17. Escape
Chapter seventeen
Escape
(Kiah)
T he silence stretches between us as Nico's gaze bores into me, a tempest of emotion raging behind his eyes. They remind me of the ocean during hurricane season—dark, turbulent, and hiding depths I can only imagine.
The weight of my betrayal hangs heavy in the air, an unspoken accusation. I resist the urge to look away, to shield myself from the intensity of his scrutiny.
I don't expect forgiveness for calling his brother. Hell, I'm not sure I deserve it. But I have to do something—and quickly. We don’t have time for this.
Fuck-it.
“Come here,” I call Nico over as I fish his collar key from my cleavage.
He doesn’t budge, just narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You’re not helping your case, woman.”
“Just come here. I want to take it off,” I say with a sigh. Jesus, he’s infuriating.
Still hesitant, Nico leans closer for me to unlock his collar.
As soon as I twist the key, it pops open with a satisfying click, and I carefully remove it, placing it on the counter between us.
Finally free, Nico stretches out his neck, touching his fingers to the space where the collar rested before. It looks almost strange now, so empty. I’ve gotten used to the collar; it suited him.
“Do you think I can also have a turn to ask some questions?” I ask, stepping back.
Nico’s jaw clenches. “Why?”
“I’m going to ruin my life for a mob killer, I want to know what I’m dealing with.”
He sighs, sinking into the armchair beside the bed. I don’t know if that’s a yes or a no, but I hope we’ve moved beyond keeping secrets.
Despite being overly aware of our clock running out, I fetch a couple of the beers from the fridge, reaching one out to him like we’re sitting down to a quiet night in, not counting the hours until his death sentence.
Nico opens his beer with a loud crack, downing half of it in one go before speaking, “I am many things, Kiah, but I’m not a mob killer , as you call it.”
My eyes widen in surprise. “You didn’t kill your father?”
I never even considered the possibility. J. said it was an “ open and shut case .” She used her connections at the police to get the case file.
All signs pointed to Nico’s guilt. Body in his car, a solid motive, no alibi, a missing murder weapon, and him fleeing the scene…what more proof did they need?
J. sent a copy of the case files to my phone last week, but I didn’t see them until today when I finally turned the phone on again to make the call I shouldn’t have made.
The photos of the crime scene were so brutal. Especially the close-up of Don Ricci with his face all busted. The report said he took quite a pummeling before finally being put out of his misery with a single bullet.
Those photos were the reason I didn’t immediately regret my traitorous call. They validated my actions. Domenico Ricci was simply an evil man who needed to pay for his actions. I was just doing what was necessary to protect myself, protect my slice of paradise.
But paradise doesn’t exist. The more I thought about it, the more I realized I was just lying to myself. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering what if while my soul shrivels up and dies.
Besides, it’s not like suddenly taking the moral high road would erase my own list of sins, my own murders. I’ve done some fucked up things in my life…
The guilt sits heavy in my stomach now; I shouldn’t have thrown Nico under the bus like that.
J. was surprised that the missing mobster had suddenly just appeared on the island, but I spun some vague story about how I saw him on the beach one day, how he was staying somewhere else.
As soon as I put the phone down, a tinge of regret started tugging at my insides, a little thread that unraveled faster and faster the further I ran.
By the time I got to the lighthouse, my regret had grown unbearably heavy, threatening to strangle me, suffocate me.
I called J. back, trying to revoke my treachery. But it was too late, she’d already passed the message along to the Ricci’s.
As my heart plummeted, I hung up without any further explanation and ran home, throwing myself into domestic activities while I racked my brain for a solution, a way out of this mess.
I wish I could go back and undo it all.
But what’s done is done.
The only real question is, what now?
“I don’t think I killed him,” Nico answers, rubbing his temples, “I was going to. He would’ve deserved it too, but not like that…”
Taking a sip of my beer, I keep quiet, waiting for him to continue. I’m too restless to sit down, so I pace around the kitchen as he speaks.
Nico's shoulders slump as he begins, his voice hollow. "The last thing I remember, we were driving to some warehouse to pick up a package." His hand unconsciously rubs the back of his neck, tension evident in every movement. "The next moment, I woke up with a knock on my forehead, zero memories, and my father's dead body in my car."
He pauses, finishing his beer. "So, I bailed, just ran as fast as I could."
I stop for a second, my brow furrowing. "You know running makes you look guilty?"
A bitter laugh escapes his lips, "I know. But if I stayed, they would've shot me first and asked questions later." His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. "You don't just kill the Don, no matter who you are."
I watch him closely, noting his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "And then you came here of all places?"
Nico nods, his posture softening slightly as a faraway look crosses his face. "I had good memories of this place." His fingers trace absent patterns on the arm of his chair. "My father once brought me to this very inn when I was thirteen. Some or other business trip."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips, gone as quickly as it appeared. "He bought me a peanut butter milkshake. Figured it was obscure enough, they wouldn't look for me here."
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I'm about to ask. My heart races, but I keep my voice steady. It's not relevant to our case, but I need to know. " Why did you want to kill your father?"
Nico takes a long time to answer, and I almost give up on a response. Then he slowly starts digging the broken pieces from his treasure trove of trauma, his gaze far away, drifting in vastness like a castaway lost at sea.
My heart breaks into a million pieces as the broody-stranger-who-isn’t-a-stranger-anymore tells me about his oppressive childhood, his fucked-up parents, about what they did to his wife, to Annika.
What the fuck is wrong with people?
It sounds unreal, like the plot of some Netflix movie, but the way his face contorts in pain, like someone is physically stabbing him, makes it crystal clear that this is not fiction; this is his history.
“Nico…” I whisper when the last word has dissipated, his painful story stretching between us like an unbridgeable abyss.
Closing the distance between us, I reach out to the scar under his eye, gently tracing its path with my fingertips. He flinches at the contact but doesn’t pull away.
“I’m so sorry, Nico,” I whisper, seeking his distant gaze.
“Why? It’s not your fault.” His words are icy cold and hard, just like his face.
“Nobody deserves a childhood like that.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. You don’t know me. I deserved it. I deserve all of this.”
I take his face in both my hands. “Look at me.”
But he refuses to meet my eyes.
“Nico.”
His blue eyes flash toward me, raging, intense.
“No, you don’t. You don’t deserve any of it.”
He sighs, and I press my forehead against his, pulling him closer, into my arms. I wish I could erase his painful memories and stop them from ever happening.
How could any parent be so cruel?
This poor man…the things he’s endured.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat.
His gaze finally softens as he studies my face, reading the emotions I don’t know how to voice.
Gently, I caress his cheek, keeping my eyes locked on his.
In this moment, I’m overly aware of his proximity, of his nakedness, his warmth.
My body moves like it belongs to someone else, slipping an arm around his neck to pull us closer.
He doesn’t resist, just lets me brush my lips against his like I’ve dreamt of so many times.
Oh god.
My breath catches as our lips meet for the first time. It's soft at first, almost hesitant, as if he's afraid I might break. But then something ignites between us, and the kiss deepens.
I feel the heat of his body as he grabs me closer, onto his lap, his hand resting on the small of my back.
There's an urgency in the way he kisses me, a desperation that matches the pounding of my heart. It's as if he's trying to erase all the pain of our pasts with this single act. And for a moment, I let myself believe he can.
The thought of losing him is fueling the intensity of the moment. Our movements become more hurried, more intense as the endless kiss picks up speed, enveloping my entire universe in Nico’s scent, his taste.
Biting his bottom lip between my teeth, I finally pull away, my breath ragged and uneven—panting.
I lean my head against his chest, trying to catch my breath.
When he wraps his strong arms around me, I let him, closing my eyes to enjoy the intimate moment amidst the pending doom.
There is so much to say, but I say nothing at all.
Oh god, this won’t end well.
But I no longer care.
Because for the first time in too long, maybe even forever, I feel something , something real. And I’m not letting anyone take that away from me—least of all myself.
“How long do we have?” Nico asks when we finally part.
“A couple of hours. Three tops. Nothing but clear skies today, sadly.”
He goes quiet, calculating, before he speaks. “This airstrip can’t handle the jet, so my brother will take the smaller plane. There will be six of them, max, excluding the pilots.”
“Your shoulder will probably slow you down…”
“It’s feeling a lot better. But you’re right. We’ll have to be smart.”
“They don’t know about my background. That’s our one big advantage. We can draw them out, and I can surprise them.”
“You don’t have to do this for me,” Nico says.
I run my fingers through his messy hair, rearranging it, “I know. But I want to.”
Nico cocks his head to the side as he asks his usual, “Why?”
I smile, kissing his forehead. “Because…you may be an infuriating brat, but you’re my brat.”