Chapter Nineteen #3
I know very little about the sisters. One is involved in running the casino. That much I know. The other is a complete blank.
“Then my father and his wife,” he finishes up.
Of course. His father. Luca Conti. Don of the Conti Crime Family. Went to prison for a long stretch and was just released a couple of years ago.
Wait. My father and his wife?
Not “my father and mother”?
That hooks me in painfully.
It could mean anything. Maybe they got divorced.
But Nico still would’ve mentioned her, right?
I keep chewing to buy myself a second. I swallow. I try to keep my voice normal.
“What happened?” I ask softly, and I hate how careful it sounds. Like I’m stepping around broken glass.
I don’t have to elaborate, but he understands.
His gaze holds mine for one beat, then drops to his plate.
“My mother’s name was Carlotta,” he says.
Just like that.
A fact. A name. No softness in the delivery, but there’s something in the way he says it that isn’t cold, either.
He takes a slow breath.
“She had breast cancer,” he continues. “It went away. It came back.”
My fork stills in my hand.
He doesn’t look at me when he says the next part.
“She died.”
My stomach twists with a different kind of nausea. Not food. Not adrenaline. Just… that sudden awareness that everyone has a reason for the way they are.
I swallow, forcing my face to stay neutral even as my mind stumbles over the fact that Nico is talking about his mother at my kitchen table like it’s a normal thing to do.
I can’t think of anything less normal.
He takes another bite, chews, swallows, like he’s keeping it contained on purpose.
“My father was in prison at the time,” he says.
I blink.
I don’t ask for details. I’m not stupid. And he’s not offering.
I’m sure if I really wanted to know, I could find an article.
He shifts his fork against the plate, the quiet scrape too loud in the gap between sentences.
“My sister Lucia was older,” he says. “But she was… gone by then.”
Gone.
Not dead. Just gone.
Again, I don’t ask because he isn’t offering.
I nod once like I understand, even though I don’t.
Nico’s eyes flick up to mine, then away again, like he regrets giving me even that much.
But he keeps going.
“Giovanni. Antonio. Roberto,” he says. His uncles. “They stepped in. They did what they had to do.”
He lifts his glass, takes a sip, sets it down.
“They each lived in the house at some point or other,” he says. “Drove me crazy sometimes. There was always someone in every damn room I went in. Couldn’t get a minute of quiet for days at a time… But it was family, you know?”
My throat tightens around nothing.
Because no. I don’t.
For the first time, Nico doesn’t notice.
“I moved into the pool house as soon as Giovanni okayed it. He stayed until Caterina went away to school. Then everyone else scattered. Not far, though. Elena drags us back to the house nearly every Sunday since they got married. And Bianca always jokes that her love language is food. If it wasn’t obvious.
” He gestures to the plates in front of us. “So we always have too much.”
It’s ridiculous to feel anything about it, and I do anyway.
A hot little thread of jealousy I don’t want to admit to, even to myself.
Because what would that be like?
To have people.
To have an overflowing house.
Noise. Arguments. Laughter. Too much food.
To have rooms that are never empty. A kitchen with someone in it. A name you can call and know they’ll show up.
To not have to sit alone in a hospital waiting room with your hands shaking and your phone in your lap and no one to call.
I keep my face still. I keep chewing the food that’s suddenly making my stomach churn again. I keep my eyes on my plate so he can’t see anything.
I hate myself for it, but the bitterness slips in with the jealousy, quick and ugly.
They never had to go through anything alone.
Not really.
Nico’s voice drops, rougher.
“But it wasn’t the same,” he says. “No matter who moved in down the hall. It just wasn’t the same. She was mia madre, you know?”
My chest tightens at the Italian, at the way his voice picks it up like he can’t help it. I stare at the edge of my plate until my eyes sting, then I pick up my fork again because I need something to do with my hands.
“Yeah,” I manage quietly. It comes out thin. “I know.”
I don’t, not really. I don’t even remember my mom. I have one stupid picture of her—not even a home video—and the rest of my family is in the hospital.
I swallow, and the food feels like it’s sitting in my chest. The thought of even one more bite sticks in my gut like lard.
I keep my gaze down because if I look at him, I’ll show too much. The jealousy, the bitterness, the ugly little thought that having people down the hall sounds like a luxury, even when the reason is tragedy.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, twirling pasta with my fork with no intention of eating it. The words are automatic, the way they always are when I don’t know what else to offer.
Nico’s fork stills for a beat.
He clears his throat, and the softness that came on him when talking about his mom slides back inside, where he hides it so well. His posture squares. His gaze sharpens enough to notice I’m not eating. He nudges my plate closer with two fingers.
“Eat,” he says.
“I can’t,” I answer, too fast. I keep my eyes on the swirl of pasta I’ve been bullying around my fork. “I’m full.”
He doesn’t buy it.
“Two more bites,” he says, and his voice drops again, quieter, coaxing. Like he’s trying to guide me instead of move me. He tips his chin at the eggplant parm. “Then you can stop.”
My stomach rolls. Not because of the food. Because he’s looking at me like he can see straight through my skin, and if I look back, he’ll know exactly what’s happening in my head. The jealousy. The bitterness. The ugly little ache that I’m trying to swallow with marinara and bread.
“I said I’m full,” I repeat, and it comes out sharper.
Nico’s chair shifts. He leans in just a fraction, not crowding me, but making it clear he’s not letting it go.
“Erica,” he says, sternly. “You didn’t eat enough to be full.”
“As I’m not a toddler, I have a pretty good handle on that one myself,” I say in a biting tone, and my voice surprises me with how raw it sounds.
His eyes flick over my face. He knows something’s wrong. I can feel it. But he’s not sure what just yet. He sets the fork down carefully.
“I think today proved that you don’t,” he says, and his voice has gotten a little colder, more commanding. “What’s going on, Erica?”
The suffocating feeling swells up, fast, hot, pressing against my ribs until I can’t get a full breath.
The bitterness crawls up right behind it, mean and sharp, and it’s getting bigger by the second because he thinks he can sit here and order me around just because I have no one else.
Because I’m so pathetic that the only person I had to call during one of the worst moments of my life was my boss.
I push back from the table so hard my chair scrapes the floor.
“No,” I say again, louder. My heart is pounding. My hands are trembling. “No, Nico. I don’t know.”
He stills, and I see the moment it clicks.
She was mia madre, you know?
I stand, and my legs feel unsteady, like my body can’t decide if it’s going to run or collapse. I grip the back of the chair because I need something solid.
“Erica,” he says, tone unsure for the first time since I’ve met him.
“Maybe you haven’t noticed,” I say, and my voice cracks, but the words don’t stop. They just keep coming. “But there’s no one down my hall.”
Nico’s gaze pins me, quiet, watchful.
“There’s no one on their way to be with me,” I keep going, breath turning shallow.
“There’s no one putting together special dinners because their love language is food.
There’s no one to sit at the hospital with me to nag me about eating and having too many cups of coffee, while I stare at a door for hours and try not to throw up.
Because the only person I have in my life is on the other side of that door. ”
My throat burns. My eyes sting. I blink hard, and it doesn’t help.
“My closest friend is in Montana, and I’m not even sure she’s that anymore after I told her about the auction, because the last time I saw her, she looked at me like I was a different person.”
I turn away, staring into the dimly-lit living room because I can’t stand looking at Nico’s neutral expression.
“We were supposed to talk again before she left, but something came up. Something came up? The semester is over, and her flight wasn’t for days.
She didn’t have anything else here. Nothing came up.
She just didn’t want to see me. Because to her, I am a different person now.
One she doesn’t want to be associated with.
” My words come out between shuddering sobs.
“She couldn’t even be bothered to call today to find out if my dad made it!
” The last two words might have been yelled if my voice wasn’t so hoarse.
“And the only family I have— the only family I’ve ever had— is in the hospital,” I say, and the words taste like blood. “And I can’t ever tell him what I did to get the money for his surgery. Because I can’t handle the thought of the only person in my life—”
The rest of the words cut off in a strangled sob at the disappointed look on my dad’s face if he ever found out.
My chest heaves. The air feels thin.
“And if I lose my dad,” I say, and my voice is raw, “I have no one. No. One.”
I can hear my own breathing, loud and too fast, like I’ve been running.
“I needed someone tonight,” I say, shaking now. “And the only person I had to call was my boss.”
Behind me, the chair shifts.
I don’t turn around.
I don’t think I can face him.
Because the more I do come down from my rant, the more I realize what an asshole I was. Demented. Cruel.
How the hell could I say all that to him?
And just as quickly as the mood struck, it’s gone. Leaving me to deal with the aftermath of what my bitterness spewed out.
He just told me about his mom, and I basically told him to quit whining over it.
What the fuck.
“What the fuck,” I whisper to myself, “is wrong with me?”
I turn back to the kitchen to see Nico standing and gathering pans and plates.
I see it in him before he says anything.
The temperature drops. Not in the room—in him. His shoulders set. His movements get more efficient. He doesn’t slam things or make a show of it. He just goes quiet in that way that tells me I finally pushed too far and now he’s back behind the wall where nothing touches him.
And just as quickly as the mood struck, it’s gone. Leaving me to deal with the aftermath of what my bitterness spewed out.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
What the hell did I do?
“Nico,” I blurt, voice cracking on his name. “Oh my God. Nico, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I take a step toward him as if I can physically grab the words out of the air before they land. But it’s too late. It’s too fucking late. My heart is pounding again, sick with regret. “I didn’t mean— I—”
He doesn’t look at me.
He just picks up the foil pan and snaps the lid on with one firm press, like the sound can seal the whole night back up.
“It’s fine,” he says stiffly, already turning toward the counter like he’s going to handle the leftovers and the plates and then walk right out the door. Which I would deserve.
But he can’t go like this.
“It’s not,” I say immediately, too loud, and the word slices through the quiet. I move faster, cutting around the table, getting in his path without touching him. He pauses, but his gaze stays flat when it finally lands on me.
“You came all the way here. You’ve been so patient with me, and you did all this.” I gesture wildly toward the table, the foil pans, the bread, the stupid comfort food I didn’t deserve. “And I cried all over you. Like a complete wreck. And I’ve been a huge bitch to you all night.”
Nico takes a breath through his nose. Controlled. Measured. His eyes on mine have no warmth in them now. It makes my chest ache.
“Hell, all week,” I add, my voice edged with panic. “I’ve been snippy and defensive and mean, and you still came. You haven’t told me to fuck off yet, which I completely deserve. And you didn’t even say ‘I told you so,’ which you completely deserve to do because you were right.”
He shifts, like he’s going to step around me.
I panic and put my hand out to his arm, but quickly snatch it back. “No, wait. Please. Just—” My breath catches, and I hate how pathetic I sound, but I keep going anyway.
“I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me,” I say, hands lifting and then dropping again because I don’t know where to put them.
I pace one step, then back, like my body can’t pick a direction.
“My dad didn’t even—” My throat clenches.
“He’s fine. He made it. He’s in the ICU, but he’s fine.
And I’m— I’m just dumping it all on you. ”
“I said it’s okay,” he says, probably trying to shut this down before it gets worse.
Too late.
“It’s not okay,” I say, and my voice is shaking now for a different reason.
“Not at all. I made it sound like losing your mom wasn’t…
wasn’t that big of a deal because you had other family.
” The words taste like rot. My stomach drops.
“Because I’m feeling sorry for myself and everything inside me is a mess, and you were the closest target. I was horrible and bitter and jealous.
“You don’t deserve that,” I say quickly, as if I can get it out fast enough, it’ll fix it.
“You don’t deserve me taking a swing at you because I’m drowning.
You don’t deserve me trivializing your mom because I’m jealous of the fact that you had people down the hall and I—” My voice breaks, and I swallow it down with force.
“It was cruel and ugly. And I’m so sorry. ”
“Erica,” he says.
I laugh once, sharp and bitter, because the alternative is sobbing again. “You should be the one taking a swing at me. Literally. I deserve it.” The words tumble out before I can stop them, frantic, ridiculous.
“Erica,” he repeats, more firmly. He moves to take my arms, but I pull back.
“I’m throwing myself the world’s biggest pity party,” I say, voice cracking harder.
“And that’s not like me. I don’t do this.
I don’t— I don’t make someone else’s pain smaller so mine can feel bigger.
I don’t victimize myself. That’s not me.
” My hands go up to my hair, then drop. I rub at my face like I can erase the last ten minutes. “I just—”
My breath hitches harshly.
I press my palms to my temples, squeezing like I can hold my thoughts in place before they spill any more.