Chapter One
Two Years Later
Nico
I’ve never done well with hindsight questions. Saw it as a flaw when people obsessed over the past and what they could have done better. The past can never be changed, and it’s a waste of time to obsess over something you cannot change. But lately, I’ve been thinking about it.
Thinking about the what-ifs of life and how events would have played out if things were different.
How much less conflicted I would feel if my mother had never met Leonardo Rossi.
If she’d never allowed Leonardo to hold my father’s estate in trust—if my father’s properties had never passed into the hands of Leonardo Rossi and, later, his oldest son, Matteo.
If that had never happened, then my older brother wouldn’t have let his resentment push him past the point of reason, pushing him into kidnapping Matteo’s wife in an act of vengeance.
If I hadn’t been tasked with punishing my own brother for kidnapping Sofia, then my loyalty to the Rossis wouldn’t have been tested in the cruelest of ways.
And if I had never met any of the Rossis, befriended them and somehow become a part of the family, then I wouldn’t have been forced to pretend that I didn’t want Gabriella Rossi the way I do. The most precious and forbidden fruit.
But I did.
I met and befriended Matteo Rossi. Through our fathers’ long friendship, I became a part of the Rossi tribe even before our parents—my mother and his father—married each other.
I was adopted into the family and I knew the connections would stay forever.
I was certain nothing would ever make me betray the Rossis until four years ago when Gabriella Rossi wrecked that certainty.
College changed her, and she was no longer the shy little girl who hung around her brothers.
She was older, mature, and so goddamned sexy. I had no right looking at her that way.
I was older, for Christ’s sake, and her brother’s best friend. Living and working with the Rossis taught me what happens when someone crosses the line. Hell, I’ve helped them bury the bodies! I knew what would happen to me if I touched her.
So I tried to hide my attraction for the beautiful mob princess with eyes the color of rich, melted chocolate. Figured that if I called her my little sister enough times then I would start to believe it too.
It didn’t work.
Two years after our parents tied the knot, and I still want her.
So much so that I couldn’t stay away even when I should have.
I told myself I didn’t need to attend Gabriella’s exhibition alongside her brothers because, well, she’s never acknowledged me as one of her brothers anyway.
It wouldn’t have mattered whether or not I showed up.
But I couldn’t stay away.
“You made it,” A hand claps over my shoulder before Matteo steps next to me, his dark eyes moving across the room and I imagine he’s looking for his sister. “Little Gabby is graduating from college. How the fuck did that happen?”
“She grew up.”
“That she did,” he says, and I hear the emotions thicken his voice.
Matteo isn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve and is quite a hard man to read, but his little sister has always been his weak spot.
I was there when Antonia Rossi died. The entire family threatened to fall apart, and Matteo, barely a teen at the time, was forced to be strong for the rest of his family.
Gabriella is closer to being his daughter than she is his sister.
He helped raise her, doted on her endlessly.
It makes sense that even a hard man like Matteo can show cracks in the presence of his sister’s milestone.
“There she is,” he says fondly, and I follow his line of sight to Gabriella.
She’s standing by a painting, surrounded by her classmates as she chats with them—stunning with her wavy, thick dark brown hair falling around her shoulders like a waterfall.
I force my gaze away when my eyes threaten to slide down her body and over the tiny black dress she chose to wear today.
Fuck, if I didn’t know any better, I would think she did it on purpose to torture me, but I do know better.
“She seems busy. Why don’t we go look at her paintings first and let her finish chatting with her friends?” I suggest, in an attempt to distract myself from her and just how much I want her.
“No, the paintings will have to wait. I need to see my baby sister,” he insists, and I start to offer to accompany him, but I’m not quite ready to see Gabriella.
Who the fuck knows what I’ll do or say once those pretty brown eyes lock with mine.
I haven’t seen her for weeks, and my defenses are lower than they normally are.
No, I’m not taking any fucking chances.
“I think I’ll just check out her paintings and let you have your moment with your sister.”
Matteo’s eyes narrow. “Did you two fight or something? You’re always bickering,” he says, glancing between his sister and me. “You’re acting odd.”
Of course I’m acting odd. Just a few months ago, I was forced to punish my brother and send him away from New York, bleeding from a bullet in his arm.
He’d brought it on himself—kidnapping and threatening to kill a don’s wife would do that—but I never thought I’d be forced to choose between my blood brother and my sworn brother.
That I even made the choice eats at me.
All that, coupled with the fact that I want Gabriella Rossi badly, would be enough to throw me off my normally rock-steady balance.
I’m saved from answering when a voice calls out to Matteo. We both follow it to see Sofia running toward him, sliding a hand into her husband’s arm before turning to me. Despite what my brother did to her, she doesn’t seem to carry ill will for me.
“Oh, hey, Nico,” Sofia beams. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”
“How are you doing, Sofia?”
“Great,” she says, turning to her husband. “We have to congratulate Gabby on her graduation, then check out her paintings. I’ve been looking forward to this day all week.”
I watch with amusement as Matteo’s gaze softens when he looks at his wife. A woman whose family arranged the match but who seems to own Matteo’s heart.
“Of course, tesoro mio.” His voice is soft and so unlike the commanding tone he uses with our men. When they walk away, I decide to enter the hall with the paintings and easily find the corner with Gabriella’s name listed by a series of paintings.
I’ve watched Gabriella paint her entire life so I figured I know what to expect, but I’m still struck by her talent. The paintings are placed in a line, and it takes me a moment to realize that they tell a story, one I’m seemingly a part of—memories.
All the noise and chatter in the background fade, my heart pounding hard against my ribs as I look at the paintings.
It’s likely most won’t recognize the characters drawn, but they are memories I’ve lived—she’s lived—so it’s easy to pick up on them and understand their meanings.
The colors, textures, scenes, and figures have been used intentionally in the project, and the emotional theme is clear.
Grief and Loneliness.
I move to study the first painting more closely.
The figures are all black silhouettes, but their size and shape make them easy to differentiate.
This one is of four boys standing at a grave, and just behind them is a woman in a dress whose face is covered by a black mourning hat.
She’s holding what seems to be an infant wrapped in pink.
Antonia Rossi’s funeral.
I remember the woman, the day, the moment.
I was only twelve when she died, but I remember the grief in my best friend’s eyes as he said his goodbyes at the funeral.
The heartbreak on all the Rossis’ faces.
Gabriella had been an infant, quiet as a mouse in the arms of Silvia, her nanny, during the whole procession.
There is a lump in my throat as I move to the second painting, a depiction of some dance recital.
A young girl dances on a stage in a tutu the same shade of pink as the baby blanket in the first painting, and in front of the stage are seven seats.
One is occupied by a woman, and the other five are occupied by young men.
I spot myself easily as the boy holding a bouquet of white roses, just as I had years ago when Matteo dragged me to his sister’s first ballet recital.
She’d only been eight at the time, and I couldn’t understand why I had to show up for some kid’s dance show, but I’m still the only one who showed up with flowers that day.
Truthfully, they were the ones my mother had sent to give to Gabriella afterward.
The last seat in the row is empty as it had been that day.
A seat that had been reserved for Leonardo Rossi, but the man never showed up.
I remember the heartbreak on that little girl’s face when she saw her father’s empty seat.
Gabby had quit ballet after that; no one questioned it, but we all knew why.
Dammit.
The third painting is no less heartbreaking than the first two.
The memory of Gabriella’s eighteenth birthday comes to mind as I stare at the painting of a young woman in a pink dress on a bench, surrounded by flowers and butterflies.
There’s a man crouched before her, holding a gift in one hand while touching her cheek with the other.
She’d been crying for a long time when I found her seated alone in the atrium, hiding from the rest of her family.
It’s no secret that Gabriella has always hated her birthday, often fudging the date and choosing to celebrate it a few days after the fact. For many years, that had been the case, but that year, scheduling hadn’t worked out, and the party for her eighteenth birthday was held on her actual birthday.