7. Maria
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Maria
I’m staying at Luca’s apartment.
I know how that sounds. I know what people would think if they found out. But the truth is painfully practical: Victor has people watching my apartment, and until we figure out how he knew about the pregnancy, I can’t go anywhere predictable.
“It’s safer,” Luca said when he offered. “No one knows about this place. Victor’s PIs won’t think to look here.”
So here I am. Day three of living above a divorce attorney’s office. Day three of sleeping in his guest room, a converted storage closet, really, barely big enough for a bed. Day three of pretending this isn’t the most intimate thing I’ve done in years.
The apartment itself is sparse. Industrial.
A mattress on a low frame in the main room - I’ve been trying very hard not to think about Luca sleeping there, just on the other side of the wall.
A kitchen with more takeout containers than actual food.
Law books stacked everywhere. And in the corner, untouched, a piano.
“Do you play?” I asked the first night.
“Used to. My mother taught me.” His face closed off. “I haven’t touched it since she died.”
I didn’t push.
We’ve been circling each other like this for three days. Careful conversations. Loaded silences. Eyes that meet and then look away.
And at night-
At night, I lie in that tiny room and stare at the ceiling and think about him. Just on the other side of the wall. What he looks like when he sleeps. Whether he wears anything to bed. What would happen if I just... got up. Walked out there. Slid under the covers beside him.
Stop it. This is insane.
But my body doesn’t care about sanity. My body is very interested in the way Luca looks in the morning - sleep-rumpled and stubbled, making terrible coffee, tattoos on display because he sleeps shirtless.
I know he sleeps shirtless because I accidentally walked out at 6 a.m. on day two and found him standing at the kitchen counter in nothing but boxer briefs.
The image is seared into my brain.
Broad shoulders. Chest covered in ink, a full piece that I couldn’t quite make out before he turned away. Muscles in his back that flexed as he reached for a mug. And lower-
Stop. Stop it. He’s Tommy’s brother.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Tommy took everything from me. My marriage. My sister. My dignity. My faith in love.
And now, here’s his brother. Looking at me like I’m worth something. Making me feel things I haven’t felt in years.
What would it mean to take something of Tommy’s?
***
It’s late. Past midnight.
We’re on the couch, files spread across the coffee table, going through old financial records from the Moretti restaurants. Luca’s notes from five years ago - everything he gathered before Victor had him erased.
I should be focused on the numbers. On the strategy. On the war we’re fighting.
But I can’t stop watching his hands.
They’re beautiful hands. Long fingers. Scarred knuckles - from what, I don’t know. The way they flip through pages, confident and certain. The way he drums them against his thigh when he’s thinking.
What would those hands feel like on me?
The thought comes unbidden. Unwanted.
Completely unstoppable.
“Maria?”
I blink. He’s looking at me. Must have asked a question I didn’t hear.
“Sorry. What?”
“I asked if you want more tea.” His eyes are knowing. Like he can see exactly where my mind went.
“I’m fine.” My voice comes out hoarse. “Just tired.”
“You should sleep.”
“I can’t.” I set down the file I’ve been pretending to read. “Every time I close my eyes, I see Victor’s face. Tommy’s face. Nonna blaming me. Giuliana smiling.”
“The greatest hits of trauma. Very fun.”
I laugh despite myself. “Something like that.”
Luca sets down his own file. Turns to face me fully.
“Tell me something,” he says. “Something that has nothing to do with the Morettis. Something that’s just... you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’ve spent three days learning about your divorce. Your finances. Your legal strategy.” His voice softens. “I want to know something real. Something they can’t put in a filing.”
I weigh the question.
“I wanted to be an artist,” I say finally. “Before. A painter. I was actually good - had a gallery interested in showing my work.”
“What happened?”
“I married Tommy. And he... he didn’t think it was ‘appropriate’ for a Moretti wife to have paint under her fingernails. So I stopped.” I shrug. “I told myself I was choosing love over art. That I could always go back to it later.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No. I didn’t.” I meet his eyes. “I let him make me smaller, piece by piece, until I barely recognized myself. Until the girl who used to stay up all night painting was just... gone.”
Luca is quiet for a moment.
Then he says something that breaks me open.
“You’re not small, Maria. He just needed you to believe you were.”
***
I don’t know who moves first.
One moment we’re sitting on opposite ends of the couch, the coffee table between us. The next, the files are on the floor and he’s right there - so close I can feel the heat of his body, smell the soap on his skin, see the gold flecks in his dark eyes.
“Luca-”
“I know.” His voice is rough. Strained. “We shouldn’t.”
“I’m still technically married.”
“I know.”
“And you’re helping with my case.”
“I know.”
“And this is-” I swallow. “This is such a bad idea.”
“The worst.” He’s not moving away. Neither am I. “Catastrophically bad. Career-endingly bad.”
“Then why-”
“Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the moment I saw you.” His hand comes up. Cups my face. His thumb traces my cheekbone, feather-light. “Because you walked into that party in your red dress, and I knew - I knew - you were going to change everything.”
“Luca-”
“Tell me to stop.” His forehead presses against mine. His breath is warm on my lips. “Tell me to stop, and I will. I’ll walk away. We’ll pretend this never happened.”
I should tell him to stop.
I should be smart, be careful, be the responsible person who doesn’t blow up her entire legal case for a moment of weakness.
But I’ve been responsible my whole life. I’ve been careful, been good, been exactly what everyone expected me to be. And where did it get me? Alone. Betrayed. Pregnant with the baby of a man who didn’t want me.
Maybe I’m tired of being careful.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “I can’t tell you to stop.”
His breath catches.
And then he’s kissing me.
***
His mouth is warm. Demanding. Nothing like the polite, dutiful kisses Tommy used to give me.
This kiss is hungry.
His hand fists in my hair. Tilts my head back. I gasp against his lips, and he uses the opening to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that makes my whole body ignite.
Oh God. Oh God.
I’ve never been kissed like this. Like I’m something precious and filthy at the same time. Like he wants to worship me and wreck me in equal measure.
My hands find his chest. Feel the hard muscle under his shirt. I want to touch his skin - want to trace those tattoos with my fingers, my lips, my tongue-
He groans. Pulls me closer. And then I’m in his lap, straddling him, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise.
“Maria.” My name is a prayer on his lips. A curse. “Fuck. You feel-”
“Don’t stop.” I’m grinding against him now, feeling him hard beneath me, aching in places I’d forgotten could ache. “Please don’t stop.”
“We have to.” But his hands are sliding up my sides, under my shirt, his palms hot against my bare skin. “We can’t do this. Not yet. Not while you’re still-”
“I don’t care.”
“You will.” He pulls back. Breathing hard. Eyes wild. “You’ll care tomorrow, when you realize what we did. What it means.”
“Luca-”
“Listen to me.” He cups my face. Forces me to meet his eyes. “I want this. God knows I want this. I’ve been imagining it for days - what you’d look like under me, what sounds you’d make, what it would feel like to be inside you-”
I whimper. Actually whimper.
“-but not like this.” His voice is ragged.
“Not when you’re vulnerable and scared and running from the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.
When we do this - when, not if - I want you to be sure.
I want you to be free. I want to know that you’re choosing me because you want me, not because you’re trying to escape him. ”
My eyes are burning. Tears threatening.
“And if I do want you?”
“Then ask me again.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. Gentle. Tender. “After. When you’re free. Ask me again, and I’ll give you everything.”
***
We stay like that for a long moment. Foreheads pressed together. Breathing the same air.
Then my phone buzzes.
I pull back. Grab it from the coffee table.
A text from Victor: “I’m still waiting for an answer. Meet me tomorrow. 7 p.m. The family restaurant. Alone. Unless you want Tommy to find out about that baby before you’re ready.”
The heat in my blood turns to ice.
“He’s escalating.” Luca reads over my shoulder. His voice is cold now. All business. “He’s trying to force your hand.”
“Should I go?”
“You should never meet a Moretti alone.” He takes my hands. Squeezes. “But if you don’t go, he’ll tell Tommy about the pregnancy. And then we lose control of the timeline.”
“So what do I do?”
“You go. But you don’t go alone.” His eyes meet mine. “I’ll be there. Watching. And the second he tries anything, we pull the plug.”
I nod. Trust him. Maybe more than I should.
“Luca?” I say quietly.
“Yeah?”
“That thing you said. About wanting me to be sure.” I meet his eyes. “I’m already sure. I just wanted you to know that.”
Something blazes in his expression. Something that looks like hope.
“After,” he says. “I’m holding you to that.”
I smile. A real smile, for the first time in days.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”