Chapter 30
Chapter thirty
Liam
Nicky has been gone for exactly seventeen minutes, and he’s already texted three times.
Everything okay?
Doors locked?
Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.
I show Molly the screen, and he rolls his eyes affectionately. “Dario’s the same. I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to install a tracking chip under my skin by now.”
“Don’t give them ideas,” I laugh, typing back a quick reassurance to Nicky.
We’re fine. Stop worrying and focus on work. Love you.
The response is almost immediate. Can’t help it. Love you too.
Molly peers over my shoulder and grins. “You two are disgustingly cute. I approve.”
It’s strange having someone in the apartment while Nicky isn’t here.
For weeks, this has been my sanctuary, the place where I can exist without judgment, where the outside world can’t reach me.
But Molly’s presence doesn’t feel intrusive.
If anything, it feels nice to have company that isn’t Nicky, someone I can talk to without the weight of our complicated history and his constant worry about my mental state.
“Right,” Molly announces, clapping his hands together. “What’s the plan for today? I’m thinking breakfast, workout, maybe some sort of lunch situation? I refuse to spend the day moping about being in hiding.”
“That sounds perfect. Though I should warn you, I’m not great in the kitchen.”
“Lucky for you, I am… starting to set fire to things less often. Come on, let’s see what we’re working with.”
We migrate to the kitchen, where Molly immediately starts pulling ingredients from the fridge with the confidence of someone who’s cooked in many different kitchens.
Within minutes, he has eggs cracking, bread toasting, and coffee brewing while maintaining a running commentary about everything from the weather to a reality show he’s obsessed with.
“You know what we should do?” He says as he plates up perfectly fluffy scrambled eggs. “Italian lessons! I’ve been learning for a few months now. Dario’s been teaching me, and I’m at that annoying stage where I know enough to be dangerous but not enough to actually hold a conversation.”
“Nicky’s been teaching me too,” I admit. “But I’ve only learned a few basic phrases.”
“Perfect! I can teach you what I know, and we can practice together. It’ll be fun.” He waggles his eyebrows. “And I know all the naughty words that Dario thinks he’s keeping from me.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “Naughty words?”
“Oh yes. The really fun stuff. Swear words, insults, phrases you definitely shouldn’t say in front of your boyfriend’s nonna.” He leans in conspiratorially. “Want to learn how to say ‘your mother is a hamster’ in Italian?”
“Is that actually useful?”
“Absolutely not, but it’s hilarious.”
We eat our breakfast while Molly teaches me increasingly ridiculous Italian phrases, complete with dramatic hand gestures and exaggerated pronunciation.
By the time we’ve finished, I can insult someone’s parentage in three different ways and ask where the sexy men are hiding, though I’m not entirely sure about the accent.
“Your pronunciation isn’t bad,” Molly says as we clear the dishes. “Better than mine was at first. Though you do this thing with your R’s that’s very English. You need to roll them more. Like this, arrabbiato.”
“Arabbiato,” I attempt.
“No, no. Arrrrabbiato. Really roll it. Pretend you’re a cat purring.”
I try again, making a sound that’s probably more strangled cat than purr, and Molly dissolves into giggles.
“Okay, maybe we need to work on that one. But you’re getting there!”
My phone buzzes. Another text from Nicky. How’s it going? Molly behaving himself?
He’s teaching me to swear in Italian. I think we’re having a corrupting influence on each other.
That sounds exactly right. Stay safe. Love you.
“He’s checking on us again, isn’t he?” Molly asks, loading the dishwasher with practiced efficiency.
“Yeah. Do they ever stop worrying?”
“Never. It’s actually kind of sweet once you get used to it. Though I did have to set some boundaries about the constant surveillance when Dario and I first got together.”
“Surveillance?”
“Oh, he had people following me everywhere. For my protection, obviously. But it felt suffocating until we had a very firm conversation about trust and autonomy.” He closes the dishwasher and turns to face me.
“The thing about being with someone powerful is that they’re used to controlling everything.
Sometimes you have to remind them that loving someone doesn’t mean owning them. ”
The words hit home in a way I wasn’t expecting.
Because Nicky does try to control things, doesn’t he?
Not in a malicious way, but in the constant need to keep me safe, to protect me from everything, including myself.
And I’ve been letting him, partly because I needed that protection, but also because it was easier than setting boundaries.
“How did you get Dario to back off?” I ask.
“I told him that if he didn’t trust me to handle my own life, then we couldn’t be together.
That I needed to be a partner, not a possession.
” Molly’s expression softens. “It wasn’t easy.
He’s very stubborn, and his instinct is always to protect.
But eventually he understood that respecting my autonomy was part of loving me. ”
“And he stopped the surveillance?”
“Well, he scaled it back significantly. There’s still security, but it’s discreet now. And he asks before making decisions that affect my life instead of just implementing them. And he has stopped ruining my clothes by putting tracking chips in them.” He grins. “Progress, not perfection.”
We move to the living room, settling onto the sofa with the kind of comfortable ease that suggests we’ve known each other much longer than two days.
“Can I ask you something personal?” I venture.
“Always.”
“How do you deal with the violence? Knowing what Dario does, what he’s capable of?”
Molly is quiet for a moment, considering the question seriously.
“I don’t love it. But I accept that it’s part of who he is, part of the world he operates in.
He’s never violent with me, never makes me feel unsafe.
And he’s trying to move the family toward more legitimate business, to reduce the need for that kind of work. ”
“But it still happens.”
“Yes. And when it does, I choose not to know the details. I know he comes home sometimes with blood on his hands, metaphorically speaking, but I don’t ask for specifics. That’s my boundary. I’ll accept that part of him exists, but I don’t need to be intimate with it.”
It’s a more nuanced answer than I expected, and it gives me permission to have similar boundaries with Nicky. To love him without needing to know every dark thing he does, to accept that he lives in shades of gray without forcing myself to examine each shadow.
“Gym time?” Molly suggests, breaking the contemplative mood. “I need to work off those scrambled eggs, and you can show me what this fancy building’s gym looks like.”
We change into workout clothes and head down to the basement, where Molly immediately commandeers the sound system and puts on aggressively upbeat pop music that would probably annoy me if it weren’t so perfectly him.
“Right,” he says, surveying the equipment with the eye of someone who knows their way around a gym. “What’s your usual routine?”
“Weights mostly. Some cardio. I’m trying to rebuild strength after...” I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence.
“After everything,” Molly supplies gently. “I get it. I’ve had to rebuild too, many times. It’s hard work, but you’re clearly making progress.”
We workout side by side, Molly chattering away between sets about everything and nothing.
He tells me about the first time he met Dario’s family, about accidentally insulting his aunt in Italian because he mixed up the words for “lovely” and “ridiculous.” He talks about his plans to go back to school eventually, maybe study something useful now that he has the financial security to make those choices.
“What about you?” he asks as we move to the treadmills. “Any plans beyond the doctor work?”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead, honestly.
Right now I’m just trying to get through each day, build some stability.
” I increase my speed slightly. “But maybe eventually I could get proper qualifications. Actually become a paramedic or nurse instead of just someone who patches people up off the books.”
“That would be amazing! You’d be brilliant at it.”
The easy confidence in his voice, the complete lack of doubt that I could achieve something like that, makes my chest warm. It’s been so long since anyone believed in my potential for anything beyond mere survival.
By the time we’ve finished working out, we’re both sweaty and laughing, the endorphins from exercise mixing with the growing ease of genuine friendship. We head back upstairs and quickly shower in our respective bathrooms before reconvening in the kitchen for lunch.
“Italian practice while we cook?” Molly suggests, pulling ingredients for pasta from the cupboards.
“Definitely. Teach me something actually useful this time.”
“But where’s the fun in that?” He grins. “Fine, fine. How about cooking vocabulary? Very practical.”
He walks me through the names of ingredients in Italian, correcting my pronunciation with patience and humor. We practice phrases like “Pass me the salt” and “This needs more garlic” until they start to feel natural on my tongue.
“Now for the fun stuff,” Molly says as he stirs the sauce. “Romantic phrases. Because you’re going to want to impress Nicky.”
“I already told him I love him in Italian.”
“Yes, but there’s so much more! Like...” He leans in with a wicked grin. “Voglio baciarti tutta la notte. Want to know what that means?”
“Something romantic?”
“I want to kiss you all night.” He demonstrates the proper pronunciation, rolling his R’s dramatically. “Very useful for setting the mood.”