Chapter 39
Chapter thirty-nine
Liam
The pasta is perfect. Al dente with a rich tomato sauce that Nicky claims his nonna taught him to make, though I suspect he’s been practicing in secret for weeks to get it exactly right.
Candles flicker between us on the small dining table, casting warm shadows across the walls of our apartment.
The bottle of red wine we’re sharing is halfway empty, and everything feels soft and golden and impossibly right.
“Today went well?” Nicky asks, twirling pasta around his fork with the casual expertise of someone who grew up eating Italian food properly.
“Really well, actually.” I take a sip of wine, savoring the warmth as it slides down my throat. “Dr. Torrino was great about me taking time off. Didn’t make it weird or ask too many questions. Just welcomed me back and put me straight to work.”
It was my first day back since the abduction, and I’d been nervous about how I’d handle it. Nervous that I’d fall apart the moment someone came in with a gunshot wound or that I’d freeze when faced with the kind of violence that defines our world.
But I didn’t. I worked through my cases with steady hands and a clear head, feeling more capable and confident than I have in months. Maybe years.
It’s strange, really. Prison destroyed me. Five years of systematic degradation and violence left me barely able to function in normal society. But being kidnapped by gangsters, watching men die in front of me, being held at gunpoint? Apparently, that’s something I can just... brush off.
Maybe it’s a matter of time. I was in prison for years, but only with the Russians for a day. The trauma didn’t have time to sink its hooks in deep, didn’t have years to reshape my brain into something that flinches at every shadow.
Or perhaps it’s love that has made me strong. Having Nicky, having purpose, having a life worth fighting for… maybe that changes the equation somehow. Maybe when you have something to lose, you develop resilience you didn’t know you possessed.
Either that or I’m already so crazy that a little bit more trauma doesn’t make any difference. Just adding water to an already overflowing cup, what’s a few more drops when you’re already drowning?
The thought makes me chuckle quietly to myself.
“What’s funny?” Nicky asks, looking up from his pasta with curiosity.
“Just thinking about how fucked up my brain is,” I say with a smile. “Prison breaks me completely, but armed kidnapping is apparently fine. I’m very well-adjusted.”
“You’re the most well-adjusted person I know, considering what you’ve been through.”
“That says more about the people you know than it does about me.”
He grins. “Fair point. We’re not exactly a mentally healthy bunch.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a moment, the kind that only comes when you’re completely at ease with someone. The candles cast dancing shadows, and the wine has made everything pleasantly hazy around the edges.
“So I’ve been dealing with all the house paperwork,” Nicky says eventually, setting down his fork and reaching for his wineglass.
“Solicitors, mortgage brokers, surveys. There’s so much bloody bureaucracy involved in buying a house.
Did you know we need to provide three months of bank statements?
Three months! Like they don’t believe we have money. ”
“Well…” I say. “We don’t have much legal money.”
Nicky sighs. “I’m doing this properly. I mean, besides for some laundered money in the bank statements. But properly. Above board. I’m not pulling any strings or using any contacts. So it can never be taken away from us.”
I know what he is really saying. He is saying he wants this home to be mine forever. Regardless if anything happens to him.
It is the sweetest thing ever, and testament to just how determined he is to take care of me.
“The joys of home ownership,” I say dryly. Because I want to keep the mood light and lovely.
“And along with the bank statements, there’s the contracts, and the title searches.
Nevermind the confusion when I say everything needs to be in both our names even though the money is technically mine.
” He takes a drink, shaking his head. “You know, this would all be easier if your last name was Ricci.”
I nearly choke on my pasta. “Is that a marriage proposal?” I tease, wiping my mouth with my napkin.
Nicky gives me an odd look, something between amusement and nervousness, but I dismiss it. He’s probably just annoyed about the paperwork. Buying a house is stressful enough without me reading too much into every comment.
“If it is,” I continue, warming to the joke, “why should I change my name? Maybe you should become Walker. Nicky Walker has a nice ring to it.”
“We could compromise,” Nicky says, and there’s something careful in his voice now. “We could be Ricci-Walker.”
I nearly spit out my wine. “God no! That sounds awful! Like a law firm or an accounting office. ‘Welcome to Ricci-Walker Associates, how may we help you with your tax fraud?’”
Nicky chuckles, but it sounds slightly strained. “Okay, no hyphenation then.”
I put my wineglass down, suddenly serious despite the lightness of the conversation. “My father is an asshole. His name doesn’t deserve to live on. Whereas you and Marianna are my favorite people in the world. I’d be honored to be a Ricci.”
The words come out more emotional than I intended, raw and honest in a way that makes me feel exposed.
But it’s true. The Walker name means nothing to me.
It’s attached to a man who abandoned me and never looked back.
But Ricci? That name means family, love, the woman who took me in when my own parents couldn’t be bothered. That name means Nicky.
Nicky blinks, and his eyes look suspiciously watery in the candlelight. “That’s settled then,” he says quietly.
I stare at him, my wine-fuzzy brain trying to catch up with what just happened. Did we just... did he just... my heart starts doing something complicated in my chest, beating too fast and too hard like it’s trying to escape my ribcage.
“Worst proposal ever,” I whisper, somewhere between laughing and crying.
Nicky rolls his eyes, but I can see the smile tugging at his lips. “Should have guessed you’d be a stickler for tradition.”
And then he’s moving, pushing his chair back and dropping to one knee beside the table with a grace that suggests this wasn’t quite as spontaneous as the conversation made it seem. His hand goes to his pocket and emerges with a small velvet box that makes my breath catch in my throat.
This is happening. This is actually happening.
“Liam Walker,” he says, opening the box to reveal a simple silver band that catches the candlelight, “will you do me the honor of becoming my husband?”
The tears hit me like a wave. Sudden, overwhelming, happy tears that blur my vision and make it hard to breathe.
I’m crying, actually crying. Happy tears for a change.
Crying in front of Nicky over a marriage proposal, and I should probably be embarrassed, but all I can feel is joy so pure and overwhelming it physically hurts.
“Is that a yes?” Nicky asks, and there’s uncertainty in his voice now, like maybe he’s worried the tears mean something else.
I grab the napkin from my lap and throw it at him. “Yes, you dufus! Of course it’s yes!”
He laughs, bright and relieved and beautiful, and then he’s standing and I’m standing and we’re kissing across the remains of our dinner, wine glasses nearly toppling and candles flickering dangerously as we reach for each other.
The kiss tastes like wine and tomato sauce and tears and happiness. His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing away the wetness on my cheeks, while my fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer like I can merge us into one person if I just hold tight enough.
“I love you,” I gasp when we finally break apart, “I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” he says, pressing kisses to my forehead, my cheeks, and my lips again. “God, I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
“The ring,” I say suddenly, remembering. “Put the ring on. Make it official.”
He laughs and retrieves the box from where it’s fallen beside his abandoned plate. His hands are shaking slightly as he takes out the ring. I notice that, notice how this strong, dangerous man is trembling with emotion, as he reaches for my left hand.
“It was my nonna’s,” he says as he slides the ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly, like it was made for me. “She gave it to me years ago, told me to save it for someone special. Someone who would understand what family really means.”
I look down at the ring on my finger. Simple, elegant, carrying the weight of history and love.
As I stare at it I feel something click into place.
This is real. This is forever. This is Nicky choosing me, claiming me, promising to build a life together that goes far beyond just surviving day to day.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper.
“You’re perfect.”
“I’m really not.”
“Perfect for me, then.” He kisses me again, softer this time, tender and full of promise. “My fiancé. Liam Walker, soon to be Liam Ricci.”
The name sounds right in a way Walker never did. Like coming home after a long journey, like finally belonging somewhere. Liam Ricci. Part of a family that chose me rather than one I was born into by accident.
“When?” I ask, because now that this is happening, I want it to be official, want the paperwork and the ceremony and all the mundane legal recognition that comes with marriage.
“Whenever you want. Tomorrow, next month, next year, I don’t care as long as it happens.”
“Not tomorrow. I want to plan it properly, have people there who matter. Molly will kill us if we elope.”
“True. He’ll want to be involved in every detail, from the flowers to the font on the invitations.”
“And Dario will probably want to make it some big family affair.”
“Also true.” Nicky pulls me closer, wrapping his arms around my waist. “But I don’t care about any of that. Big ceremony, small ceremony, registry office with two witnesses. As long as you’re there and you’re saying yes, nothing else matters.”
I rest my forehead against his, breathing in his familiar scent and trying to process the enormousness of what just happened. Engaged. We’re engaged. In a few months, maybe a year, I’ll be Liam Ricci, legally bound to this man in ways that can’t be easily undone.
The thought should be terrifying. Should make me want to run, to protect myself from the vulnerability of giving someone this much power over my life and happiness.
But all I feel is safe. Chosen. Loved in a way that makes everything else, the trauma, the fear, all the years of pain, feel almost worth it because they led me here.
“I can’t believe you proposed over house-buying paperwork,” I say eventually, pulling back to look at him properly.
“I had a whole thing planned,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “Was going to wait until we got the keys to the new house, propose in the garden with champagne and roses and probably a speech I’d practiced in the mirror.”
“What changed?”
“You said you’d be honored to be a Ricci.” His voice goes soft. “You chose my family, my name, my mother’s memory over your own father’s legacy. How could I not propose after that?”
“So it was spontaneous?”
“The timing was. But I’ve had the ring for weeks. Been carrying it around in case there was a perfect moment.” He laughs quietly. “Should have known with us there wouldn’t be a perfect moment, just a real one.”
“This was perfect,” I assure him. “Weird and unexpected and completely us, but perfect.”
We stand there in our small apartment, surrounded by the remains of dinner and flickering candles, and I think about how far we’ve come. From cocky teenagers under an overpass to this. Engaged, buying a house, building a life that includes words like “husband” and “forever.”
“We should call people,” I say eventually. “Tell them the news.”
“In a minute.” Nicky tightens his arms around me. “Let me just hold my fiancé for a bit first.”
“Your fiancé,” I repeat, testing out the word. “That’s going to take some getting used to.”
“You’ll have time to practice before the wedding. Then you’ll have to get used to husband.”
The wedding. Our wedding. The concept feels surreal and wonderful and slightly overwhelming all at once.
“Molly is going to lose his mind,” I say with a laugh. “He’s going to want to plan the entire thing.”
“Let him. I don’t care about flowers or centerpieces or any of that. I just care about you.”
“Sap.”
“Your sap now. Legally, once we sign the papers.”
I kiss him again because I can, because he’s mine and I’m his and soon there will be documentation to prove it. The kiss deepens, becomes something heated and promising, full of all the ways we’ll celebrate this later when we’re not surrounded by dirty dishes and melting candles.
“I love you, Nicky Ricci,” I whisper against his lips.
“I love you too, Liam Ricci-to-be.”
And standing here in our apartment, engaged and happy and building toward a future that once seemed impossible, I think about how grateful I am for every terrible thing that happened to bring me here.
Because without it, I might have remained too stubborn to see the truth of who Nicky is to me.
Prison, trauma, pain… all of it led to this moment, to this man, to this life we’re creating together.
It was worth it. Every single awful second was worth it for this.
For us.