Chapter 14
14
Lorenzo
I know the look on my mother’s face before she speaks.
It’s the one she used to wear when I was ten and coming home with bruised knuckles and a chipped tooth.
The look that says… You don’t have to tell me what you did. I already know.
But more importantly, at this very moment, it clearly states, You are not one of them. Know your place.
We’re in the staff kitchen. She’s elbow-deep in dough for tomorrow’s breakfast rolls, her hands moving with the kind of practiced calm only someone who’s lived an entire lifetime serving others can maintain.
The overhead light flickers as I brace for a lecture.
It’s coming…that much I know for sure.
If my mother is one thing it’s predictable with how she reacts when she thinks I’m fucking up.
I lean against the counter, waiting. I wish she would just spit it out already so I can go on with my day.
She coughs once, clearing her throat.
Be careful what you wish for.
“You keep staring at that girl, and we are going to have a problem, Enzo p>
My shoulders tense. Just slightly. But enough for her to notice because she always notices.
“What girl?” I ask, but it comes out more like a deadpan because with my mother, I’m a terrible liar and an even worse actor. With everyone else, I’m fantastic, but Mom is my kryptonite.
She gives me a look that is so sharp it could slice through bone. “I didn’t raise an idiot. Don’t pretend to be one now p>
I lean back harder, crossing my arms like that might protect me. “What if I am p>
She slams the dough against the marble, the crack echoing through the room. “Then you’re being reckless p>
There’s a long beat. The only sound in the air is the dough being rolled and turned.
Actually, if you strain real hard, you can hear the hum of the refrigerator, but other than that, you could drop a pin, and it would echo.
My heartbeat pounds in my chest.
“If someone else notices,” she continues, voice tightening as she punches the dough, over and over again, “we’re both gone. Out. No job. No place to go. No second chances. You understand p>
I nod, jaw tight. “So we just pretend nothing’s happening? Pretend I don’t feel p>
“Yes.” She cuts in sharply, finally lifting her gaze.
Her eyes land on mine with a force that makes my back go ramrod straight.
“That’s exactly what you do. Because this isn’t a fairy tale, Lorenzo. And you’re not a prince p>
That lands hard. Too hard. Like a fist between the ribs.
I swallow the hurt down, but I swear it feels like I’ve just consumed needles by how hard it burns.
Then I ask quietly, “Why can’t we just go home p>
Her brows tighten. A small movement, but a tell, nonetheless, and certainly big enough for me to notice.
She looks away, wiping her hands on a towel that’s already clean. “It’s not that simple p>
“Why?” I push, taking a step toward her.
She grabs a bowl from the cabinet with more force than necessary. “Because it isn’t p>
I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t give me anything else.
I file the silence away. Add it to the growing list of secrets we pretend aren’t secrets.
Another thing to unpack later.
For now, I’ll concentrate on getting my work done, because despite what my mother says, I have no intention of staying away from Victoria.
An hour later, I do what I always do when I can’t get her out of my head. Which is every night. Every hour. Every damn breath.
I find the worn copy of Wuthering Heights that she’s been reading in the library, and slide a note and pebble inside.
Same time.
I don’t sign it. There’s no need. She knows it’s from me.
The rest of the day, I keep my head down.
Ever since I walked past Mr. Danforth’s office and heard him call me a fucking idiot, and then saying my mother wasn’t good enough to work in his house, I’ve needed a distraction so I don’t kill the man.
I fix a busted pipe under the main sink. Oil a squeaky hinge in the foyer closet.
Reattach a loose banister rail that’s been threatening to send someone to the ER…
I pretend everything is normal.
Then I see her, and two things happen after that…
One: I’m no longer thinking of gutting Victoria’s father.
Two: She’s the only thought I’m now able to have.
I pretend I’m not thinking of her smile, her mouth, her laugh that hits me underneath my ribs like a fishhook.
But mentally, I’m like a ticking time bomb. Waiting.
And by midnight, I’m already at the meet spot.
She steps into the hallway with that same spark in her eyes, and it makes my pulse accelerate.
She’s the match, and I’m the gasoline.
“Come on,” she whispers, grabbing my hand before I can say a word. “I want to show you something p>
“Can you give me a hint?” I tease, letting her pull me along. “Or are we playing hide-and-seek p>
She squeezes my fingers, smirking over her shoulder. “It’s better if I show you p>
Her steps are faster than normal, which excites me.
We sneak past the grand stairwell. Up two levels. Down a narrow hallway.
She leads me into a corner of the house I’ve never seen. Which says a lot, since I was sure I’d seen everything in this place. Guess not.
She pushes aside an antique mirror. It’s the biggest mirror I’ve ever seen.
It flings over easily despite its size. My eyes go wider when I see what’s behind it. There’s a small wooden door.
She pulls out a key from her pocket—silver and old—and slips it into the lock.
“Victoria,” I whisper, leaning close, my breath ghosting her ear. “Are you about to murder me in a hidden hallway p>
“Don’t tempt me,” she jokes as she slips inside first.
I follow. She closes the door behind us with a quiet click.
The room is dusty but quiet, and the air smells like the room hasn’t been aired out in decades.
It probably hasn’t, by the looks of things.
“What is this place?” I ask, running my fingers over the peeling wallpaper.
“It was added during Prohibition.” She drags her hand along a wood-paneled wall. “My great-grandfather used it to make and store bootleg booze. It’s been boarded up for decades, but I found the key in an old ledger p>
She glances back at me, eyes gleaming in the low light. “No one knows I come here p>
“You’re full of surprises, Little Bird.” I step closer.
Despite how small the room is, it’s still wide enough to hold a faded green velvet couch and a vintage record player perched on an old crate.
She walks over to the record player, gently dusting off the top with her sleeve.
“Does it work?” I lean over the crate beside her.
She glances over her shoulder, smiling. “Yeah, it still works. It’s just a little dusty p>
I nod toward it. “Then turn it on p>
She raises a brow, teasing, “You trying to dance with me p>
I shrug, stepping closer until our arms almost brush. “You trying to get out of it p>
She laughs under her breath, the sound warm and dangerous. Then she crouches beside the crate of vinyls.
“You realize I have to pick the right mood.” She flips through records. “Jazz? Blues? Cheesy ’60s love songs p>
“Surprise me,” I challenge, watching her.
She pulls out a vinyl, holds it up to the low light, then slips it from its sleeve.
She sets it on the turntable. The needle scratches before melting into a slow, old-school tune.
The soft tune settles over us in no time.
I hold out my hand, and she takes it, her fingers threading through mine.
We start to dance. If you can call it that.
It’s awkward at first.
Too close, then not close enough.
But somewhere between the second verse and the lazy sax solo, she sinks into me.
Her head finds my chest, and my hand slides to her lower back.
We move as one. Like the world outside this hidden room no longer exists.
“What happens in the fall?” I ask quietly, barely above the music.
She exhales.
The thought of her leaving physically pains me.
Fall isn’t that far away.
Fuck.
Just the thought of it makes me want to vomit.
She looks up at me then, like she already knows what I’m thinking. I feel like she always knows.
“It’s not that far,” she whispers. “A few hours, tops. We’ll make it work p>
I want to believe her. But my mother’s voice echoes in my head. You’re not a prince.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, tipping her chin up to study me.
I shake my head, forcing a small smile. “Nothing p>
She squints at me. “Liar p>
I just kiss her temple because it’s easier than explaining. Instead, the unspoken words settle in my chest.
We dance a little longer. She hums along to the music. Off-key but perfect.
Eventually, we collapse onto the couch p>
“You planning anything big for school?” I ask, tilting my head toward her.
She shrugs, the movement brushing her shoulder against mine. “A few things. I want to intern at a paper. Maybe join a writing group. You p>
“Avoid jail,” I joke.
“That sounds perfect,” she giggles.
The record finishes its song, but neither of us moves to change it.
I let the moment take me in.
Because she’s next to me. And everything else can wait.