8. Nico
8
NICO
MISS MARIE
T he heat of the Spring sun is stifling as I watch Alana Moretti and my cousin, Lisandru Pierce Bartoli, get married in the garden of the Moretti home, overlooking the astounding turquoise sea. The backdrop is like a movie with Dolce Vita written all over it.
Yet, all I can think about is how droplets of sweat trickle down my back and chest uncomfortably under the shirt I wear for the event. I had to wash it a good five times so the fabric wouldn’t itch and make me want to murder someone whenever I’d touch it.
My face feels warm and the rays of sun burn my retina. I might be Italian but I was born and raised in the UK. This heat so early in the season is not enjoyable. Heat in general doesn’t have my preference. The dampness of a rainy day does.
At least I’m glad we’re in a place I’ve been to before. I can stand and watch from the sidelines, blending in with the hundreds of bodyguards spread across the expansive estate and observing every invitee with the focus of a hawk.
The number of rows of white-silk covered seats is not a divider of three. Even the invitee count isn’t. I grit my teeth and hold the grimace that wants to take over my face as I keep watch. The whole elite of every major criminal organisations’ representatives in Europe is here. This is our Davos Summit. A joyous union of two important bloodlines. And a stepping stone to the brewing war with Moscow.
Aleksei Dobrev, the Head of the London Bratva and ally of my family for a decade, sits in the fourth row, stiff as a board next to his step-sister Irina, who never leaves his side. On her other side is Dante Ventura and that gives me pause.
The Russian and the Sicilians have been at war for generations over territory disputes in London. The development is—I know—all thanks to Lana who’s gathering her army to strike against our common enemy, Misha Petrov. It’s striking nonetheless.
Lana Moretti must be a chess player. She’s not only orchestrating the future of Kalliste and the European organised crime system, she’s setting plans into motion that will span lifetimes. All with the oldest mean at her disposal. Marriage. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dante Ventura and Irina Dobrev are tying the knot soon.
My attention gets swept away from the group looking at the two lovebirds exchanging vows when a head of dark locks turns to my direction, and eyes as green as the deepest forest ensnare mine.
Marie is the only one looking back instead of forward.
I tilt my chin to the couple in front of her to signal for her to watch them. The second seems to never end before she turns back. I don’t give a single fuck about what the officiant is saying. All I do is watch Marie’s shoulders, olive skin devoid of ink on display. I know she can feel my eyes on her and the thrill it shoots through my veins is like a drug in my system.
Since Christmas, I have been unable to stop thinking about her. Without a good reason, I didn’t contact her though I kept watching her by hacking into the security system of the Moretti household. Since my cousin is the one responsible for it, I’m sure he knows but I don’t give a shit. I had to see her.
It fed a new need instead of satiating it.
After the ceremony, everyone either surrounds Lana and her new husband, or Lisa, who seems to have finally decided to show her pregnant belly in a skin-tight knee-length pink dress. I don’t even have to search for Marie. I always know where she stands somehow, like I’m a magnet and she’s my centre. She smiles at the people talking to her but it’s frozen in place and her eyes are sad. Her wine-red off the shoulders dress looks gorgeous on her. I see how men look at her. I take note of lecherous gazes sent her way and mentally write their names on the bullets of my gun, hidden under my jacket.
Before dinner is served, Lana and Lisandru motion for our group—Ventura, the Dobrevs, Julian Bartoli, Andrea, Giulia and I—to follow into the Moretti home. We walk in terse silence into the patriarch’s office. Even bubbly Giulia doesn’t say a word. The relationships between us all have been cordial at best; this isn’t a celebratory moment between a group of friends. It’s a secret pact to take out a common enemy and set a new king onto the Bratva throne.
I’m the last to enter the room decorated with dark wood panels and a lavish beige rug. And I immediately feel her presence before Lana tries to close the door to her face. My shoulders tense up and I hold in a snarl.
“Go back to the cocktail party, Mimi,” Lana says in a placating tone to her younger sister.
“Don’t call me that,” Marie snaps and Lana huffs like she’s offended. I take note not to call Marie that and focus on the conversations even as I take in the way Julian, Lisandru’s half- brother, grins for no reason, already intoxicated, and Dobrev puts himself between our family and Irina, who does not seem pleased by his demonstration of care.
“I want to know what’s going on,” Marie demands.
The shift in Lana’s demeanour is immediate and bears no discussion. It’s not the older sister standing in front of Marie anymore, it’s the Head of the Moretti, and she won’t be challenged.
I grind my teeth. I don’t know why Marie isn’t part of this discussion. She should know what will impact her family. How we intend to go after Misha Petrov, get Lana's friend—and Julian’s husband—Igor back. She should know the peril everyone in this room is in. We’re not only going after another family. We’re going after an Empire that spans across generations and countries. Contrary to most underground systems in Europe, the Bratva has one king and minions in all powerful ports. The rest of us are pretty independent even though Ventura still reports into the Cosa Nostra for major affairs.
“We’re not talking about this right now, Marie. Go back to the party,” Lana says, unmovable.
“You’re shutting me out,” Marie protests, pain and resentment dripping through her tone.
“I’m protecting you!” Her sister counters. “And this is not a negotiation. Go back to the party before I have you removed.”
From where I stand, I bear witness to Marie’s pain, her eyes shutting down, the green turning thunderous. She sets her jaw and turns without a word, walking away in a cloud of rejection. I know what she’ll turn to now and the thought makes me want to go after her. But duty calls. As an angel of doom, I simply answer.
Lana sighs as she closes the door. “I’m sorry about my sister.”
“Maybe you should include her,” Julian chimes with a smirk. Lana rolls her eyes at him, the gesture a tell of their years of friendship. Putting an end to the sex trafficking ring that’s taking over Europe through Petrov’s enterprise is a noble cause but for both of them, it’s personal. I admire their devotion with curiosity.
I love my brother. I would do anything for him, for Giulia and my mother. I’m deeply intrigued by Marie, but I’m also not sure how to integrate everyone else within my circle of trust. There’s too many of them. So I’ll treat this as any other mission I have. With precision and attention. Like it’s my job, because it is.
Nine people form a circle in the well-lit office. The Dobrev-Ventura trio, Lana and the Bartoli brothers, and my brother, his wife and I. That settles me. I tap my right leg with my index finger three times, roll my tongue in front of my teeth, and repeat the process twice more.
A little more settled, I ask, “So, what’s it gonna be?”
“I didn’t even know you talked,” Ventura comments dismissively and I shrug, telling him the truth. “Only for people who matter.”
“Aw, Nico. Don’t go soft on me,” he teases. At least I think that’s a tease. I’ve only met him once in my life for a contract he hired me for a few years ago. A nasty piece of shit stole his grandma’s diamond bracelet and I think it was a sentimental piece for Dante, so I tracked down the target, got the bobble back and buried the thief in my backyard. Alive. As per Ventura’s request. The asshole watched in glee. He’s a weird one.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I deadpan.
“That’s the spirit!”
He’s about to clap his hand on my shoulder when Giulia steps in and slaps his hand away like he’s a naughty boy who needs to behave. “Enough pleasantries. We got work to do, boys.”
I could kiss her right now. I don’t want to kill our new found ally in a daze-y rage.
“Misha hasn’t been seen since Lana’s abduction.” Lisandru’s deep baritone fills the room and brings everyone to attention.
“And Igor was sighted last in Amsterdam a few weeks ago,” Andrea finishes and Julian perks up. The cloud of alcohol in his blue eyes clears until all that remains is murderous focus and quiet rage. His dishevelled blond locks fall over his forehead as he leans forward.
“Where is he now?” he asks.
“We don’t know,” my brother answers. “I’ve lost track of him. It’s like he knew we were on his tail, letting us know of his whereabouts enough to throw a bone but not enough to raise suspicion within his own clan.”
“You think that’s what he’s doing?” Giulia asks.
“I don’t know. You all know him better than I do.”
Giulia looks up to Lana and then to Julian, a deep frown on her freckled face. I wait in the shadows for all the information I will need. I’m not a recovery person. I’m the one you send after a target. I’m here because I’ll take care of Misha Petrov or his subordinates.
“He’s not giving us indications of his whereabouts. Igor doesn’t give a shit about himself. He knows we’re looking and he’s showing us where to find the goods,” Julian grimaces at the last word. He means the people Petrov deals in.
“So, when are we flying to Amsterdam?” Dante asks like he’s a kid at a birthday party and I sneer. His enthusiasm for danger isn’t something I relate to. And nor do Irina or Aleksei Dobrev if their annoyed faces are anything to go by.
The next hour is spent forming a plan to help the people held at the Petrov facility that must exist in the Venice of the North. Julian insists on going, which leads to an argument with his brother and Lana. Everyone already knows Igor is long gone but the hope Julian clings to permeates the air. In the end, he wins. Bickering continues as Dobrev promises to send the local Bratva on the ground but Dante demands to be Julian’s wingman.
My presence isn’t required anymore. I don’t have a role in this specific operation.
I don’t say goodbye when I leave the lavish office and walk in search of the only person I want to see right now.
My steps guide me to the Moretti library. Marie has discarded her high heels and sits with her legs underneath her on the big chesterfield lounge seat. She’s drinking whiskey, her chin propped on her fist. I don’t make any attempt to conceal my presence as I step inside.
“You always know where to find me, don’t you?”
She doesn’t look up. Her eyes are riveted to the outside world. She’s always looking out, locked in her pretty cage, locked out of important conversations, with no control over her family’s legacy.
It’s not a question but I answer anyway.
“Yes.” No need for me to lie. I want her to know how much I think about her, look for her in crowds even when I know she isn’t there. She’s been kept in the dark by her own family all her life. I want to bring her light.
“Are you going to tell me to stop drinking?”
I frown. “Do you want me to tell you to stop drinking?”
She scoffs and it’s self-deprecating. Her bloodshot eyes turn my way and I swallow. Even in this state, her attention hits me. Like that next sip of alcohol she takes, I drink it up.
“If anyone knew, that’s what they’d tell me.” Her chin wobbles before she clenches her teeth and gives me a closed-lipped smile, then downs her drink. Her hand trembles as she pours herself another. The decanter is empty when she puts it on the window sill behind her. “Why aren’t you telling me to stop?”
“You’re old enough to make your own choices, Marie.” She gasps softly, but I don’t understand why. “Do you want to stop drinking?”
“I will,” she says, resolute, shoulders back. “But not yet.”
We remain silent as I sit in front of her, elbows on my knees. My eyes catalogue all the things that make her her . And all the things I didn’t think I’d ever take pleasure in noticing. Like how the dress has ridden up her thighs and I get a peek of beautiful stretch marks and white underwear.
She moves to walk away. I can’t let her do that. Before I can compute what I’m doing, I stop her with a hand on her wrist. The contact makes my skin prickle with awareness and warmth but it’s short-lived. She slaps my fingers away sharply. “Did I give you permission to touch me?” she scolds. Years of training have me hold the excitement coursing through my veins like a shot of whiskey, but I can’t fight the shiver that runs down my spine. She has a fierce and dominant side. I want nothing more than to see more of it. Surrender at her feet, give her the control she must crave.
“No, Miss Marie,” I say, the words like a prayer on my tongue. The monicker tastes like the sweetest fruit. “I won’t do it again.”
She nods and doesn’t move, once again looking up at me from her standing position above my sitting one. That’s exactly where I always want to be when in her presence.
“I read once that smokers still have the urge to use their fingers as they did when they brought the cigarettes to their mouth. And that familiar gesture is hard to beat,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. It makes the sun move across her hair to show the deep blue hue of her black strands. “Why are you telling me this?
“In case you have the urge to lift a glass to your lips. Call me, then.”
Ever since I saw her, I hacked into her phone and put my number there. I knew there would be a time when she’d need it. No one but Lisa sees her. And Lisa is about to see only her child.
“I don’t know you, Nico.”
I shrug. “You will.”
“I don’t have your number,” she counters.
“You do.”
“How—” She doesn’t even finish her sentence, just scoffs and shakes her head as understanding dawns on her. My brother Andrea is the best hacker in Europe, and Marie’s own brother-in-law is the Head of Security of the Moretti Empire. We can achieve a lot.
“I’ll think about it,” she says then she leaves. Before she passes the threshold, she turns. Her sadness is breathtaking. Even half drunk, Marie Moretti is the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. “Thank you, Nico. It means a lot.”
How offering to be an ear to her pain can mean a lot seems odd to me. She has three sisters, a family house constantly full of life. Yet, she must be the most lonely person to rely on a stranger for comfort. I won’t be a stranger for long.