Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
Liam
The weights feel good in my hands. Heavy and solid and uncomplicated in a way that most things in my life aren’t anymore. I’ve been down here in the gym for almost two hours, working through a routine that’s slowly coming back to me like muscle memory, which, I suppose, it literally is.
My headphones are blocking out the world, nothing but the steady pulse of music and the satisfying burn in muscles that haven’t been properly used in five years.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror and barely recognize the person looking back.
The expensive gym clothes Nicky bought me yesterday fit better than anything I’ve worn in months, all technical fabric and ergonomic design that probably costs more than most people spend on their entire wardrobe.
My hair is pulled up in a messy bun, and it’s a look old Liam would never have considered.
I’m thinking about cutting it. It’s gotten long during my time inside.
At first, it was an order so he could pretend I was a girl.
Now, it feels like a part of me, and while cutting it might feel liberating, it would also be a lie.
The past isn’t as easy to cut off. I’d still be Pretty Boy, even with short hair.
So maybe it’s not the right time yet. Besides, Nicky doesn’t seem to mind it.
I try very hard not to think about where Nicky is right now. What he’s doing. Who he’s with. What “work” means for someone in his position. The kind of problems that might need handling, the kind of solutions that require violence, or at least the threat of it.
Better to focus on the rhythm of my workout, the simple pleasure of pushing my body to its limits and feeling it respond. This is something that’s entirely mine. It’s not dependent on anyone else, not complicated by trauma or guilt or the weight of expectation.
Just me and the weights and the gradual reclamation of strength I thought was gone forever.
The gym clothes are beautiful, perfectly fitted, exactly what I would have chosen if I had unlimited money and the confidence to spend it.
But there’s something about wearing them that sits strangely with me.
On one hand, it’s sweet that Nicky was so excited about buying them for me, and it’s so kind that he wanted to give me this gift.
On the other hand, being kept like this, fed and clothed and housed by someone else’s money, is a bit emasculating.
I snort at the ridiculousness of my own thoughts. I was emasculated a long time ago. Mere days after being led into Brixton in handcuffs. Besides, most of that masculinity stuff is toxic bullshit, designed to make men feel like they have to earn their worth through domination and control.
I was a mouthy little shit when I went in. Arrogant and obnoxious. Convinced I was destined to be the top dog. All the trappings of toxic masculinity wrapped up in an eighteen-year-old’s body.
At least prison knocked some sense into me. I’ve matured. Learned how to see through the bullshit. Mostly.
But I am capable of not completely freaking out and being bought expensive clothes, because it doesn’t mean I’m a kept woman, and there’d be nothing wrong with that if I were.
When I mentioned the cost of the clothes, Nicky had looked at me with that particular expression he gets when he’s trying to figure out how to explain something complicated in simple terms.
“If things had worked out differently and you were in a position to buy me stuff, you would,” he’d said, and he was right.
If our situations were reversed, if I’d been the one to build wealth and influence while he struggled, I’d want to share everything I had with him. Would want to see him comfortable and confident and equipped with whatever he needed to reclaim the parts of himself that had been stolen.
So I’ll wear the expensive gym clothes and try to focus on how they make me feel strong instead of how much they cost.
The elevator ride to the top floor gives me time to cool down, sweat evaporating in the air conditioning while I scroll through my new phone and pretend I’m not checking to see if Nicky has texted.
He hasn’t, which probably means he’s busy with whatever work emergency required his immediate attention this afternoon.
I’m fishing my keys out of my pocket when I hear footsteps in the stairwell. The fire door opens just as I reach our apartment, and a man emerges. Thirties, clearly Italian, with a small cut under his eye and an expensive suit that screams money and danger in equal measure.
He’s wearing a gold ring on his pinky finger that catches the hallway lighting, and everything about his presence suggests this isn’t a social call.
I slide my key into the lock, hyperaware of his presence behind me, trying to appear casual while every instinct I’ve developed over the past few years is screaming that this man is dangerous.
“Is Nicolo home?”
I whirl around, startled by the sound of his voice. He’s closer than I expected, close enough that I can see the details of his face, all sharp cheekbones and dark eyes that miss nothing, the kind of smile that could mean friendship or threat depending on the context.
He’s obviously Mafia. Has to be one of Nicky’s colleagues. Hopefully.
“No, he’s at work,” I manage, my voice steadier than I expected.
“Must be why his phone is off.”
I nod, not trusting myself to say anything else. The man smiles, and it transforms his entire face from vaguely threatening to almost charming.
“I’m Carlo, you must be Liam.”
He knows my name. That probably means friend rather than foe, though in Nicky’s world, the distinction might not be as clear as I’d like.
Oh, wait a minute. Carlo. Nicky has talked about a friend called Carlo. The one who has cooking disasters and a different girlfriend every week.
This man is safe.
I stand there awkwardly, trying to remember how normal people handle social situations. Do I invite him in? Offer refreshments? Pretend I don’t know what kind of work Nicky does and act like this is a perfectly ordinary business acquaintance?
Jesus, it’s so hard to remember how to be normal.
“Um... do you want to come in and wait?”
Carlo’s smile widens, but he shakes his head. “I’ll wait here.”
What? My social skills are rusty, but I swear that’s an odd response. The hallway is hardly comfortable, and it’s not like we’re complete strangers if he knows who I am and I’ve heard about him.
Perhaps it is a mafia thing? You don’t go into a man’s home if he is not there?
I stare into Carlo’s dark eyes. He knows my name. He might know other things about me. Dante could have said something. Everyone could know I’m a frightened little rabbit.
I swallow. I’m being paranoid and overthinking. He can probably simply tell that I’m nervous. He has to know he is an intimidating man. So he is staying outside to give me space.
It’s oddly thoughtful.
“Can I get you a coffee or something?” I ask, because I should be polite to Nicky’s work friends, even if I don’t understand the politics involved.
“That would be great.”
I leave the apartment door open while I make coffee, hyperaware of Carlo’s presence in the hallway but trying to act like this is perfectly normal.
Like I regularly serve refreshments to more-than-likely armed men in expensive suits, in the corridor outside my front door, while waiting for my boyfriend to return from whatever violent business required his attention.
When I bring the coffee out, Carlo accepts it with the kind of genuine gratitude that suggests good manners matter in his world, that courtesy and respect are currencies as valuable as money or information.
“Thanks,” he says, and I hover awkwardly nearby, not sure if I should make conversation or disappear back into the apartment.
The elevator pings, and I feel my heart rate spike with relief and anticipation.
The doors open to reveal Nicky, looking slightly disheveled in a way that probably wouldn’t be noticeable to anyone who didn’t know him as well as I do.
His hair is mussed, his shirt collar slightly askew, and there’s something in his posture that speaks of recent stress.
“Ran into a problem?” Carlo asks, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.
“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Nicky replies, and they both look at me.
Yeah. They’re right. This isn’t something I want any part of.
I slink back inside the apartment, leaving them to their conversation in the hallway, and wait in the kitchen while they discuss whatever needs discussing.
Their voices are too low for me to make out words, but the tone is businesslike, efficient, the kind of conversation that resolves problems without dwelling on unnecessary details.
Nicky isn’t long. When he walks into the kitchen a few minutes later, I can tell immediately that his arm is hurt.
Nothing obvious, nothing that would be visible to a casual observer, but there’s something in the way he holds it, a careful stillness that speaks of recent injury.
He was hiding it well in the hallway, but now his facade has slipped.
“Bathroom,” I order, pointing toward the hallway. “Now.”
Nicky raises an eyebrow at my commanding tone, clearly amused. “Yes, sir.”
I blush at the way he says it, the teasing hint of submission that sends heat racing through my chest. But I’m not distracted from my purpose.
“Take off your shirt,” I tell him, already moving toward the first aid kit I’ve seen in the bathroom cabinet.
“Liam…”
“Don’t argue. Let me see.”
He sighs but complies, unbuttoning his shirt with movements that are slightly more careful than usual. When he shrugs out of it, I can see the problem, a cut on his upper arm, maybe three inches long, not deep but definitely needing attention.
I try to focus on the medical aspects of the situation, but it’s hard to ignore the fact that Nicky is sitting on the closed toilet lid, shirtless, his chest and shoulders displayed in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
Prison didn’t exactly provide opportunities to appreciate the male form in a healthy context. And Nicky has certainly filled out since we were teenagers. Broader shoulders, more defined muscle, the kind of physical presence that speaks of regular exercise and good nutrition.
I force myself to concentrate on cleaning the wound, standing between his spread legs to get the proper angle, hyperaware of our proximity and the warmth radiating from his skin.
“Does it hurt?” I ask quietly, dabbing antiseptic on the cut.
“No, it’s fine.”
It’s clearly a lie, but I don’t push. I don’t ask how it happened either. Some things are better left unknown, especially when they involve the kind of work that leaves people with cuts that need first aid.
I work in silence, carefully cleaning the wound and assessing the damage. The cut is clean but deeper than I initially thought, with edges that will need proper closure to heal correctly.
“I’m putting Steri-Strips on it for now,” I tell him, “but it’s going to need stitches.”
“Okay, I’ll call the Ajello doctor tomorrow.”
Of course the mafia have their own doctors. Of course there’s a whole infrastructure of medical professionals who ask no questions and keep no records, who understand that some injuries are better handled privately.
When I finish with the bandaging, I don’t immediately step away. Can’t quite bring myself to break the spell of intimacy that’s settled over us. The quiet bathroom, the way my fingers were just brushing over his skin. The trust involved in letting me tend to his injury.
We stare at each other, and I can feel the tension and longing that’s been simmering between us for days finally reaching a breaking point. Not the desperate, twisted need that led to pills and bathroom walls and nearly destroyed us both, but something gentler. More real.
I think this is what love is supposed to feel like.
Nicky’s good arm comes up slowly, his hand settling on my waist with the kind of careful reverence that makes my breath catch.
He pulls me closer, and I don’t resist, letting him guide me until I’m sitting on his thigh, away from his injured arm, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
“Liam,” he whispers, my name a question and a promise all at once.
“Yes,” I whisper back, not sure what I’m agreeing to, but certain that whatever it is, I want it.
He kisses me, and it’s nothing like the desperate collision from that terrible night that happened in this very bathroom. This is soft, exploratory, the kind of kiss that has all the time in the world and doesn’t need to prove anything except that we care about each other.
His soft lips move over mine. A simple contact of skin that sends fizzing sensations to every single part of my body. I feel the kiss in my knees and toes. Even my ears are heating from it. Nicky is everywhere. Nicky is everything.
It’s wonderful. Perfect in its imperfection, healing in its gentleness, a bridge between the people we used to be and whoever we’re becoming together.
When we finally break apart, I rest my forehead against his, both of us breathing hard despite the kiss being relatively chaste.
“We’re going to figure this out,” he says, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I actually believe him.
“Yeah,” I agree, my hand finding its way to rest against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my palm. “We are.”
It’s not a grand declaration or a promise that everything will be perfect from now on. It’s just acknowledgment that we’re both willing to keep trying, to keep showing up for each other, to keep believing that love can grow stronger than the things that tried to break us.
Sitting here in our bathroom, with Nicky shirtless and bandaged and looking at me like I’m something precious, I think maybe that’s enough.
Maybe it’s everything.