Belle?
Chapter 10
Rocco pushed open the heavy wooden door to his study, his movements sharp, impatient. The moment he stepped inside, he reached for the bottle of whiskey on the bar cart, pouring himself a generous amount. He needed to silence the unease clawing at his chest.
Lucinda followed him in, closing the door behind her with a soft click. "Oh no, no vamos a hacer esto." [Oh no, we're not doing this.]
Rocco didn't look at her as he lifted the glass to his lips. "¿Hacer qué?" [Doing what?]
Lucinda crossed her arms, eyes locked onto his tense form. "Pretender que eso no pasó." [Pretending like that didn't just happen.]
He exhaled, setting the glass down harder than necessary. "No tengo tiempo para esto, Lucinda." [I don't have time for this, Lucinda.]
She scoffed, stepping closer. "Haz tiempo." [Make time.]
Rocco turned then, his dark gaze hard, unreadable. "Fue tu idea traerla aquí, ¿recuerdas?" [It was your idea to bring her here, remember?]
Lucinda narrowed her eyes. "Sugerí contratar a una chef. No esperaba que actuases como si hubieras visto un fantasma cuando puso ese plato frente a ti." [I suggested hiring a chef. I didn't expect you to act like you'd seen a fucking ghost when she put that bowl in front of you.]
Rocco clenched his jaw. "Estás imaginando cosas." [You're imagining things.]
Lucinda let out a dry laugh. "No imagino cosas, Rocco. Te conozco. Sé cómo luces cuando algo te afecta." [I don't imagine things, Rocco. I know you. I know what you look like when something gets under your skin.] She tilted her head, studying him. "Y ella te afectó, ¿verdad?" [And she got under your skin, didn't she?]
Silence stretched between them, thick, suffocating.
Rocco looked away, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake off the weight pressing down on him. "No fue nada." [It was nothing.]
Lucinda arched a brow. "¿De verdad? Porque desde donde estaba sentada, parecías al borde de un puto ataque de pánico." [Really? Because from where I was sitting, you looked like you were on the verge of a fucking panic attack.]
He tensed, his fingers flexing at his sides. "Déjalo, Lucinda." [Drop it, Lucinda.]
She stepped closer, her voice lowering. "¿Quién es ella?" [Who is she?]
Rocco's gaze snapped back to hers, sharp as a blade. "No es nadie." [She's no one.]
Lucinda held his stare, searching for a crack in the mask he wore so well. But as always, Rocco Montenegro was a fortress, his walls built high and unyielding.
Still, she knew better. She saw it—the flicker of something in his eyes when he had tasted that food. Recognition.
But before she could press further, the sharp buzz of his phone cut through the air.
Rocco pulled it from his pocket, glancing at the screen. Vincenzo.
His expression shifted instantly. The simmering tension from their conversation evaporated, replaced by something colder, sharper.
"Dime." [Tell me.] His voice was steady, but Lucinda could see the way his posture stiffened.
She watched as he listened, his fingers tightening around the glass still in his hand.
"¿Estás seguro?" [Are you sure?]
A pause.
Then, his lips curled slightly—not a smile, but something far more dangerous.
"Mándame la ubicación. Voy para allá." [Send me the location. I'm on my way.]
He ended the call, slipping his phone back into his pocket with a decisive motion.
Lucinda leaned against the desk, arms crossed. "¿Negocios?" [Business?]
Rocco grabbed his jacket, shrugging it on. "Siempre." [Always.]
She smirked, but there was something calculating in her gaze. "Trata de no ensuciar mucho la camisa de sangre, cariño." [Try not to get too much blood on your shirt, cariño.]
Rocco didn't reply. He was already heading for the door.
And just like that, he was gone.
Rocco shut the door to his bedroom with a quiet click, the dim glow of the city filtering through the tall windows. The weight of Lucinda's words clung to him like smoke, curling in the back of his mind, refusing to dissipate.
"Ella te afectó, ¿verdad?" [She got under your skin, didn't she?]
No.
He unfastened the top buttons of his shirt, rolling his shoulders as he walked toward the dresser. He wasn't affected. He was irritated—by the arrogance, by the coincidence, by the way that woman looked at him as if she knew something he didn't.
He should've ignored it. He should've brushed it off, moved on, just like he had with every other insignificant person who had crossed his path.
But the taste of that damn caldo de alma still lingered. The same dish he hadn't had in years.
Rocco's fingers tightened around the edge of the dresser.
Coincidencia. It had to be.
He exhaled sharply, shaking off the thought, and focused on the present. On the job.
He unbuttoned his shirt, tossing it onto the chair before grabbing a fresh one from the closet—black, crisp, expensive. The act of dressing was automatic, his movements precise, calculated. Buttoning his cuffs, he reached for his watch, fastening it with a practiced ease before slipping on his leather gloves.
Focus.
His business required his attention. The missing cocaine shipment had been located, and that took priority over whatever distraction this "Belle" woman was turning into.
Rocco stepped out of his room, car keys in hand, his mind still tangled with Lucinda's relentless questioning. The taste of that dish still lingered on his tongue, dragging memories to the surface—memories he had long buried.
He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back, shoving those thoughts aside. He had more important matters to deal with.
But just as he turned down the hallway, someone crashed into him.
"¡Joder! ¿Qué demonios—?" [Fuck! What the hell—?]
Sienna stumbled back, eyes wide. "Oh! I'm so sorry, sir!"
Rocco's gaze snapped to her, irritation flaring in his chest.
"Watch where you're going," he bit out in English, stepping aside. "Why the hell are you in my way?"
But Sienna barely seemed to hear him. Her face lit up with excitement, her hands clasped together.
"I just—I just wanted to say thank you! You don't know how much this means to me!" she gushed, words spilling out in a rush. "I swear I won't let you down. I'll make the best food you like—anything! Anything you want, I'll make it perfectly. Just—just thank you so much for this opportunity!"
Rocco barely concealed his irritation. She was talking too much.
With a sharp breath, he moved to step past her.
But she blocked his way again.
"Sir, I am so sorry for what happened that day. I swear I won't let you down. I swear I'll make the best kind of foods you like. Just anything. I just—thank you so much for this job. You don't know how much this job means to me."
Rocco stilled. Something about the way she spoke—so eager, so unguarded—struck something inside him. Something distant, buried beneath layers of time.
He stared at her, eyes narrowing.
Why does she remind me of someone?
A young girl. Carefree. Stubborn. His friend.
The thought was unsettling.
Slowly, he took a step forward.
Sienna instinctively moved back.
Another step.
She backed away again, her breath hitching, until her spine met the cold wall.
Silence stretched between them.
Rocco was close now—so close that she could see the golden flecks in his dark eyes, the sharp angles of his face. His gaze bored into hers, searching, digging beneath the surface of who she was.
Sienna swallowed hard. "S-sir?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. "What's wrong?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he reached out, his fingers brushing against her chin, tilting her face up slightly. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down her spine, but his expression remained unreadable.
His thumb grazed her cheek in the faintest caress. Then, he leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear as he whispered—
"Aléjate de mí, cerda." [Stay away from me, you pig.]
And just like that, he pulled away and walked past her, leaving her frozen in place.
Her heart pounded against her ribs.
She clutched her chest, breathless, confusion swirling in her mind.
Did he remember me?
What did he just say?