Part Five: The Woman Watching
Their food arrived.
They ate in companionable silence.
It was only when they were leaving—Masimo’s hand at the small of her back guiding her through the restaurant—that Serena noticed the woman watching them from across the room.
Mid-thirties. Expensive suit. Eyes sharp with interest.
The woman raised her wine glass in a mock toast when she caught Serena’s gaze.
Her smile knowing.
“Who was that?” Serena asked once they were outside.
“Juliana Rosi,” Masimo said, his tone neutral.
“She runs operations for the Carlotti family.”
Serena stopped walking.
The Carlotti family.
As in the mob family that supposedly controls the south side.
He sighed.
“Yes.”
“And she was watching us.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re living with me. Because you left Henrique. Because in this city, everything is currency. And information about me is valuable.”
He opened the car door for her.
“Don’t worry about Juliana. She’s not a threat to you.”
But Serena did worry.
Because she was starting to understand the world Masimo inhabited.
A world where violence was business and business was war conducted with smiles and expensive suits.
A world where her presence in his life could be interpreted as weakness. As distraction. As opportunity.
That night, she couldn’t sleep.
She lay in the guest room, staring at the ceiling.
Her mind churning through everything Detective Morrison had said. Everything the lawyer had explained.
All the ways this could go wrong.
A soft knock at her door made her sit up.
“Serena? I saw your light. Are you all right?”
Masimo’s voice. Concerned.
She should have said she was fine. Sent him away. Maintained the boundaries.
Instead, she opened the door.
He stood there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair disheveled. Looking more human than she’d ever seen him.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked.
“Too many thoughts?”
She gestured vaguely.
“My brain won’t shut off.”
“Want company? Just to talk.”
He must have seen the hesitation on her face because he added quickly:
“We can sit in the living room. I’ll make tea. Very proper and above board.”
She smiled despite everything.
“Okay. Tea sounds good.”
They ended up on opposite ends of his leather sofa.
Mugs of chamomile warming their hands. The city glittering beyond the windows.
It reminded her of that first night. Standing at these same windows. Both of them carefully not discussing the electricity that hummed between them.
“Tell me something about yourself that has nothing to do with work or Henrique.”
Masimo’s voice was gentle.
“Something just for you.”
She thought about it.
“I used to paint. Watercolors mostly. Landscapes, abstracts. I had a whole setup in my apartment before Henrique moved in. He said it took up too much space, so I packed it away. I haven’t painted in almost two years.”
“Why did you stop?”
“He said it was a waste of time. That I wasn’t very good. Anyway…”
She laughed without humor.
“Funny how I let him convince me of that. I used to love it.”
Masimo’s expression was carefully neutral.
“I have a studio space in the building. It’s just storage right now, but it has excellent light. You could set it up however you wanted.”
“Masimo, you’ve already done so much—”
“This isn’t charity, Serena. It’s a reminder.”
He leaned forward, his eyes intense.
“You had a life before him. Interests. Passions. Dreams. Don’t let him take those too.”
The words hit something deep in her chest.
Because Henrique hadn’t just taken her money and her safety.
He’d taken parts of her.
Pieces she’d given up willingly. To keep the peace. To make him happy. To avoid his jealousy.
“I want those parts back,” she whispered.
“I want to be myself again.”
“Then take them back.”
Masimo said it simply.
“Paint. Stay up late reading. Do whatever it is that makes you feel alive. You’re allowed to take up space, cara. You’re allowed to exist fully.”
She set down her tea.
Her hands trembling.
“Why are you doing this? All of this. You could have just let me stay in the guest room and left it at that. But you’re helping with lawyers, with security, with rebuilding my life. Why?”
He was quiet for a long moment.
His gaze dropping to his own mug.
“Because I’ve watched you for four years,” he said finally.
“Watched you dim yourself. Make yourself smaller. Accommodate someone who didn’t deserve you. And I said nothing because you weren’t mine to protect.”
He looked up.
“Then you called me that night. You chose to trust me. And I will not waste that trust.”
“Is that all it is?” Serena asked, her voice barely audible.
“Responsibility?”
His eyes met hers.
The intensity there stole her breath.
“No, Serena. It’s not.”
The admission hung between them.
Heavy with meaning and implication.
She should have pulled back. Should have retreated to safer ground.
But she was tired of being careful. Of protecting everyone else’s feelings while ignoring her own.
“What is it, then?” she asked.
He set down his mug.
Leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.
“I told myself for four years that you were off limits. That you belonged to someone else. That my interest in you was inappropriate.”
He paused.
“Then you called me. And everything I’d been denying became impossible to ignore.”
“Masimo—”
“But you’re vulnerable right now. You’re healing from trauma. The last thing you need is me complicating things with feelings you might not share. And might not be ready for, even if you did.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
“And if I told you I did share them? That I’ve been feeling this pull between us for years?”
His eyes darkened.
“Then I would tell you to take your time. To heal. To remember who you are without Henrique’s shadow. And when you’re ready—when you’re sure—we’ll talk about what this could be.”
It was the right answer.
The respectful answer.
The answer that proved everything she’d sensed about Masimo Bianke was true.
He could be patient. He could put her needs above his wants.
But God, it was hard to be sensible when he was looking at her like that.
“I should go to bed,” she said, standing on shaky legs.
“Try to sleep.”
He nodded, rising as well.
“Serena? For what it’s worth, I think you’re incredibly brave. What you’re doing—facing Henrique in court, rebuilding your life—it takes courage.”
She paused at the doorway.
“I don’t feel brave. I feel angry.”
“Anger can be productive,” he said quietly.
“Use it. Channel it. Make him regret ever underestimating you.”
That night, she dreamed of courtrooms and handcuffs.
Of Henrique’s face when he realized she’d gathered enough evidence to destroy him.
Of freedom that tasted like spring rain and new beginnings.
When she woke, she knew what she had to do.
