the to-go counter.
The waitress barely blinks when I order a stack of pancakes, her tired eyes betraying no hint of surprise. She’s probably used to seeing guys like me—desperate husbands and boyfriends on late-night craving missions, stumbling in with rumpled clothes and bleary eyes. She hands me a white styrofoam box, the smell of syrupy goodness wafting up, and I nod my thanks. I head back to the car, keys jingling in my hand, already planning my return to bed. The thought of sinking into those soft sheets beside Lucia is enough to make this midnight pancake run worth it. As I slide into the driver’s seat, I can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all—a feared mob boss reduced to a pancake delivery boy. But for Lucia, I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.
By the time I get home, she’s still awake, sitting in bed, her eyes lighting up when I walk in holding the bag.
“You’re amazing,” she says, her voice full of excitement.
I drop the bag on the bed next to her and sit down, exhausted but unable to stop myself from smiling. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”
She opens the container, the smell of pancakes filling the room, and digs in like it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted. I watch her for a minute, amused at how happy she looks.
“You know, this better not become a regular thing,” I mutter, stretching out beside her.
She grins, her mouth full of syrupy pancakes. “No promises.”
I shake my head, lying back against the pillows. But as I close my eyes, a part of me doesn’t mind. There’s something strangely satisfying about taking care of Lucia like this—about being the one she calls on, even for something as ridiculous as pancakes in the middle of the night. A few years ago, my half-brother stalked her for months, and she didn’t so much as breath in my direction. Now, she’s comfortable enough in my presence to ask me to get her pancakes in the middle of the night.
Everything has changed, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.