16. Serena
SERENA
Rocco leaves first. Not because I ask. Not because Matteo tells him to. Because the room is full of too many things, and for once Rocco seems to understand that his want is not the most important one.
This should feel like progress. It mostly feels like standing barefoot on broken glass.
He finds me once before he goes. His mouth is still red from mine. His knuckles are bandaged badly because gauze is a liar. He looks dangerous and undone and mine in a way that makes me hate every soft part of myself.
“Serena,” he says.
Just my name. No apology. No please. No I’ll call you. Good.
If he says anything tender, I may climb into the sink.
“Go,” I say.
His jaw tightens. Then he nods.
He walks to the front door. Matteo’s in the hall outside the flat, his back against the opposite wall, eyes on the stairwell like nothing inside the kitchen cut him open.
Rocco stops beside him. Neither man speaks. The silence is so male it should have antlers.
I stand in the kitchen doorway with my arms folded over my stomach, waiting for one of them to ruin everything.
Rocco faces Matteo. Matteo keeps to the stairs.
“She said stop,” Rocco says finally.
My breath catches.
Matteo doesn’t turn his head.
“I know.”
“I stopped.”
“I saw.”
Rocco’s face changes. Pain. Humiliation. Jealousy so sharp I can almost hear it.
But he says nothing else. No warning. No threat. No don’t touch my wife like he has any right to hand out commands after tonight.
He nods once. Then he walks down the stairs.
The building exhales after him. Or I do. Hard to tell the difference anymore.
Matteo stays in the hall. Of course he does. My life is now made of men standing on the wrong side of doors.
I go back into the kitchen and grab my sweater off the counter. It smells like dish soap, Rocco, and poor decisions. I put it on backward first, which feels like a fair review of my current mental state. Then I fix it, splash water on my face, and look at myself in the dark kitchen window.
I look like a woman who almost let her estranged husband have sex with her in her sister’s kitchen less than twenty-four hours after a pregnancy scare. So. Accurate.
The front door closes softly. Matteo comes back in.
He doesn’t come to the kitchen. He stands in the living room, near the door, exactly where a man stands when he’s trying not to make his pain a furniture issue.
“You can come in,” I say.
“I’m fine here.”
“Matteo.”
“Serena.”
My name in his mouth is different from Rocco’s. Rocco says my name like he owns a cathedral and I’m the last light left inside it. Matteo says it like a person he’s trying very hard not to reach for.
That’s also dangerous. Quieter. Maybe worse.
I walk into the living room. The sofa bed is still unfolded, blanket twisted. If walls could talk, Lucia would tell them to mind their business.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Matteo looks at me then. Really looks.
His face is calm. Too calm.
“For what?”
“You know for what.”
“I walked in without knocking.”
“It’s your flat too right now.”
“It’s Lucia’s flat.”
“That’s not the point.”
He looks away first. That hurts more than it should.
I sink onto the edge of the sofa bed because my legs aren’t interested in continuing as a team.
“Are you angry?”
“Yes.”
Honest. I almost smile. Then I remember what we’re talking about.
“At me?”
Matteo’s attention comes back to mine.
“No.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not angry at you.”
“At Rocco.”
“Yes.”
“For touching me?”
His mouth thins.
“For hurting you so badly that you looked ashamed after wanting your own husband.”
Oh. I wasn’t ready for that.
My eyes sting because apparently my body has decided tears are a subscription service.
“I wasn’t ashamed.”
Matteo says nothing. Rude. Accurate.
“Fine,” I say. “Maybe a little.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“I know.”
“Everyone knows everything today.”
His mouth almost moves. Almost. Then it fades.
“I can leave for a while.”
My head snaps up.
“What?”
“If my being here makes this harder.”
“Don’t be noble in a way that makes me feel like I kicked a puppy.”
“Guard dog, then.”
That lands differently. His face closes.
“I don’t want to be another man making decisions for you,” he says.
“Then don’t leave because you decided it’s best for me.”
That gets him.
“Fair.”
“Careful. I’m emotionally unstable and can still throw crackers.”
A real flicker at the corner of his mouth. Small, but I’ll take it. Then gone.
He sits in the chair across from me. Not close. He’s always doing that. Giving space like it costs him nothing.
Tonight I can see the cost. It’s in the white-knuckle grip he has on his own knee.
“You love him,” Matteo says.
The words are clean. Too clean. They slice through the room and leave me with no good way to stand.
“I hate him.”
“That wasn’t what I said.”
I look down at my hands. My wedding ring is still there. Of course it is.
I should’ve taken it off. Any sensible woman would’ve taken it off, thrown it in his face, flushed it, sold it, baked it into one of Lucia’s barley soups and made everyone chew carefully.
I did none of that. I kept wearing it. Because I’m angry. Because I’m pregnant. Because I’m apparently sentimental in the least convenient way possible.
“I don’t know what I love anymore,” I say.
Matteo’s face softens. That’s worse.
“I know what I want,” I add. “Sometimes. Then it changes and I hate myself.”
“You don’t need to hate yourself for wanting him.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
He laughs once. No humor in it.
“No. It isn’t.”
The room goes still. My pulse changes.
I know what’s coming before he says it. Maybe I’ve known for days. Maybe that’s the cruel part.
I knew. I let silence make it polite.
“Matteo.”
“I’m going to say something,” he says.
“Maybe don’t.”
“I should’ve said it before tonight.”
“That sounds like a terrible reason to say anything.”
“Probably.”
“Matteo.”
No smile now. No guard face either. Just him.
Tired. Scarred. Good in a way that makes my life harder.
“I love you,” he says.
Plain. No hand reaching. No dramatic step across the room. He says it like truth, not a trap.
I go still.
“Don’t.”
“I’m not saying it so you’ll do anything.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because everyone keeps deciding what you can handle.”
The words land. Hard.
“Rocco decided you could handle exile. Vittorio decided you could handle shame. Claudia decided you could handle being erased. I’m not going to be another man with a secret around you.”
The baby shifts faintly. Unbothered by adult stupidity. Lucky baby.
“You shouldn’t love me.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“It should be. There should be a form.”
His mouth does the almost-smile again.
“I’d fail the form.”
“On purpose?”
“Probably.”
I laugh, but it breaks halfway.
He leans forward a little. Then stops. Always stops.
“I know he’s your husband,” Matteo says.
My eyes burn.
“Yes.”
“I know the baby’s his.”
“Yes.”
“I know you still want him.”
I look away.
“Yes.”
“And I know I’m not owed anything because I kept you safe.”
That one hurts.
“I never thought you?—”
“I know. I’m saying it because men like me can turn useful into entitled if we aren’t careful.”
“You’re not men like anything.”
He studies his hands.
“I’m exactly men like anything. I’ve done bad work for powerful people. I’ve stood outside doors while men inside made women smaller and told myself it wasn’t my place.”
Something in me twists.
“You left.”
“Late.”
“Still.”
He looks up.
“Still.”
We sit with that.
Late.
Everyone is late. A group of people arriving with different amounts of damage and asking if there’s still room at the table. My table is currently a sofa bed, and I’d like fewer men at it.
“You’re safe,” Matteo says.
I blink.
“What?”
“With me. That’s all I wanted you to know. If you choose Rocco, if you choose no one, if you tell me to go, you’re safe with me. My feelings are not a bill.”
My feelings are not a bill.
There should be a law that men can’t say devastating things in small flats while women are pregnant and wearing socks with sheep on them.
“That’s very unfair of you,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“Now you’re saying it too.”
He almost smiles. Then I start crying. Quietly this time.
No big sobs. No dramatic collapse. Tears sliding down my face because apparently being respected can hurt if you’ve been controlled for long enough.
Matteo reaches into his pocket, pulls out a clean handkerchief, and holds it out. Not across the room. Halfway.
I stare at it.
“Who carries a handkerchief?”
“Men who bleed often.”
“That is a horrible answer.”
“Yes.”
I take it. It’s soft, white, folded neatly. Even his emotional damage does laundry.
I wipe my face.
“I almost let Rocco?—”
“I know.”
“You don’t.”
“No,” he says. “I don’t.”
That stops me.
He corrects himself so simply. No fuss. No ego. I’ve been living in rooms where men would rather burn down a city than admit a sentence came out wrong.
“I wanted him,” I say.
“Yes.”
“I stopped.”
“Yes.”
“He stopped.”
Matteo’s eyes hold mine.
“Good.”
Just that. No bitterness. No turning Rocco’s restraint into a competition he needs to win.
Because it was good. Because it mattered. Because I’m allowed to notice that without forgiving everything.
“I was glad he stopped,” I say.
“I am too.”
“And I was sad.”
His face softens.
“I know that too.”
The tenderness. Not wrapped around a demand. Not asking to be paid back. Just there.
I look at him too long. That’s the mistake.
Or maybe the mistake is that he looks back.
The air shifts. Not like with Rocco.
With Rocco, heat hits like a match to gasoline. Fast. Old. Dangerous. With Matteo, it’s quieter. Warm water. A door with no lock.
Peace.
That’s the temptation. Not his mouth, though his mouth is there and I notice it because I’m alive, pregnant, and apparently committed to making this as complicated as possible.
A man who asks. A man who listens. A man who would sleep on the floor and not call it sacrifice.
I want that. God, I want to be a woman who gets to want that and stop there.
But wanting peace isn’t the same as choosing a person. If I lean into him now, it’s the quiet I’m reaching for. Not him. And he deserves more than being the place I rest because someone else set the house on fire.
I stand because sitting suddenly feels unsafe. Matteo stands too.
“Serena.”
His voice is soft. That’s all. My name.
I take one step toward him. He doesn’t move.
Not forward. Not back. He lets me decide, which is the entire problem.
“If things were different,” I say.
His eyes shut briefly.
“They aren’t.”
“I know.”
“You’re hurt.”
“I really know.”
“And I’m not saying this to take something from you while you’re bleeding.”
That word. Bleeding.
Not physically. Emotionally, yes. All over Lucia’s tragic rug.
“Then why does it feel like I’m the one who could take something from you?” I ask.
The answer is in his face before he says it.
“Because you could.”
Oh. My heart hurts. Not Rocco-hurt. Clean and sad.
I step closer. Close enough to see the faint scar at his jaw, his hands hanging open at his sides like he’s refusing to clench them.
“I care about you,” I say.
“I know.”
“I’m not choosing you.”
His face tightens. He nods.
“I know.”
“I’m not choosing him either.”
“Good.”
The word comes out fast. Almost rough.
He huffs once, embarrassed.
“For now,” he adds.
“Very generous.”
“I have moments.”
My laugh is small. Then gone.
Because he’s still looking at me like I’m something precious and injured and impossible. Because my life is a pile of knives and I keep reaching for handles.
I lift my hand. I don’t know what I mean to do. Touch his face, maybe. Prove to myself that gentleness doesn’t always have to come from Rocco.
Matteo sees the movement. His breath stops.
He doesn’t lean in. That almost breaks me.
I touch his cheek. Just fingertips.
He goes still under my hand. The room goes very quiet.
My wedding ring catches the lamplight. Bright. Brutal. On my hand against another man’s face.
Reality arrives like a slap.
I pull back.
“I can’t.”
Matteo opens his eyes.
There is pain there. Real pain. But no anger.
“Stop being so understanding. It’s making me feel insane.”
His mouth trembles at the edge.
“I can be difficult if it helps.”
“Please.”
He thinks for a second.
“Your tea is usually too weak.”
I gasp. Rude and grateful for it.
“Monster.”
“I tried.”
The laugh comes out of me before I can stop it. Then I cry again because apparently my emotions are a vending machine someone kicked.
Matteo doesn’t touch me. I wish he would. I’m glad he doesn’t. Both things can be true.
The lock turns.
Lucia comes in carrying a bakery bag, wet hair frizzing around her face. She stops dead.
“Absolutely not,” she says.
I wipe my face with the handkerchief.
“Nothing happened.”
“That’s the face of something almost happening.”
Matteo says, “Nothing happened.”
Lucia points at him. “I’m looking at both of you with my entire Italian soul. Don’t attempt technicalities.”
“I touched his cheek,” I say.
Lucia’s eyes move to my hand, then to Matteo, then back to me. Her face softens in a way I hate.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“Don’t sweetheart me.”
“I’m going to sweetheart you. You’re a disaster in socks.”
“They’re your socks.”
She crosses the room and sets the bakery bag on the table. Lucia pulls out a box.
“I brought custard tarts because apparently this flat is now a romantic triage unit and we need sugar.”
Matteo turns toward the window. His body changes. A little.
My stomach drops. I know that change now.
“What?” I ask.
He lifts one hand. Quiet.
Lucia stops moving.
Outside, below the window, a car idles. Not unusual on our street.
But the engine sound is wrong. Too low. Too steady. Idling like men waiting for a signal.
Matteo moves to the light switch and turns off the lamp. The flat drops into blue-gray shadow.
Lucia whispers, “Tell me this is a normal terrifying thing.”
“Back from the window,” Matteo says.
Not loud. Not panicked. That makes it worse.
I step back. Lucia grabs my arm and pulls me toward the hallway.
“Go to the bathroom,” Matteo says.
“No,” I say.
“Serena.”
“Don’t Serena me. What’s happening?”
He looks through the curtain gap. His face goes blank.
“Three men.”
Lucia swears.
“Castellano?”
Matteo’s hand goes behind his back. To the gun.
“No.”
The word is flat. Final.
The baby moves. Tiny and oblivious.
My heart starts pounding.
“Rafe?” I ask.
Matteo doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
Something hits the front door. Hard. A boot or a shoulder, all weight. The wood jumps.
Lucia screams.
Matteo is already moving. He shoves the sofa bed back with one hand, gun in the other, putting his body between the door and me.
Another hit. The chain rattles.
Matteo looks over his shoulder. Not at Lucia. At me.
For one second, everything slows.
The dark flat. My wedding ring cold on my finger. Matteo’s hand steady around the gun.
Then the lock splinters.
Matteo fires once through the wood.
Someone shouts.
The door bursts open anyway.
And Rafe’s men come through.