Page 20 of Unworthy Ties
Gabriella
S ometimes I wondered how Rocco did it. He read me in ways that no one else could, deciphering my silences and half-smiles like a scholar translating some ancient text.
He remembered the most minute details about me: how I took my coffee on Sundays versus weekdays, which shoulder tensed first when I was anxious, the exact shade of copper my hair turned in late-afternoon light.
But it still came as a surprise to me when Rocco said he wanted to watch me work as if it were the most thrilling performance. I could hardly believe it, the way his bright eyes sparkled with genuine interest, as if he was about to witness a symphony unfold.
He had driven us to the waterfront at the crack of dawn, the sun barely a whisper on the horizon, painting the sky in delicate shades of lavender and gold. All the fishing boats were still; the only noise was the occasional squawk of a seagull.
“It’s beautiful,” I sighed.
“Hm, I think you’re more beautiful,” he responded, a rare playful undertone in his voice.
“I didn’t know you could be cheesy,” I laughed, lightly tapping him on the arm. “I thought it was Mr. Serious one hundred percent of the time.”
His laughter rippled through the quiet morning air, a sound that felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. “Only for you.”
I felt my cheeks warm at his words, and I turned away to hide the rapid beat of my heart. The morning air was crisp, and the scent of salt kissed my skin, but it was Rocco’s gaze that enveloped me like a warm embrace. I busied myself by unzipping my camera bag and pulling out my Canon.
I adjusted the lens, my fingers steadying against the cool metal.
The anticipation of capturing the world through my lens surged within me, but my thoughts remained tethered to Rocco.
I glanced at him, catching him in a moment of quiet admiration.
He leaned against the railing, the first light of dawn casting shadows across his face.
There was something enchanting about the way the morning light danced in his dark hair, the way it highlighted the strong lines of his jaw.
I could hardly breathe as I captured the scene, the click of the camera shutter echoing softly in the stillness.
“Hey, I’m not supposed to be your subject,” he teased.
“Why not?” I shot back, lowering the camera to meet his gaze. “You’re the most captivating thing here.”
“And here I thought I had a monopoly on cheesy lines.”
“Maybe we can share the title,” I replied, a smile tugging at my lips.
I moved the camera to the bay, the morning mist swirling like a delicate veil over the water. I snapped a photo, the lens capturing the gentle ripples and the soft blush of the awakening sky.
Rocco shifted beside me, his presence a steady anchor amid the swirling possibilities of the dawn. “What do you see when you look through that lens?” he asked, his voice low and curious.
I pondered for a moment, allowing the question to tumble around in my mind like the waves lapping against the dock.
“I see stories waiting to be told,” I finally replied, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Every frame holds a piece of life—emotions, moments locked in time, fleeting glances that can change everything.”
Rocco nodded, his expression thoughtful as he absorbed my words. “And what story do you see when you look at me?”
A moment of silence hung between us, charged with an unspoken understanding. I hesitated, searching for the right words, my heart racing at the thought of revealing the depth of my feelings.
“I see layers,” I said softly. “Like a photograph you have to develop slowly. On the surface, you’re sharp edges and shadows… the kind of man who doesn’t let the world get too close. But underneath, there’s light.”
For a long moment, he didn’t speak. His gaze held mine, steady and searching, as if trying to decide whether to deflect or embrace the truth laid bare before him. The air crackled with tension, the type of silence that begged for resolution.
“Careful,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to soften the words. “If you keep seeing me like that, I might start believing it.”
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it,” I replied, my heart beating louder than the waves crashing against the dock. “What do you see when you look at me?”
He studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable, like he was choosing each word with care.
“At first, you were just… part of the deal,” he admitted.
“An obligation I had to carry out.” His gaze lingered, steady and deliberate.
“But somewhere along the way, I stopped seeing it that way. Now…” His jaw flexed, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting his lips.
“Now I can’t picture anyone else in that role.
Wife or not, you’re the only one for me. ”
My breath caught in my throat, a mixture of shock and elation washing over me.
The weight of his words settled gently, like the first rays of sunlight warming my skin.
I had spent so much time measuring the spaces between us, but now those gaps felt impossibly small, as if the distance had been an illusion all along.
Just as I opened my mouth to reply, a sudden splatter hit Rocco’s shoulder. He looked down, stunned, then up at the seagull circling above as if it were mocking us.
“Well,” he said, brushing at his jacket with a sigh, “I guess the universe thinks I’m full of shit.”
I couldn’t hold back a laugh, shaking my head. “Full of shit or not, you’re the only one I want here.”
I finished snapping a few photos of the bay while Rocco removed his dirtied jacket, revealing the sharp lines of his shoulders beneath the crisp shirt. He gave me a half-smile, a quiet challenge in his eyes, as if daring me to keep looking.
He stepped closer, his gaze never leaving mine. “You keep looking at me like that, and I’m going to think you like what you see.”
I lowered my camera, smirking. “Maybe I do.”
He leaned in just enough for his voice to drop. “Then maybe this whole mess, seagulls and all, was worth it.” Rocco motioned toward the path leading away from the dock. “C’mon. I know a place.”
“A place?”
He gave me a sidelong look. “One that doesn’t involve birds or bad luck.”
A few minutes later, we were walking side by side through a quiet street tucked between stone buildings, the kind tourists never found. The scent of espresso and warm sugar drifted out from a tiny gelato shop with a faded awning and no name.
He pushed the door open, the tiny bell above tinkling like a chime, and we were enveloped in the rich aroma of coffee and freshly baked pastries. I could feel the warmth of the shop wrapping around us, contrasting sharply with the lingering chill of the morning air.
Rocco motioned for me to choose, his eyes alight with mischief as he leaned against the counter. “What’s your poison?” he asked, sliding a few bills across the worn wooden surface.
“Definitely not the same kind you use,” I said, quietly enough so the cashier didn’t overhear it.
“Careful, Piccola. Keep talking like that and I might think you’re auditioning.”
“Well, in that case—vanilla oat milk latte, one sugar, and zero felonies, please.”
The cashier nodded and disappeared behind the counter to prepare our drinks. Rocco and I moved to a small table by the window, the warm morning light filtering through the glass and casting soft patterns across the worn wood.
I took a slow sip from my cup once it arrived, savoring the creamy sweetness. Rocco watched me with the same steady gaze, a hint of amusement in his eyes. For a moment, the chaos of our lives felt miles away—just two people, sharing coffee and quiet.
But the chaos still lingered. Rocco still hadn’t figured out who had broken into our home and tried to kill us. The corner of my mouth turned down, the weight of uncertainty threatening to taint this peaceful moment.
“Hey,” Rocco said, his voice pulling me back to the present. “What’s on your mind?”
I hesitated, looking around to make sure nobody was within earshot. “The people who broke into our house.”
His eyes darkened, a shadow crossing his face as a flicker of anger and worry took hold. His jaw clenched tightly, and for a moment, the easy charm vanished, replaced by the fierce protectiveness I knew he buried deep inside.
“We’re still looking. But we’ll find whoever did it.”
Rocco reached across the table, his hand finding mine, offering silent reassurance. I squeezed his hand, drawing strength from his unwavering resolve.
“I know you guys will,” I whispered, meeting his gaze with determination of my own. “They can’t get away with this.”
His gaze bore into me, heavy with promise and something unyielding beneath the surface. “I’ll make sure they regret ever stepping foot near you.”
Together, we finished our drinks, the warmth spreading through us not just from the coffee but from the bond we shared. And as we rose from the table, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, I knew that no matter what obstacles we encountered, we would face them together.