21. Senna
— ? —
Senna
The guest house is small and perfect - whitewashed walls, blue shutters, a bed covered in linen that smells like lavender and sunshine. There’s a kitchen stocked with food, a bathroom with an actual bathtub, and a terrace that looks out over an endless sea of citrus trees.
I stand on that terrace as the sun sets, watching the light turn golden and pink and finally purple, and I try to remember the last time I felt this quiet inside.
“I found wine,” Rocco calls from inside. “Red or white?”
“White. Something cold.”
He appears beside me a moment later, pressing a glass into my hand. Our fingers brush during the handoff, and I don’t pull away.
“It’s beautiful here,” I say.
“It is.”
“I can see why Serafina loves it. Why anyone would love it.”
“She grew up on the property. Rafael bought it for her as a wedding present. The story goes that she told him she could never marry a man who didn’t understand why these trees mattered, and he spent six months learning everything about citrus cultivation just to prove he was serious.”
I smile despite myself. “That’s actually romantic. In a slightly terrifying way.”
“The Viscontis do everything in a slightly terrifying way.” He leans against the terrace railing, facing me. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired. Confused. Relieved.” I take a sip of wine. “Angry.”
“At Fiorella?”
“At everything. At her for doing this. At myself for not seeing it coming. At the press for believing her lies without even questioning them.”
“They’ll question them eventually. The truth always comes out.”
“Does it? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like Fiorella is winning. She’s got the narrative, she’s got the sympathy, she’s got-” I stop, swallow hard. “She’s got everything I never knew I wanted until she took it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean-” I set down my wine glass and turn to face him fully.
“I spent seven years being invisible. Being the supportive wife, the woman behind the great man, the one who gave up her own music so you could have yours. And I told myself it was okay, because I didn’t want the spotlight anyway.
I didn’t want the attention. I just wanted to make beautiful things and have someone notice. ”
“I should have noticed.”
“You should have. But you didn’t. And now that I’m finally starting to notice myself, Fiorella is doing everything she can to tear that down.
” My voice cracks. “She’s always done this.
Our whole lives. Every time I found something that made me happy, she found a way to take it or ruin it or convince everyone that I didn’t deserve it. ”
“Tell me more about that. About growing up with her.”
I look at him, and something shifts in my chest. He’s asked about the rivalry before - I’ve mentioned the constant comparisons, the way our parents pitted us against each other.
But he’s listening differently now. Like he’s trying to understand the shape of the wound, not just acknowledge that it exists.
“She’s four years older,” I start. “And our parents - they weren’t bad people, exactly.
They just didn’t know how to love two daughters who were so different.
I had the natural talent. The voice that came easily, the ear that heard things other people missed.
And Fiorella had to work for everything.
Practice for hours just to be average. Fight tooth and nail for every scrap of success. ”
“That must have been hard for her.”
“It was. I understand that now. But understanding doesn’t make it okay.
” I pick up my wine again, needing something to do with my hands.
“Our parents made it worse. They praised my gift constantly, held it up as something special, while telling Fiorella she just needed to try harder. They compared us constantly. Every report card, every recital, every small achievement. And when Fiorella lashed out-” I take a breath.
“There was this Christmas dinner, three years ago. She was drunk on prosecco and told everyone within earshot that I’d wasted my voice on a man who would never appreciate it. ”
“What did your parents do?”
“My mother laughed nervously and changed the subject. My father said Fiorella didn’t mean it, she was just tired, she worked so hard.
Nobody asked if she was right. Nobody asked if it hurt.
” I take a long sip of wine. “That’s the pattern.
She wounds, they excuse. And I’m supposed to absorb it gracefully because I got the gift and she got the struggle. ”
“She hated me for it,” I say. “She still does.” I meet his eyes. “She wanted you from the moment she met you. Did you know that? When I brought you home for the first time, she looked at you like you were a prize she’d already decided to win.”
“I never-”
“I know. I know you didn’t see it. You only saw the charming older sister who supported our relationship and made nice at family dinners. But I saw the way she watched you. The way she waited.”
“She never - nothing ever happened between us.”
“I know that too. I’ve always known that.” I take a breath. “But she found another way, didn’t she? She couldn’t have you directly, so she took my song and used it to get close to you. And now she’s taking my reputation, my work, everything I’ve built.”
Rocco is quiet for a long moment.
“We’re going to stop her,” he says finally. “I don’t know how yet, but we’re going to prove what she did and we’re going to make sure everyone knows the truth.”
“And if we can’t?”
“We will. Because you deserve better, Senna. You’ve always deserved better. Better than Fiorella, better than your parents, better than-” He stops. “Better than me.”
The admission hangs in the air between us.
“Do you remember the café?” I ask suddenly. “The one near the conservatory, with the terrible coffee and the piano in the corner that was always out of tune?”
He blinks at the subject change. “I remember.”
“That’s where we wrote our first song together. You sat down at that horrible piano and started playing something, and I hummed along without even thinking about it, and by the end of the afternoon we had a melody that was better than anything either of us had made alone.”
“‘Summer in Florence,’” he says softly. “I remember.”
“I thought - when that happened, I thought we’d do that forever. Write songs together. Make music together. Be partners in every sense of the word.”
“We can still be that.”
“Can we?” I turn to look at the citrus trees, at the grove stretching out before us in the twilight. “I don’t know anymore, Rocco. I want to believe we can. But wanting something doesn’t make it true.”
He moves closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him at my back.
“What would it take?” he asks. “To make you believe again?”
I think about the question for a long time.
“Time,” I say finally. “More time. More proof that you actually see me now. That I’m not just the wife you’re trying to keep, but the person you want to be with.”
“I can give you that.”
“And honesty. Complete honesty. About everything - Fiorella, the song, what you’re feeling, what you want.”
“Done.”
“And-” I hesitate, not sure if I should say the next part. “I need to know that you want me. Not the wife who supports you. Not the muse who inspires you. Me. Senna. The person I’m becoming, not the person I used to be.”
He doesn’t hesitate. His hand finds my face, tilting it toward his.
“I’ve always wanted you,” he says. “From the moment you told me you hated being looked at, and I thought - here’s someone who sees the world differently than everyone else. Here’s someone I could spend my whole life trying to understand.”
“You stopped trying.”
“I know. And I’m going to spend the rest of my life making up for that.”
He kisses me then - soft at first, questioning, giving me every chance to pull away.
I don’t pull away. I lean into him instead, my hands finding his shoulders, his finding my waist, and for a long moment there’s nothing but the taste of wine and the smell of citrus and the warmth of his body against mine.
When we finally break apart, I’m breathing hard, and so is he.
“I’m still scared,” I admit.
“I know. So am I.” He rests his forehead against mine. “But we have time. We have this place. We have silence, finally.”
“Silence sounds good.”
“Then let’s be silent together.”
He takes my hand and leads me inside, and we don’t talk about Fiorella or the press or any of it. We just exist, side by side, in the quiet of the grove.
And for the first time in months, I let myself believe we might actually make it.