Chapter 14 Lucy
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
LUCY
Alessio's sheets feel so smooth against my skin that I notice every rough spot on my fingers, every place I don't quite match the softness of this bed.
Dawn slips in through the windows, turning the Manhattan skyline into a blur of blue and gray.
I pull the blanket closer, still warm from where he slept, even though he hasn't touched me in hours.
He’s gone. I expected it, but the signs still sting a little: the sheets are cool where he slept, his watch is gone from the bedside table, and the last bit of his cologne is fading. My phone lights up with a message, sitting above a list of missed calls from my father:
I’m almost done. Home in a few hours. You want pancakes? –A
I smile despite myself, and type back:
Only if you make them.
He doesn’t reply. I hold the phone to my chest and feel the quiet in my body. If I close my eyes, I can still feel his thumb at the bend of my knee, his laugh rough against my collarbone: You’re dangerous when you’re hungry, Lucia. I want the kind of hunger that makes you shake.
He always makes sure I get it.
I get out of his—now our—bed and make my way to his closet, which feels more like a small, dark museum.
Everything is black, navy, or gray, hung up perfectly.
I pull one of his dress shirts off a hanger and roll up the sleeves until they dig into my arms. I button it quickly and unevenly, half-expecting him to appear and fix it with those careful, loving hands.
But I’m alone, with only the sound of the HVAC and the quiet of morning in someone else’s penthouse.
My toes curl on the cold hallway floor as I head to the kitchen.
The apartment is empty, but it’s never really quiet.
I hear the ice machine in the fridge and the clock ticking a little too fast. I turn on the espresso machine and pour the coffee into Alessio’s favorite mug.
It has the shipyard's logo, something he bought last year. It’s subtle, but it means something if you know what to look for. I didn’t, at least not before.
I drink my coffee in the living room, feeling a little cold, with my feet tucked under me on the soft leather couch.
Blueprints are stacked on the coffee table—architectural, but not for commercial buildings.
The lines are sharp, the notes written in Alessio’s handwriting.
I trace a spiral staircase on the paper with my finger and picture him here after midnight, focused and determined to create something new from steel, glass, and his own stubbornness.
I think he wants to make something beautiful in a world that doesn’t always value beauty. The idea hits me so hard that I have to swallow my coffee in one gulp.
I grab my sketchbook from my overnight bag and flip through drawings of veils, trains, layers of fabric, beadwork, and faces I half-remember or make up.
I want to draw something for him, but my hands are shaky.
Still, I start sketching, the lines uncertain at first. Slowly, a dress takes shape—not a wedding dress, but something bolder.
It’s sleek and backless, with a train that looks sharp and dark.
I imagine what he’d say if I wore it for him, standing under his gaze and the city lights.
I’m so caught up in wanting that I don’t notice the footsteps until the room feels different. I look up and see a girl at the end of the hallway, her chin lifted in either challenge or warning—it’s hard to say.
She’s young. She can pose, but she can’t quite hide how she feels: impatient, a bit angry, and a little hopeful.
She looks ready for disappointment but still curious.
Her hair is wet from the shower, braided, with the ends dripping onto an oversized hoodie.
I don’t have to ask who she is. The auburn hair and the stubborn tilt of her chin are unmistakable. She must be Alessio’s daughter, Carina.
“You’re not the cleaning lady,” she says, blinking at me from across a gulf of Italian marble.
“Not unless you want me to be.” My voice shakes a little. “I’m Lucy.”
She sniffs, unmoved. "I know who you are. Dad won't shut up about you." Her eyes flick over me, assessing. "Like, at all. It's been Lucy this, Lucy, that for weeks."
This stuns me for a second. "I...didn't realize he talked about me."
The girl rolls her eyes at a universe of parental stupidity. She's come into the room for a reason, but now that she's confronted me, she drops the script. "He's gone?"
"Left before I woke up. He said he'll be back in a few hours." I brace myself for whatever this is.
“You must be Carina,” I say, though it’s obvious.
She sits down, cross-legged, in the exact middle of the carpet. “So,” she says, “how’s your morning?”
I want to say normal, but nothing in my life is normal anymore. “Quiet,” I admit. “Just waiting for your Dad.”
She fiddles with the cuffs of her hoodie, picking at a loose thread. “If he’s gone all night, it’s usually because he’s with Enzo or breaking someone’s nose.”
This silences me. She seems to enjoy it.
“Did you sleep okay?” she asks, and there’s a glimmer of gentleness in it, almost hidden, but there.
“Eventually,” I answer.
Carina studies me. It’s clinical at first, but then less so. “Why do you like my father?” she says, the way children sometimes lob grenades to see if you’ll duck.
I flush, unprepared for the intimacy of her question. “He makes me feel… visible. Like I can take up space, and it’s not a problem.” I know this is the wrong answer, but it slips out anyway.
Carina’s mouth twitches into a small, conspiratorial smile. “He likes you.” It doesn’t sound like an accusation, or not entirely.
I look away, embarrassed and suddenly desperate for something to do with my hands. I reach for my sketchbook, open it to the dress I was drawing.
“You design clothes,” she says, reaching out with neat, ink-stained fingers to tap the page. “Are these for work, or for you?”
I hesitate. “A little of both?”
She leans forward, the braid slipping over her shoulder. “Show me.”
So I flip through the pages, and she sits forward with real interest. She points to a sketch of a tulle cocktail dress with a bodice stitched in gothic crosses. “This one looks like you’d have to be a vampire to pull it off.” She means it as a compliment, I can tell.
“That was the idea. For a show in Milan. I mean—if it ever gets finished.” I bite my lip. “What would you wear?”
She considers, then points at a dark, draped number with a halter neck and slit, a cross between a Grecian goddess and a villainess from a Y2K action movie. “This one,” she says. “It says, ‘Don’t even try to talk to me, unless you brought a snack.’”
I grin despite myself. “I can make it for you. If you want.”
Carina’s eyes widen. “Really?” The word is small, but the longing in it isn’t.
“Of course. I’m good with my hands.” I regret the words instantly, but she nods, satisfied.
We’re quiet for a minute, flipping through pages, until she asks, “Do you know where my dad went last night?” Her voice is lighter, as if this is a sideline, not the main event.
“No,” I answer honestly. “But if I had to guess, I’d say he’s working something out with someone who doesn’t want to be worked with.”
She nods, as if this matches her own theory. “He was on the phone with Enzo for an hour after midnight, then he left. Anyway—it’s probably Anton’s dad.”
I furrow my brow. “Anton?”
Carina goes red to her earlobes. “He’s a friend,” she says, a little too fast. “I have a feeling Dad is threatening war unless Anton’s father moves him to Moscow.”
I stare at her for a beat, the pieces slotting into place. “So your dad is negotiating with the Russians so your friend gets transferred?”
“To Russia.” She shrugs like it’s obvious. “I don’t think it will work, but I’m interested to see how far he’ll go.”
“Sorry.” It’s the only word I can think of speaking.
She stretches, catlike, and yawns. “He’s going to come back angry, but don’t worry. I’m pretty sure it won’t be a war. Artem knows I won’t let myself get drawn into it.”
I squint. “I thought it was about Anton?”
She smiles, full of secrets. “Oh yeah. I meant Anton.”
Before I can ask, she stands up, dusts herself off, and says, “I need to make a phone call. And maybe take a nap.” She hesitates in the doorway, glancing at me over her shoulder. “You’re okay, you know.”
I say thanks, and she vanishes, an echo of determined footsteps down the hall.
I breathe out a shaky sigh. I feel seen, and that’s the worst and best part.
I draw for a while. Pages pile up: taffeta, silk, inhuman geometry.
I lose myself, replaying her words. An hour later, I’m restless.
The espresso is gone. The sun has hauled itself fully up the spine of the skyline.
I pad barefoot through the kitchen, peering into cabinets for something sweet.
Alessio’s kitchen is a fortress of protein shakes, mineral water, and three kinds of bourbon, but I find a bar of dark chocolate and bring it to the living room.
And then: the doorbell. It rings once, loud and long. I freeze. There’s always someone at the door in these towers, but it’s usually a delivery or a dry cleaning delivery. I wait to see if Carina will answer, but there’s only silence from the far end of the apartment.
The doorbell rings again, more urgently now. I set my chocolate down, flatten my hair, and walk over. My pulse is up. Some part of me knows this is a mistake, but I open the door anyway.
The man standing there is tall, lean, and older—wearing a suit that looks like it costs more than my monthly rent.
His eyes are wrong: too pale, too intent.
Before I can even ask if he’s looking for Alessio or Enzo or delivering something, his hand is on my shoulder, and I’m being yanked forward out of the doorway.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. The man’s other hand covers my face, pressing something sharp and stinging against my lips. My vision tunnels. I taste metal. The last thing I see is the hallway spinning away from me.