CHAPTER 10: The Morning After and Then Some
1435 Words
Mornings after never matched the movies.
Elena woke with her hair a mess, muscles pleasantly sore, and a sheet twisted around her legs. For a few disoriented seconds, she didn’t recognize the ceiling above her.
Then the memory hit.
Matteo. His hands. His mouth. The way he’d whispered her name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
A warm weight circled her waist.
She looked down.
His arm. Heavy and possessive, keeping her anchored to his side even in sleep.
His face, in repose, looked younger. The lines carved by responsibility softened. The scar near his jaw eased.
She watched him for a moment, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. A ridiculous, treacherous softness spread in her chest.
Carefully, she tried to slide out from under his arm.
His fingers tightened automatically.
“Don’t,” he murmured, not quite awake.
“I have to pee,” she whispered.
One eye cracked open. “You’re already becoming a terrible wife. No respect for romantic gestures.”
“Letting me get a UTI is not romantic,” she said, laughing quietly.
He sighed, loosening his grip. “You have five minutes.”
“Is that a rule?” she teased, slipping off the bed.
“For now,” he said.
In the bathroom, she stared at herself in the mirror.
Her cheeks were flushed, lips still a little swollen. Her hair was a disaster. She looked… happy.
The realization jolted her.
“What are you doing?” she whispered to her reflection. “This was not the plan.”
The plan had been simple: Survive the year. Get her brother free. Walk away with her heart intact.
Last night had taken that plan, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the sea.
She splashed water on her face and went back out.
Matteo was sitting up, leaning against the headboard, sheet low around his hips. The sight sent a fresh wave of heat through her.
He watched her cross the room, eyes lazy but sharp.
“Morning,” he said.
“Hi,” she replied, suddenly shy.
“Regrets?” he asked, tone light but gaze serious.
She thought about lying, saying something flippant to protect herself. But the memory of his insistence that she choose, that she consent, that she mean it, weighed heavier than her fear.
“No,” she said honestly. “You?”
His mouth curved. “I’m too selfish to regret something that felt that good.”
Color flooded her face.
“Breakfast in bed?” he added. “I can command Rosa to bring you whatever you want. It will terrify her. It might be fun.”
“She’ll think I’ve corrupted you,” Elena said.
“You assume she doesn’t already.”
She laughed, tension easing.
That morning felt like a fragile, bubble-wrapped gift. They ate in his room, trading quiet jokes. He stole toast off her plate; she smacked his hand and then fed him a piece anyway.
He left later than usual, lingering in the doorway.
“I have meetings,” he said, as if apologizing. “And some… clean-up from last night’s storm.”
“The literal one or the metaphorical?” she asked.
“Both,” he said. “Stay inside. Let the guards do their jobs. I’ll be back before dinner.”
“Be careful,” she blurted.
He paused.
“I always am,” he said.
“That’s not the same as being safe,” she countered.
His eyes softened. “I’ll be careful,” he corrected. “Happy now?”
“Not really,” she said. “But it’ll do.”
He stepped close, tipped her chin up, and kissed her once—quick, almost chaste, but carrying the echo of last night.
Then he was gone.
The day unfolded in small pieces. Elena helped Rosa experiment with a new dessert recipe in the kitchen. She read on the lounge sofa, her fingers absently brushing the places on her skin where his hands had been.
Tommaso came by after school, chattering about soccer drills.
“Boss said he’ll come Sunday,” he reminded her. “Do you think he will?”
“I think,” Elena said slowly, “that he will move heaven and earth to try.”
“That’s what Papa said!” Tommaso beamed. “He said when Boss promises something, it happens. Except when people shoot at him.”
“Let’s hope no one shoots at him during your game,” she said, heart squeezing.
When evening fell and Matteo returned, the house exhaled.
He smelled of rain and cologne and the faint, acrid tang of gun oil.
Dinner was quiet but comfortable. Their knees brushed under the table once, twice, lingering a little longer each time.
Later that week, they fell into a new rhythm.
Some nights they slept apart, each in their own room, a polite distance maintained. Other nights, one of them would knock on the other’s door, and the distance collapsed.
It wasn’t every night. It wasn’t a routine they’d agreed on.
It was just… them. Messy, imperfect, two broken lines crossing more often than they had any right to.
It was almost a month later when Elena first realized something was off.
It started with the smell.
Rosa was frying garlic in the kitchen for dinner when the scent hit Elena like a physical blow. Her stomach lurched. The room spun.
“You look green,” Rosa said, frowning. “Sit.”
“I’m fine,” Elena managed, swallowing hard. “Maybe I didn’t sleep well.”
“You have been tired,” Rosa observed. “And you push your food around like a child.”
“I eat,” Elena protested weakly.
“Like a bird,” Rosa said. “Sit.”
Elena sat.
The dizziness passed, leaving behind a faint, persistent nausea that clung to her for the rest of the day. She blamed it on stress. On storms. On Matteo returning late with blood on his collar—someone else’s this time.
But when her period didn’t come, days stretching past the date marked in soft pencil on her planner, the denial cracked.
She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the little calendar, counting and recounting.
One week late.
Two.
Her heart pounded in her throat.
She thought about stress again. About how her body might be revolting against the constant adrenaline.
Then she thought about his hand on her hip, his breath in her ear, the way they’d forgotten everything except each other…
“Oh God,” she whispered.
The trip to the pharmacy was out of the question. House rules. No unauthorized leaving.
She chewed on her lip, then hitched up her courage and went to find Rosa.
The housekeeper was in the linen closet, folding towels with military precision.
“Rosa?” Elena said, voice a little too high. “Can I ask you something? And can you not… tell anyone, unless I tell you it’s okay?”
Rosa looked up slowly, eyes sharpening. “That is a dangerous way to begin a sentence, signora.”
“I know,” Elena said. “But I… um…”
The words stuck.
Rosa’s gaze dropped to Elena’s hands, where her fingers twisted together. Then lower, to her abdomen.
Understanding flickered.
“Ah,” she said quietly. “I see.”
“You don’t,” Elena blurted. “I mean, maybe you do, but I don’t even know yet, and I don’t want to jump to conclusions and—”
“Breathe,” Rosa ordered. “Can you leave the house for one hour with a guard without the boss asking why?”
“Probably not,” Elena said. “He’d want to know.”
Rosa nodded once. “Then we will not leave.”
She went to a drawer, pulled out a small box, and handed it to Elena.
Elena stared at it.
Two thin sticks in plastic packaging. Instructions printed in tiny text.
“You… keep… pregnancy tests in the linen closet?” she asked, dazed.
Rosa shrugged. “In this house? I keep many things.”
“Have…” Elena swallowed. “Has this… happened before? With other women?”
“Other women are not my business,” Rosa said. “You are.”
Tears prickled behind Elena’s eyes. “Thank you.”
“Go,” Rosa said. “Use the small bathroom near your room. I will… check the hallway.” Her lips twitched. “To make sure no men suddenly develop an interest in hand towels.”
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