Only if you make them.
He doesn’t reply. I hold the phone to my chest and feel the quiet in my body. If I close my eyes, I can still feel his thumb at the bend of my knee, his laugh rough against my collarbone:You’re dangerous when you’re hungry, Lucia. I want the kind of hunger that makes you shake.
He always makes sure I get it.
I get out of his—now our—bed and make my way to his closet, which feels more like a small, dark museum. Everything is black, navy, or gray, hung up perfectly. I pull one of his dress shirts off a hanger and roll up the sleeves until they dig into my arms. I button it quickly and unevenly, half-expecting him to appear and fix it with those careful, loving hands. But I’m alone, with only the sound of the HVAC and the quiet of morning in someone else’s penthouse. My toes curl on the cold hallway floor as I head to the kitchen.
The apartment is empty, but it’s never really quiet. I hear the ice machine in the fridge and the clock ticking a little too fast. I turn on the espresso machine and pour thecoffeeinto Alessio’s favorite mug. It has the shipyard's logo, something he bought last year. It’s subtle, but it means something if you know what to look for. I didn’t, at least not before.
I drink my coffee in the living room, feeling a little cold, with my feet tucked under me on the soft leather couch. Blueprints are stacked on the coffee table—architectural, but not for commercial buildings. The lines are sharp, the notes written in Alessio’s handwriting. I trace a spiral staircase on the paper with my finger and picture him here after midnight, focused and determined to create something new from steel, glass, and his own stubbornness.
I thinkhe wants to make something beautiful in a world that doesn’t always value beauty. The idea hits me so hard that I have to swallow my coffee in one gulp.
I grab my sketchbook from my overnight bag and flip through drawings of veils, trains, layers of fabric, beadwork, and faces I half-remember or make up. I want to draw something for him, but my hands are shaky. Still, I start sketching, the linesuncertain at first. Slowly, a dress takes shape—not a wedding dress, but something bolder. It’s sleek and backless, with a train that looks sharp and dark. I imagine what he’d say if I wore it for him, standing under his gaze and the city lights.
I’m so caught up in wanting that I don’t notice the footsteps until the room feels different. I look up and see a girl at the end of the hallway, her chin lifted in either challenge or warning—it’s hard to say.
She’s young. She can pose, but she can’t quite hide how she feels: impatient, a bit angry, and a little hopeful. She looks ready for disappointment but still curious. Her hair is wet from the shower, braided, with the ends dripping onto an oversized hoodie. I don’t have to ask who she is. The auburn hair and the stubborn tilt of her chin are unmistakable. She must be Alessio’s daughter, Carina.
“You’re not the cleaning lady,” she says, blinking at me from across a gulf of Italian marble.
“Not unless you want me to be.” My voice shakes a little. “I’m Lucy.”
She sniffs, unmoved. "I know who you are. Dad won't shut up about you." Her eyes flick over me, assessing. "Like, at all. It's been Lucy this, Lucy, that for weeks."
This stuns me for a second. "I...didn't realize he talked about me."
The girl rolls her eyes at a universe of parental stupidity. She's come into the room for a reason, but now that she's confronted me, she drops the script. "He's gone?"
"Left before I woke up. He said he'll be back in a few hours." I brace myself for whatever this is.
“You must be Carina,” I say, though it’s obvious.
She sits down, cross-legged, in the exact middle of the carpet. “So,” she says, “how’s your morning?”
I want to say normal, but nothing in my life is normal anymore. “Quiet,” I admit. “Just waiting for your Dad.”
She fiddles with the cuffs of her hoodie, picking at a loose thread. “If he’s gone all night, it’s usually because he’s with Enzo or breaking someone’s nose.”
This silences me. She seems to enjoy it.
“Did you sleep okay?” she asks, and there’s a glimmer of gentleness in it, almost hidden, but there.
“Eventually,” I answer.
Carina studies me. It’s clinical at first, but then less so. “Why do you like my father?” she says, the way children sometimes lob grenades to see if you’ll duck.
I flush, unprepared for the intimacy of her question. “He makes me feel… visible. Like I can take up space, and it’s not a problem.” I know this is the wrong answer, but it slips out anyway.
Carina’s mouth twitches into a small, conspiratorial smile. “He likes you.” It doesn’t sound like an accusation, or not entirely.
I look away, embarrassed and suddenly desperate for something to do with my hands. I reach for my sketchbook, open it to the dress I was drawing.
“You design clothes,” she says, reaching out with neat, ink-stained fingers to tap the page. “Are these for work, or for you?”
I hesitate. “A little of both?”
She leans forward, the braid slipping over her shoulder. “Show me.”