“Chi ha l'amor nel petto, ha lo sprone a' fianchi.”

(He who has love in his heart has spurs at his sides.)

Isabella Visconti

Enzo

The next day, I find myself wandering into her room again.
After breakfast, I follow her silently and watch her getting comfortable in the red single couch, bathed in the soft glow of instrumental jazz, fully absorbed in the pages of a book.

Today, surprisingly, she’s wearing shorts and a huge, worn band t-shirt.
Still, she carries her blanket everywhere.
My presence doesn’t seem to bother her, or maybe she is just pretending.
And more than I care to admit, that irritates me.

She giggles at something in the book.
A laugh so light, so sincere.
I don’t deserve a place like this.
Maybe that’s why it hits so hard that she allows me in.
This time she doesn’t tell me to leave.
And I don’t dare to point it out.

I pause at her desk.
My eyes are drawn to the sketches and notes that look like painting concepts.
A notebook with pages torn out, the curled edges still holding the memory of what was there.
The next page is blank… but not really.
I can see the ghost of words beneath it, deep impressions from something written too hard, too urgently.
Almost without thinking, I run a finger over the grooves, tracing the scars of the pen.
What words were heavy enough to press through the page?

Next to it, a few photographs she’d marked.
One shows a woman in her sixties, probably her mother.
Another, young Jennifer, about twelve years old, flanked by two little twin boys.
And the last one: recent. Jennifer, holding a baby girl.

They all share the same green eyes.
The same faint smile.
The same beauty mark under their brow.

But her personal dossier holds none of this.
Nothing about a family. Nothing at all.
She’s hidden it all with surgical precision.
It can’t be a coincidence.

“What’s your real name?” I ask.

She doesn’t bother to look surprised. She just looks up, assessing me with the cold calculation of a chess piece deciding whether to move or strike.
“Why do you want to know?”
Her voice is low and cautious.

There is a weight behind her tone. A truth unspoken, pressing into my chest like a stone.
“You don’t have to answer,” I say, trying to sound casual but I fail. “I was just curious.”
I glance again at the photos. “Who are they?”

“My mom. And the twins, Nicolas and Samuel. My brothers.”
Her voice trails off, like she’s deciding whether to say more.
“And my daughter,” she adds, like a bomb dropped gently but that crashes everything.

My jaw tightens, teeth grinding before I catch myself.

She laughs, quiet at first, then louder when she sees my face. 

“I wish I could take a picture of your face right now,” she says, amused. “She’s Penny, Sam’s daughter.” 

I exhale sharply, annoyed.

And for the first time…

She really, really pisses me off.

But the feeling doesn’t last long. I walk slowly in her direction.
“Why aren’t they in your records?”
The words escape before I can stop them. I slide my hand in my trouser pockets
“Because I don’t want them to be,” she says matter-of-factly, nonchalant, reading her book.

I stop in front of her, towering over her and leaning forward.
“You can’t just delete information from police records,” I say, looking straight at her. She looks up, lifting her chin.
“I did it. It wasn't that hard.”

Then shrugs, too casually. “I have a sweet friend who’s very persuasive.” She gives me a too-sweet smile. I hate how calm she looks, like she knows exactly how to twist the knife.

Of course.
Gino.

“You’re the only person I know who’d call Gino ‘sweet,’” I mutter. “He’s impressive, sure. But he can be grotesque when he’s pissed.”
“Don’t look at me like that.” Her lips curl into something dangerously close to a smirk.
“How am I looking at you?”
“Like I escaped from an asylum.”
“Didn’t you?” I say, straightening again.
“Funny,” her tone dry, turning back to her book.

But I’m not done.
Not yet.
I want her attention.
God help me, I want all of it.

“Do you see them, your family?” I ask.
“Yes,” she replies. “I told them I was on a well-deserved vacation. So they won’t bother me these days.”

She pauses, looks up and grins.
“Hey, that’s a good idea. You stay here as my housekeeper, and I’ll go to Sicilia, lie on a beach and seduce a hot Sicilian man.”

I ignore her provocation and walk away. She looks pleased with herself.

I grab a random book from her shelf, slouch into the couch, and pretend to read.
I just remain silent, observing her.
The way she moves through her space, like the world outside doesn’t exist.
Like this room is her country, and she is its quiet queen.

She glances at me now and then, but never asks me to leave.

She puts on 10 Things I Hate About You. She clearly has seen the movie too many times.
I can tell by how her lips move before the dialogue hits.
She murmurs the lines like old friends. Like they’d never betray her.
And she smiles the whole time.
Not forced. Not polite.
Real.

She laughs before the jokes even land.
Leans forward a little when Patrick dances on the bleachers.

She mouths Kat’s poem like it’s sacred and lets a tear fall.

But the moment it touches her cheek, she wipes it away impatient, as if the softness never happened.

And I…
I can’t look away.

When the movie ends, she stays in bed, scrolling through her phone.
Her thumbs move quickly texting.
Jennifer looks concentrated. But every time I move, her gaze finds me.
Her reaction makes me think of a cat.

“Any news about the guy who blew up your house?” Her voice cuts through the room.
Any news? Yes, but nothing I should worry her about. I open my mouth to answer.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“No, but I see it. You were about to.” I frown, because she’s right.
“So?” she insists. She stares at me, inquisitive with those green eyes unlayering my soul.

I break eye contact and sigh. I’m pretty sure she must be smiling triumphantly now.
“No one knows where Parłowicz is. 

But a few of his men… they’ve been sniffing around, trying to hire low-level criminals.

No one’s taking the job. Too vague. Too messy.

And Parłowicz he’s… he’s a problem. Everyone knows it.

No one wants to end up on the wrong side of his uncle.”

Jennifer remains silent for a moment, processing it.
“I will be out tomorrow. There is a place I need to be.”
I straighten in an instant, pulse kicking up. My jaw clenches before the words are out of my mouth. 

“No way.” The words come out low, rough, harsher than I meant, but I don’t take it back.

For a second, her brows lift in surprise. Then she frowns, her eyes sharp, a spark of defiance lighting behind them.

 “I wasn’t asking for permission, and it’s important. I wouldn’t risk going out if it wasn’t.”
“What is it?” I ask, the fight already draining from my voice.
“I… it’s…” She shifts in place. “It’s the death anniversary of my best friend’s father. I join her every year. I can’t miss it. If it makes you feel better, I’ll take Mark with me.”

Mark? Why the fuck would she choose Mark?
“Mark?”
“Yes, he’s quiet.”
“I’m quiet too.”
“Yes, but he transmits calm. And you’re… unsettling.”
“Does my presence unsettle you? Do I make you nervous?” I tease.
She huffs. “In your dreams.”
In my dreams I do way more than get her nervous. I would love to answer her that. But I restrain myself.
I’d be stepping into dangerous terrain, and I don’t know if I’d be able to stop.

“I’ll go with you tomorrow,” I say instead.

Her eyes narrow, and for a moment, I think she’s going to argue. Instead, she only smirks, quiet and sure and returns to her book, tucked in her bed.

After a few minutes, her blinks grow slower, heavier… until sleep claims her.

I stay.
The warm breeze from the open window brushes against me.
Only the daylight filters through, illuminating the room in a quiet hush.

She looks soft, in peace…
Is she really asleep?
She barely sleeps, that’s why her body gave in now.

I get close to her, slow, careful. As if even the air might wake her.
I shouldn’t do it.
But I can’t help myself.

I brush a strand of hair from her face.
It spills across the pillow like ink.
Her scent hugs me.
Coconut and salt.
Like the sea.
Like summer.
Like something I can’t touch but need to breathe.

A smell that will haunt me long after I leave the room.

I bow into her hair.

 Breathe her in, deep and slow. 

Let the scent carve itself into my memory. 

Into the hollow of my chest.
etched in every place inside me that still remembers what longing feels like.

I watch her a little longer.
Her chest rises and falls in that steady rhythm only peace allows.
Then she shifts, and kicks off the blanket.
Fuck.
Her skin looks unreal in the soft midday light.
One leg inked with the snake, the other bare.
Art and canvas. Chaos and calm.
I want to memorize every inch.
I want her tattoos, the stories under her skin.
I want her hair tangled in my fist.
I want her voice, raw, when she lets go.
I want… too much.

She makes a soft sound in her sleep.
A sigh that breaks the spell.
I leave.

Hours pass, but she doesn’t leave me.
When the night falls, in the dark silence of the house…
I crave her.
Not just her skin.
Not just her laugh.
Not just the mystery.
I crave the way she exists when she thinks no one is watching.
I ache for her in the quiet.
And in that ache, I know.
I’m already too far gone.

Jennifer

A nightmare wakes me, breathless as always.
I calm myself before leaving the bed, gazing at the orange glow spilling through the window.
It’s already noon.

And I’m not thinking about him… or about the faint scent of sandalwood, dark bergamot, and something dangerously warm that still lingers in the air.
My gaze drifts to the couch where he was. Then to the door.
As if he might walk in any second.

He doesn’t.

I look away. Better this way. I check my phone.
A calendar notification blinks: “It’s tomorrow.”

Twelve years, buried in strings and chords.
I used to think I was helping Inés.
But the truth is, she’s the one who reminds me what love is supposed to sound like.

And sometimes, in moments like this,
I let myself believe.
I still have a chance to experience it.