I freeze for half a second before memory catches up with sensation. I'm in Massimo's bed. The sheets are dark and impossibly soft. The room smells faintly of him, clean, expensive, something ironed through with danger. My body is angled protectively, instinctively, and when I look down, I see why.
Amauri is curled into my side, one arm slung across my waist, his face relaxed in sleep in a way that makes my chest ache. No tension. No shadows behind his eyes. Just a child, finally safe enough to let go.
Thank you, I think, not sure to whom. God. The universe. Massimo. Anyone listening.
I lie still for a long moment, memorizing the sight of him like this, but my bladder is about to explode. So—carefully, painstakingly—I extract myself. I slide one leg free. Then the other. I ease his arm back onto the pillow, tuck the blanket around him the way he likes it. He sighs, but doesn't wake.
Mission: slide out of bed without waking the kid, part one: check.
I pad out of the bedroom and into the massive bathroom barefoot, my body sore in that deep, familiar way memory immediately explains. Scenes from the elevator flash through me without permission: heat, pressure, the way I forgot how to breathe. I push them aside. Not now. I do what I came here to do, wash my hands, and peek in on my son. He's still out. I contemplate sneaking back under the covers, but the smell of coffee hits me like a punch. Rich. Bitter. Real.
I don't drift in that direction. I follow the scent like a woman who knows exactly what it will cost her and goes anyway. The scent of food adds to the rich aroma of coffee, making my mouth water. It leads me into the kitchen, where I find Massimo standing behind a counter. Sleeves rolled up. His hair is still damp. A cup of espresso sits in his hand like it's an extension of him. The counter is covered in silver domes, the kind hotels use when they want you to feel important. I stop short, unsure.
"I had no idea you cooked." The words come out lighter than I feel.
He glances up at me, something unreadable flickers across his face, making me swallow, and my insides clench at the thought of what we did yesterday.
"I don't," he replies calmly. "I had it sent up from the kitchen."
I should have known. On leaden legs, I move forward, watching as he lifts one of the domes. Eggs. Fresh fruit. Bread still steaming. Another reveals pastries. One more, something warm and savory that makes my stomach betray me immediately.
"Hungry?" his voice is low and sounds like he's asking something other than the simple word.
I hesitate. Everything about this feels… precarious. The night before hasn't settled yet. The truth hasn't finished rearrangingitself in my head. My body remembers him far more clearly than my heart knows how to handle.
"I—maybe," I admit honestly.
He nods, accepting that without comment, and pours another cup of coffee, setting it where I can reach it but not pushing it into my hand. It's a small thing. It shouldn't matter. It does. I lean against the counter, crossing my arms lightly, hyper-aware of myself. Of the faint ache between my thighs. Of the fact that I'm still wearing his shirt from last night. Of how easily this could slip into something I'm not ready to name.
Behind us, down the hall, Amauri sleeps. That's the anchor. The line I won't cross blindly. Massimo watches me over the rim of his cup, not predatory, not soft. Just… present. I squirm because I don't know what to make out of that gaze, what to think, whathethinks. And I hate that he's making me feel like an insecure seventeen-year-old. The realization that this morning is going to be harder than the night hits me full force. Because daylight asks questions that darkness lets you avoid.
I take a sip of the coffee. It's good. Strong. Reviving in the way only coffee can be, like it reaches straight into my bloodstream and flips a switch markedfunction. I let the heat settle and ground me, then reach for a croissant. It flakes under my fingers, the layers peel apart delicately, but I don't actually eat it. I just… pick. Pull. Tear. Something to do with my hands.
Massimo watches me.
Not openly. Not like a predator sizing up prey. More like he's cataloging, taking stock of my tells, my hesitations, the way I'm stalling without meaning to. The silence stretches. I hate it.
"So," I finally break it, lifting my chin. "Now what?"
His lip quirks up, just a little. Amused. That's new. Or at least new since I've seen him again. Up until now, he's been anger and heat and accusation, all sharp edges and pressure. This—thisflicker of humor—throws me off balance more than the shouting ever did.
"Now," he says, "we talk."
He gestures toward a small round table by the window. Sunlight spills across it, Vegas glitters below, and the desert stretches endlessly beyond the glass. Power and emptiness, side by side. Fitting. For a moment, I hesitate, then I square my shoulders and walk over anyway. I sit in the proffered chair, back straight, spine stiff, like I'm bracing for impact. Awkward doesn't even begin to cover it.
As he settles into the chair across from me, my eyes betray me. I notice the scar running along his forearm, long, pale against darker skin, disappearing beneath the cuff of his sleeve. My breath catches before I can stop it. He notices. Of course he does. Without a word, he reaches up and rolls his sleeve down, covering it like a curtain falling. Final. Closed. I clear my throat.
"Bello," he cuts straight to it. "Tell me everything."
The command in his voice hits a nerve I didn't know was still raw.
"Oh," I snap, righteous anger flaring hot and fast. "Sonowyou want to hear my side of the story?"
His gaze doesn't harden. It doesn't sharpen. It stays patient. That somehow makes it worse. "Yes. Now."
I open my mouth with a dozen sharp retorts lined up and ready, but then he continues, quieter, grounded. "Jenna, we've wasted ten years." The sadness in his voice gives me pause. "Ten years kept apart by misunderstandings. Lies. Silence." He pauses, keeping his eyes steadily on mine. "I think it's time we clear the air."
My fingers curl into the croissant, crushing it slightly. He leans forward just a fraction. "We owe it to our son."
