He's Jealous, But Won't Admit It

CATALINA'S PERSPECTIVE

The past few weeks blurred into paint samples, floor plans, and late-night P*******t boards. I was constantly on my feet. Sweeping. Re-measuring. Adjusting the lighting to find the softest glow.

This place, my place, was finally taking shape.

Luca parked out front again today. He never complained, even though I dragged him from hardware stores to plant nurseries to antique shops where the air smelled like mothballs and forgotten dreams.

“Be honest,” I said as we stepped inside the shop. “Is the ivy too much?”

He followed my gaze up the wall where vines snuck up along the old brick like fingers. “It’s charming,” he said, brushing dust from a crate. “But it kinda looks like it’s alive. Like it’ll eat someone.”

I laughed. “That’s the point. I want it to feel like a secret garden. Something you stumble into, not a polished chain store.”

He gave a little smile, stepping over a roll of carpet I hadn’t laid out yet. “Still think it’s weird the Don’s wife is doing her own hammering.”

I turned toward him. “Do I look like I need someone else to hang curtains?”

He looked down quickly, ears slightly pink. “No, ma’am - I mean, Catalina.”

I tilted my head. “And besides, I told you. I want this place to reflect me, not just my name. I’m not building an empire. Just a bookstore.”

He followed me up the narrow staircase to the second floor. I gestured toward the open layout. “This will be the living area. Over there, a tiny kitchen. I’ll add a plush rug and a reading chair by the window. A tub in the bathroom, too. I need that.”

“You really think the Don’s gonna let you live here?”

“I’m not *living* here,” I said simply. “But I want the option. Somewhere quiet.”

He raised a brow, but didn’t push. Instead, he watched as I opened the storage room door and ran a finger along the newly sealed frame.

“This has to stay airtight,” I told him. “Books are delicate. And the first editions, I want to preserve them.”

“I still don’t get why you’re not hiring contractors.”

I shrugged, brushing my palm across the smooth wood of the front counter. “Because I enjoy this. And… it’s how I was raised.”

His eyes narrowed just a little. “What do you mean?”

I paused. “My brother and I used to build forts in the attic. Used to sketch out hideouts and label each drawer. He always said the world was loud, but we could build our own quiet.”

Luca blinked. “You have a brother?”

I turned away quickly. “Had. He’s not around.”

The air hung still for a second.

Then I smiled. “Come on. Help me carry these cushions in. I want to test the reading nook.”

He followed me out without another word, though I noticed the way he looked at me, longer than usual. Softer.

I ignored it. That wasn’t part of the plan.

Later, when I stood in the middle of the store, inhaling the scent of old brick, new paint, and soil from the potted rosemary by the door, I let the name slip from my tongue.

"Libreria Fioretta."

A name soft enough to feel like freedom. A bloom in stone.

“This okay?” Luca asked beside me, arms crossed as he looked around.

I nodded. “It’s perfect.”

~~~~~

DANTE’S PERSPECTIVE

“Take a detour,” I said, snapping the file shut.

Enzo didn’t question it. Just nodded and adjusted the wheel.

Malcolm glanced at me from the passenger seat, but he didn’t speak either. Smart man.

I leaned back, eyes locked on the window, jaw tight. I hadn’t seen her in over a week. Maybe two. She’d been busy with the bookstore, her bookstore. The one I gave her.

I didn’t think much of it at the time. Just another demand. Something quiet, simple. Something I could give without breaking anything.

But the second we turned down that narrow street, the one brushing against the border of Lucchese and Moretti turf, something twisted inside me.

She was there.

Catalina.

Outside the shop.

Laughing.

Sweaty.

And not fucking alone.

Luca Alessi was beside her, shirt halfway unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, casual as hell. No jacket. No tie. Just standing there with her like he belonged beside her.

Her towel in hand, wiping sweat off her brow, her neck.

And those jeans.

Tight. Fitted.

I saw the way they hugged her ass, my fucking view. That was mine. Her smile. Her laugh. The way her body moved when she reached for the clipboard he held.

I felt my jaw lock. My knuckles cracked from clenching too hard.

“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath, the air thickening in my lungs.

They were talking casually. Easy. Like they’d been doing this a while. Her elbow brushed his arm once when she reached for the plan. He didn’t move away.

Neither did she.

I wanted to get out of the damn car. Drag her away by the wrist. Throw him into the fucking pavement.

But I didn’t move.

Not yet.

I just watched.

Watched her tilt her head, smile at him, say something I couldn’t hear, but could feel. Something light. Warm.

Not for me.

Never for me.

Malcolm glanced at me again through the mirror. Enzo adjusted the rearview like he didn’t just feel the temperature in the car fucking plummet.

“She’s… comfortable,” Malcolm said carefully, almost like he regretted saying it right after.

I didn’t look at him.

My eyes were still on her.

On them.

I gave her space. Gave her the goddamn bookstore. I didn’t ask for anything in return.

But now I’m wondering if space was the worst thing I could’ve given.

Because Luca?

Luca was filling it.

And I was two minutes away from making the ground bleed for it.