Chapter 10 Lucy
CHAPTER TEN
LUCY
Then her gaze settles on me, as blunt and cold as a letter opener.
"You haven't answered any of my calls," she says, which is true, though I'd deleted her voicemails before they'd even finished downloading.
Next comes the phrase that always signals the start of a Stuyvesant-Family-Inquisition: "Sit down, please. We need to talk."
I barely resist flopping back onto the couch and instead tuck my legs beneath me, a child’s habit she used to scold but now ignores.
She sits on the far edge of the ottoman, back straight, her tailored jacket perfectly smooth.
I say nothing. I’m good at this, at holding a silence until the other person gives up.
She lasts six seconds. "People are calling our house, Lucinda," she breathes, fingers trembling against her pearls.
"City auditors showed up at the foundation.
Your grandmother has received not one, but three inquiries in the last forty-eight hours regarding your.
.. situation. The Whitmores canceled their annual donation and declined our invitation to the gala.
And there was a man—" She swallows hard.
"A man with an accent who wouldn't give his name but suggested your father might want to 'reconsider his position' on certain matters. "
I roll the stem of my wine glass between my fingers, watching the liquid pitch like storm water against a seawall. "What situation is that?"
She sets her jaw. "You know very well. You met him, didn't you? That man—Morrone. You told the truth for once, and it’s already out."
I let the glass touch my lips, but don’t drink. "Do you know what he looks like, Mom? In person?"
The question blindsides her, or maybe it's just that I used "Mom" and not "Mother." She blinks, bracing for a trick. "I know what he looks like in the newspapers. The answer is no. Why?"
I try to picture Alessio as she would see him: older, almost legendary, the kind of man who can make even a New York Times photo look dangerous.
"He's not what you think," I say. It’s the kind of lie I used to hate as a child, because it’s both a lie and the truth, which is the only kind our family deals in.
A sigh. This time, she closes her eyes before speaking. "This inappropriate relation threatens everything. Your father is—"
"He's what? Scared?" My voice is sharper than I mean it to be, and something trembles in the glass I’m holding. "Let him be scared. Maybe he should've been scared twenty years ago, when he decided to befriend men who believe their money entitles them to skirt labor and tax laws.”
A flash of horror crosses her face. I shut my mouth.
I’m not supposed to mention the Bad Old Days, when my father’s "business lunches" with certain politicians led to surprise contract approvals, or when Grandpa had to call his friends at the DA’s office late at night.
The Stuyvesants are ambitious, but they must never be seen as people who bend the rules.
Mother smooths invisible wrinkles from her skirt. "That's not the point. Grandmother wants you home in Rye. You can take the guest house until this blows over. Or until," she adds, soft as a threat, "you come to your senses."
I finish the wine and feel the sharp burn in my throat. "I'm not coming home." My voice is calm and steady, which surprises me. "And you can tell Grandmother she can have her apartment back. Maybe she can rent it to one of her Hartley grand-nephews. I’m sure they’d love the prewar mold."
A pause. The clock on the wall ticks, loud as a countdown. "You have until the end of the month," she says finally, standing with a fluidity that belies how brittle she has become.
I set my empty glass down, careful not to break it. "I'll be gone by next week. Don't bother sending movers. I can pack my own boxes."
She wants to hug me then; I see the urge appear and fade. Instead, she picks up her handbag and coat, turns to the door, and leaves with the seriousness of a funeral director. Her perfume lingers, French and sharp, a scent that reminds me she will always own the air, even when she’s gone.
I count to ten to make sure she’s really gone.
Then I get up from the sofa and start opening cabinets and drawers, looking for a bottle good enough for a night like this.
I find a half-finished Barolo behind the pasta flour and pour some into a mug.
The cheap ceramic stains my lips purple, and I drink quickly, hoping the day will fade away.
How did this happen? Two weeks ago, I had a future: a studio gig lined up, a possible pop-up to manage in SoHo, and that strange, quivering happiness you get when you think you’ve figured out how to be alone.
Now I have three more weeks of shelter, then—what?
Go crawling back to a family that only wants me silent, married off, small enough to fit inside a scrapbook photo?
I slam the cabinet shut, the sound ricocheting around the kitchen.
Without thinking, I fetch my phone from my purse and pull up his contact, the one I swore I'd erase away a week ago after I told him we were finished. My vision blurs with tears as I run my thumb over his name.
I haven't spoken to him since that night. Seven endless days of silence that felt like drowning. I pick up my phone, tears falling freely now, and type before I can stop myself:
I need you.
Three pounding heartbeats later, his reply appears:
Alessio: I'm here. Always.
I let out a long, shaky breath. The taste of wine and salt on my tongue is heavy with regret. I miss him with an ache that feels like hunger. I type again:
Can I see you?
The answer comes before I've finished expecting it:
Alessio: Look out your window.
It’s ridiculous. It’s impossible. My building is six stories high, and the entryway is empty except for rain pooling on the curb. Still, I check, just to have a reason to move and pull the curtain aside with two fingers.
A black car is parked at the hydrant. Next to it stands a man, holding an umbrella over his shoulders, collar turned up. He doesn’t look up; he doesn’t need to.
My phone buzzes again:
Alessio: Should I come up, Lucia?
God help me, I do.
I’ll unlock the door.
I put my phone down and avoid looking at my reflection in the glass.
My face is puffy with emotion, my eyes red, but for once I don’t feel embarrassed.
Instead, I feel strangely light, as if falling apart has left only the floating pieces of me.
I tiptoe to the door, unlock it, and turn off the foyer light.
I don’t want my mother’s scent to linger on anything Alessio might touch.
I want him to walk into the darkness, into me, and nothing else.
My hair is matted, and the earlier rain left my skin sticky and cold, but none of that matters when the elevator dings and I hear his steady footsteps in the hall.
I wait in the dark, barely breathing, arms wrapped around my waist as if I’m afraid to let anything in.
The doorknob turns slowly, not rushed. Then the door opens wide, and Alessio steps inside.
He’s wearing a suit, as if he’s just left a boardroom that doubles as a war council.
Shoulders square, jaw set, eyes burning paler than I remembered.
He looks at me for a long, unblinking second, and all the air in my chest escapes in a soft, animal whimper.
He shuts the door with a violence that makes the walls shiver, then backs it up by swinging the deadbolt.
The space between us isn’t a space at all.
In three paces, he’s there, hands on my cheek, my jaw, my throat, the grip almost rough except that he knows exactly where to touch to make me shudder.
His mouth finds mine, wine and rain and pure heat.
He lifts me off the floor. I wrap my legs around his waist, the cold silk of my pajamas sliding up.
My arms lock around his shoulders. After a week apart, my body only feels real next to his.
As he carries me down the hallway, I almost laugh at how quickly I went from broken to being held.
I bury my face in his neck, biting his skin just enough to taste the salt and musk.
He kicks open my bedroom door and drops me onto the bed, but keeps his hands on my body, as if letting go would be a crime.
“I’m sorry,” I say, words bubbling out. “About before. I thought I could shut it off, but—my family, they’re making me insane.
My mother just left, and she’s convinced I’m the shame of the entire bloodline, and—”
“Don’t,” he growls, voice lower than I’ve ever heard. “Don’t apologize. You think I ever had any intention of letting you go?”
My tears are hot again, but they’re nothing to do with pain. “I tried to disappear because I thought that’s what people like us do. My whole life, that’s what they teach you. Disappear or get erased. But I’m not going anywhere. If they want to kill me, I’d rather die by your hands.”
He blinks, then smiles in the way that says he’s tortured by it.
I grab the lapel of his wet jacket and tug until he gets the hint and peels it off, tossing it to the floor.
I expect him to slide in beside me, but Alessio is not the kind of man who sidles.
He gets on top, one knee pinning my hip so I can’t twist away.
I’m breathing so hard I can’t talk, but he’s got the words for both of us.
“I don’t care about your family,” he says, lips tracing the curve of my cheek. “I don’t care about the city. I care about you, Lucia. I want you like I’ve never wanted anything. Don’t ever leave me again.”
His hands are under my pajama top, palms so big and hot they nearly wrap around my ribcage.
He finds my breast, and I arch into his palm, moaning when his thumb grazes the nipple.
He’s not gentle but not cruel, and the edge of aggression is what I crave.
He mouths a line down my collarbone, then rucks the silk up and sucks my nipple between his lips.
I gasp, threading my fingers through his hair.
He bites, and I convulse at the shock of pleasure.
“Promise me,” he says when he lifts his face, lips shiny and swollen. “Never again. I will chase you to the end of the fucking earth.”
The tone is half threat, half plea, and I like both. “Yes. I’m yours. I never wasn’t.”
He sits back, yanking me up to kneel in front of him. Slips his hand beneath the hem of my shorts, then with one violent tug, rips the elastic waistband. My underwear is ruined, shredded off my body. He runs a thumb between my legs, and his eyes go cold and hungry at once.
“So wet for me already. My good girl.”
He tilts me back onto my elbows, pushes my thighs wide until my knees tremble. The room is all shadow and dusk, with only the city lights outside painting us in silver. He kneels at the end of the bed, spreads my legs wider, and buries his face between them.
The first stroke of his tongue is slow, deliberate, as if he’s tasting a dessert he’s paid dearly for.
Then he licks harder, flattening his tongue along my clit, sucking just hard enough to make my legs twitch.
I can’t help the noises I make, high and desperate.
He licks and circles and tongues me until I am shaking, one hand anchored on my thigh, the other sliding a thick finger inside me.
The pressure is perfect. I cry out, not caring who hears, not caring about anything but the way he keeps his gaze locked on my face as he eats me alive.
I beg. I’m not proud, but I sob his name, digging my heels into his shoulders to keep him there.
He fucks me with a second finger, twisting and curling inside, while his tongue flicks over my clit until pleasure blinds me.
I come against his mouth, so hard and fast I nearly scream.
He doesn’t stop, not even after I come down, keeps tonguing me until I’m limp and boneless, sprawled across the sheets.
He wipes his mouth, looking smug and reverent at the same time.
Then he stands, unbuckles his belt, and drops his slacks.
I let my gaze drag over the hard lines of muscle, the impressive length of him already thick and ready.
He climbs onto the bed, grabs my ankles, and pulls me down so I’m flush against his cock.
The sight of him so hard, so desperate, readies me all over again.
He presses in, not gentle, but not careless either.
He fills me in a single, measured thrust, bottoming out so deep I cry out.
My hands claw at his back, scrabbling for purchase.
He fucks me with a control that feels like violence held barely at bay.
Every movement is a claim, every groan a vow.
He bends over me, forearms bracketing my head, his mouth at my ear.
“Say it,” he demands, rolling his hips. “Tell me you’re mine.”
I wrap my legs around his waist, locking him in place, and bite his shoulder until I taste skin. “I’m yours. I’ll never leave.”
He fucks me harder, driving the words in with every thrust. “That’s right. If you try, I’ll find you. If your family tries to hide you, I’ll take them all apart.”
The words should be terrifying. I cum on them.
When I come again, he finally lets go of his control, moving inside me so hard I think the bedframe might break.
He presses his hips against me until I’m crying out and coming again, and only then does he let go, finishing with a raw, beautiful sound.
He collapses on top of me, heavy but safe, his arms holding me so tightly I could disappear and be happy.
We stay like that until the cold threatens, until his weight pins me too hard and I have to wriggle free. He rolls to the side, pulls me against his chest, and cradles my head as if it’s precious.
After a minute, I say, “You haven’t asked about my meeting with my mother.”
“I already know,” he murmurs, voice lazy with afterglow. “Her calls are all recorded. You’re free of them.”
It’s so unfair, so perfectly him, that I start to laugh. “You really are the worst man I’ve ever loved.”
He smiles. “And the last.”
Lightning flashes outside the window, lighting up the city in blue. It feels like a sign that whatever happens next, we’ll face it together.
My phone buzzes again on the side table, but I ignore it. Alessio’s hand covers mine, his thumb stroking my skin. If the world falls apart around us, so be it. For now, I am warm, I am held, I am wanted. That’s enough.