Chapter 5
Chapter five
Nicky
The morning light filters through the blinds in golden stripes, cutting across Liam’s face as he sits curled up on the sofa. He’s wearing one of my old band t-shirts, faded and soft with age, and for the first time since he came home, he looks almost relaxed. Almost like the boy I remember.
We’ve been up for an hour, moving through our new morning routine with the careful precision of a dance we’re still learning.
Tea instead of coffee because Liam says caffeine makes him jittery.
Toast with honey because it’s sweet and simple and doesn’t require decisions.
The radio playing softly in the background, some mindless pop station that fills the silence without demanding attention.
“I dreamed about the old house last night,” Liam says suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Your mum’s house. The one with the blue wallpaper in the kitchen.”
I remember that wallpaper. Hideous stuff with tiny flowers that made the whole room look like a tea cozy. Mum had been so proud of it.
“The one that gave you a headache?” I tease gently.
His mouth twitches. “Yeah. But in the dream it was... nice. We were making pancakes and arguing about whether to put chocolate chips in them.”
“You always wanted chocolate chips.”
“You always said it was too much sugar for breakfast.”
“Still do,” I say, nudging him with my elbow. “Pancakes are supposed to be sophisticated. Elegant. Not some sugary mess.”
This time he actually laughs. It’s small and rusty, like a door that hasn’t been opened in years, but it’s real. The sound fills something hollow in my chest.
“Sophisticated pancakes,” he snorts. “Listen to yourself, Nicky. We used to eat cereal for dinner.”
“That was different. That was by choice.”
“That was because your mum was working double shifts and we were too lazy to cook.”
“Exactly. A lifestyle choice.”
He shakes his head, but he’s still almost-smiling, and I feel like I’ve won the lottery. These moments of lightness are so rare, so precious. I want to wrap them up and keep them safe.
“I think I might try going outside again,” he says after a moment, the words coming out in a rush like he’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve. His fingers worry at a loose thread on the cushion. “Maybe tomorrow.”
My chest swells with something that feels dangerously close to hope. It’s been three days since our disastrous trip to the park, and I’ve been waiting for him to bring it up again, not wanting to push.
“Yeah? We could try the café down the street. It has terrible music but good pastries.”
He considers this seriously. “What kind of terrible music?”
“The kind that sounds like rich kids trying to be edgy.”
“Ah. The worst kind.”
“But the croissants are transcendent.”
“Transcendent croissants might be worth suffering through musical torture.”
He almost smiles. Almost. It’s progress.
The morning feels soft around the edges, golden and safe.
Liam has his legs tucked under him, the oversized t-shirt making him look younger than his twenty-three years.
His long hair is falling to his shoulders in waves that catch the light.
He needs a proper haircut, but I’m not brave enough to suggest it yet.
The thought of taking him to a barber shop, of sitting in a chair while a stranger approaches with sharp tools, makes my stomach clench on his behalf.
“Do you remember,” he says slowly, “that time we tried to make breakfast for your mum on Mother’s Day?”
I groan. “The Great Kitchen Disaster of Whitefield Road.”
My insides all do something strange and conflicting. Talking about Mom is still… difficult. Wonderful and terrible all at the same time. And with Liam it is even worse. It is more wonderful because he knew her so well, and a thousand times more awful, because I’m not sure if he knows.
I shove all of that aside and allow the conversation to flow as it should. I want to steal this moment of brightness. Sorrow can wait.
“We set off the smoke alarm twice.” Liam says.
“You set off the smoke alarm. I was the responsible one trying to clean up your mess.”
“I was fifteen! And you told me eggs were easy!”
“Eggs are easy. You just don’t put the heat on maximum and then walk away to watch TV.”
He laughs again, more freely this time. “Your mum came downstairs in her dressing gown looking like she thought the house was burning down.”
“It nearly was.”
“And she took one look at us covered in flour and eggshell and just started laughing.”
I remember. Mum had laughed until she cried, then hugged us both and ordered pizza for breakfast because everything we’d attempted was completely inedible. She’d kept the card we made her on the fridge for years.
“She said we were the sweetest disasters she’d ever seen,” I say softly.
“I miss her,” Liam whispers.
He knows. Someone told him, and selfishly, I’m relieved that task hasn’t fallen to me. Especially since I still can’t say the words without bursting into tears.
The unspoken words hang between us, heavy with all the time that’s been lost. Mum died two years into his sentence.
A stroke, quick and painless. I’d wanted to tell him, but prisoners aren’t allowed to attend funerals unless it’s immediate family.
I couldn’t bear the thought of him sitting in his cell knowing she was gone and being unable to say goodbye.
“She would have loved to have seen you,” I tell him. “If she could have.”
He nods, but doesn’t look at me. His fingers have found a different thread to worry at.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. Then again. And again.
I glance at the screen, and my blood turns to ice water. Seven missed calls from Dante. Three text messages, each one shorter and more threatening than the last.
Need to talk.
Now.
On my way.
“Fuck,” I breathe, scrambling for the phone.
Liam’s head snaps up. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie, fingers flying over the keypad. “Just work stuff.”
But even as I type out a desperate message, Give me an hour, I’ll come to you, I know it’s too late. Dante doesn’t wait. Dante doesn’t ask. Dante takes.
The aggressive pounding on the front door makes us both jump. Three sharp, demanding knocks that seem to shake the walls.
Liam’s face goes white. “Who is that?”
“Stay here,” I whisper, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Don’t come out no matter what you hear, okay?”
His eyes widen with panic. “Nicky…”
“Promise me.” I grab his shoulders, looking into those frightened blue eyes. “Promise me you’ll stay here.”
He nods jerkily, already curling deeper into the sofa cushions.
I walk to the front door on unsteady legs. Through the peephole, I can see Dante’s distinctive silhouette. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing his usual black coat that makes him look like death personified.
I take a deep breath and open the door.
“Dante.” I try to keep my voice level and professional. “I was just about to call you back.”
He pushes past me without invitation, his dark eyes scanning the apartment with predatory interest. Everything about him is sharp, his cheekbones, his jaw, the way his gaze cuts through a room like a blade. Even his cologne is aggressive, something expensive that smells like leather and violence.
“Nice place,” he says, though it sounds more like an assessment than a compliment. “Very... domestic.”
I close the door and turn to face him, keeping my body between him and the living room where Liam is hiding. “What do you need?”
Dante’s thin lips curve into something that might be a smile if it wasn’t so cold. “Straight to business. I like that.”
He strides into the kitchen and settles into one of my kitchen chairs like he owns it, long legs stretched out. “We have a problem with the Kozlov situation.”
My stomach drops. The Russians have been testing boundaries for months, pushing into our territory bit by bit. I’d hoped the warning we sent last week would be enough.
“What kind of problem?”
“The kind where they decided to ignore our message.” Dante’s voice is conversational, almost pleasant. It makes my skin crawl. “They hit one of our shipments last night. Made quite a mess.”
I can hear the subtext. When Dante says ‘mess,’ he doesn’t mean spilled cargo.
“Dario wants them reminded of their place,” he continues, examining his fingernails with studied casualness. “Permanently.”
“When?”
“Tonight.” His dark eyes lift to mine. “You’ll be driving. I’ll be handling the... negotiations.”
The euphemism sits heavy between us. I’ve driven Dante to enough ‘negotiations’ to know exactly what that means. The screaming usually starts around ten minutes in.
“I can’t tonight,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “I’ve got... something.”
Dante’s eyebrows rise with dangerous amusement. “Something?”
Fuck. Dario giving me the week off isn’t going to cut it. Dante wanting me to assist him is an honor, and we both know it.
“Family stuff,” I lie desperately. “My cousin’s visiting from Italy.”
“How nice.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Cancel it.”
It’s not a suggestion. It never is, with Dante.
I nod, defeat settling in my chest like lead. “Fine. What time?”
“Midnight. The usual place.” He stands, straightening his coat with practiced movements. “Don’t be late, Nicolo. You know how I hate to be kept waiting.”
I’m already mentally preparing for the conversation I’ll have to have with Liam, how to explain that I need to leave him alone tonight, how to make him understand that I don’t have a choice, when Dante’s attention shifts.
His head tilts, like a predator scenting prey.
“Who’s that? That’s not your cousin.”
I follow his gaze, and my heart stops. Liam is standing in the doorway to the living room, half-hidden behind the wall but still visible. His hair is still messed from sleeping, the oversized t-shirt hanging off one pale shoulder.