Chapter 29
Chapter twenty-nine
Liam
The knock on the door comes at exactly two o’clock, punctual in a way that suggests military precision rather than casual timing.
I open it to find Nicky standing protectively behind a beautiful man, a large suitcase beside them, and an expression on Nicky’s face that’s equal parts determined and apologetic.
“Liam, this is Molly,” Nicky says as he gestures for Molly to step inside.
“Hi!” Molly greets me with a bright smile that seems to light up the entire hallway.
He’s wearing skinny jeans, an oversized jumper in a shade of pink that shouldn’t work but absolutely does, and his blond hair is styled in a way that probably took an hour but looks effortlessly perfect.
“Thanks so much for having me. I know this is a huge imposition, and I promise I’ll be the best houseguest ever.”
“It’s no problem,” I say, meaning it. “Really. We’re happy to help.”
Nicky hauls the suitcase inside while Molly does a quick spin of the living area, taking in the apartment with an appraising eye.
“Oh, this is gorgeous! Nicolo, you didn’t tell me you had such good taste. That sofa is to die for.”
Nicky’s phone buzzes, and the warm expression shifts to something more serious. He checks the message and grimaces. “I have to go.”
My stomach drops slightly at the thought of him leaving, but I keep my expression neutral. This is what we agreed to. This is what happens when you love someone in his world.
“How long?” I ask.
“Few hours, hopefully. But I’ll check in regularly.” He pulls me aside, his hand finding mine out of Molly’s line of sight. “You okay with this?”
“I’m fine. Go do what you need to do. We’ll be here when you get back.”
He squeezes my hand, and I can see the reluctance in his eyes. He doesn’t want to leave us, doesn’t want to step away when danger might be circling closer. But duty calls, and in his world, you don’t ignore that call.
“Keep your phone on you,” he says quietly. “Panic button is by the door, cameras are monitored, and I’m fifteen minutes away at most.”
“We’ll be fine,” I assure him, with more confidence than I feel.
He presses a quick kiss to my forehead, brief enough to be almost chaste, but intimate enough that I feel Molly’s interest sharpen from across the room.
Then he’s gone, and I’m left alone with someone who is essentially a stranger, trying to figure out how to be a good host while also keeping us both safe from unspecified Russian threats.
No pressure.
“Right then,” Molly says brightly, apparently unbothered by the situation. “Show me to my room? I need to unpack and settle in.”
I lead him down the hallway, past the bathroom with its newly reinforced door, past Nicky’s room, our room now, and to the spare bedroom at the end. The door swings open to reveal the space that was mine not so long ago, when I first came home from prison and couldn’t imagine sharing Nicky’s bed.
Looking at it now, the perfectly made bed, the empty dresser, the generic décor that screams ‘guest room’, I’m struck by how far I’ve come. How this room that once represented safety and distance now just looks lonely.
“This is lovely!” Molly exclaims, wheeling his suitcase inside and immediately starting to unpack with the efficiency of someone who’s moved frequently.
“Much nicer than the safe house Dario wanted to stick me in. That place was like a bunker. No natural light, no personality. This at least feels like a home.”
“It was my room,” I find myself saying. “When I first moved in.”
Molly pauses in his unpacking, a handful of colorful shirts in his arms. “But not anymore?”
Heat creeps up my neck. Blurting it out hasn’t changed anything, because it’s obvious.
My clothes aren’t in this room’s closet, my toiletries aren’t in the attached bathroom.
Any visitor with eyes could deduce that I sleep elsewhere now.
Sleep with Nicky, in Nicky’s bed, in a relationship that we’ve been keeping private and undefined and carefully separate from the rest of the world.
And now here’s Molly, someone from Nicky’s life, someone who will see that separation collapse simply by being here.
The panic flutters in my chest. What will he think? Will he judge us? Will he report back to Dario that Nicky is involved with someone unstable, someone damaged, someone who isn’t worthy of his time?
But then I catch myself, take a breath, and really think about it.
I’m proud. I’m proud to be with Nicky, proud that we’ve built something real and meaningful. Proud that I’ve healed enough to share his space, his bed, his life in a way that doesn’t feel like drowning.
And besides, Molly is gay too. He’s in a relationship with Dario, one of the most powerful and dangerous men in London. Of course he’s going to understand. Of course it’s going to be fine.
“No,” I say, steadier now. “Not anymore. I’m with Nicky now. We share his room.”
Molly’s face breaks into the most genuine, delighted smile. “Oh, I’m so glad! The way he talks about you, it was obvious you were meant to be together.”
The easy acceptance, the genuine happiness in his voice, makes something warm unfurl in my chest. “You could tell?”
“Darling, everyone could tell except possibly you two.” He goes back to unpacking, hanging shirts in the closet with practiced efficiency. “Dario said Nicky’s been in love with you for years. Since you were teenagers, apparently. I think it’s beautiful that you found your way back to each other.”
I lean against the doorframe, watching him transform the generic space into something uniquely his. Colorful clothes, a framed photo of him and Dario, a stuffed teddy bear that looks well-loved despite Molly being a grown man.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For being okay with it. For not making it weird.”
“Why would I make it weird? Love is love, especially in our world where it’s so hard to find.” He shoots me a conspiratorial grin. “Besides, we’re in the same boat, aren’t we? In love with scary mafia men who think they need to protect us from everything.”
The description is so accurate that I can’t help but laugh. “That’s exactly what they’re like.”
“Tell me about it. Dario nearly had a breakdown when he realized I’d need to leave our place. You’d think I was going to war rather than just staying with friends for a few days.”
“Nicky was the same. Triple-checked all the security measures, made me memorize emergency protocols, gave me about fifteen different lectures about being careful.”
“They mean well,” Molly says, closing the now-empty suitcase and sliding it under the bed. “Even if they can be a bit much sometimes. Right, I’m starving. Shall we make lunch?”
We migrate to the kitchen, where Molly immediately starts opening cabinets and rummaging through the fridge with the confidence of someone completely comfortable in any space.
“Oh, you have all the good stuff! Prosciutto, proper mozzarella, fresh basil. Liam, we’re making the most amazing sandwiches.”
His enthusiasm is infectious, and I find myself relaxing as we work together, Molly chattering away about everything and nothing.
He’s loud, shameless, flamboyant in ways that should probably make me uncomfortable but somehow just make me smile.
There’s something freeing about his complete lack of self-consciousness, the way he just exists in the world without apologizing for taking up space.
“So you’re working with Dr. Torrino now?” he asks as he assembles our sandwiches with the precision of a surgeon. “That’s brilliant. He’s lovely, isn’t he? I wish he could have patched me up when I was... well, in situations I’d rather not discuss over lunch.”
The casual reference to violence, the easy acknowledgment that he’s been hurt and needed medical attention, catches me off guard. But before I can respond, he continues.
“It must be nice, having work that’s meaningful. Especially after...” He trails off, and something in his expression shifts. Becomes more careful, more aware. “After everything.”
The words hang in the air between us, loaded with unspoken understanding. After everything. After prison. After trauma. After the things that happen to people in the dark shadows of the world.
My chest tightens, a mix of alarm and something that feels uncomfortably like betrayal. He knows. Somehow Molly knows what happened to me, knows about the parts of prison I don’t talk about, the abuse and violation and all the darkness I’ve tried so hard to keep hidden.
Is it that obvious? Can people just look at me and see the damage written across my skin like a map? Or is it a simple deduction? Young, pretty man goes to prison, comes out traumatized. The math isn’t difficult.
Or did Nicky tell him?
The thought hits me like ice water. Did Nicky share my story with Molly, discuss my trauma over coffee or drinks or whatever it is friends do when they need support?
The betrayal of that, of having my most private pain become gossip, become something shared without my permission, makes my throat tight.
But then I stop, force myself to breathe, to think rationally instead of spiraling.
Nicky deserves a friend. Deserves support and someone to talk to about the challenges of loving someone as broken as I am.
And besides, my story truly is clear enough for anyone with eyes and basic deduction skills. Prison changes people, especially people who went in young and vulnerable.
I release my breath and meet Molly’s gaze. To my surprise, he isn’t looking at me with pity or disgust. There is nothing uncomfortable in his blue eyes. The only thing I see is understanding. The kind that comes from his own experiences rather than secondhand knowledge.
The realization of that sets off a cacophony of emotions and feelings. Relief that he understands. Horror that he has suffered too. Excitement that I’ve found a comrade.
“Yeah,” I say finally, pushing through the tight feeling in my chest. “After everything. The work helps. Gives me purpose beyond just... surviving.”