Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty Eight
Nico
The bruises are fading, but my body still remembers.
When I catch myself in the mirror in the morning, the dark blooms on my ribs have turned to washed-out yellows and sickly greens. The scrape on my hip is a thin pink line now. The cut on my cheek is still visible if you look closely, but it’s faint, pale now.
It should make me feel better.
It doesn’t.
Because for the first time in nearly my entire life, I’m nervous.
Not before a job. Not before a meeting. Not before a fight.
Before dinner.
I pull up to my father’s street with both hands on the wheel and a tension in my gut I haven’t felt since I was a kid, and I didn’t know which version of the world I was about to experience that day.
The houses here are spaced out, big lots, trees that have been standing for decades.
Security is discreet. Cameras tucked where you wouldn’t see them unless you were looking for them.
I know exactly what’s waiting behind that gate.
I’ve driven through it a thousand times.
But tonight I’m bringing her.
Erica shifts in the passenger seat, smoothing her dress over her thighs again like she can iron her nerves into place with her palms. She’s wearing something simple—nothing flashy, nothing that screams for attention.
Soft fabric, light color. Hair down. Makeup minimal, if any. She looks like herself.
Which means she looks gorgeous.
It’s not helping.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asks, trying to sound calm.
Her fingers give her away, twisting the strap of her small purse until the leather creaks.
“Yes,” I say.
She turns her head to look at me, eyes wide and bright in the dash light.
“It’s not too soon?” she asks.
I don’t answer right away. Not because I don’t know. Because I do.
It’s soon. It’s fast. It’s… me. Doing something I don’t do.
I take my right hand off the wheel and reach for hers. She hesitates for half a heartbeat, then gives it to me, warm and small against my palm.
I lift her knuckles to my mouth and kiss them.
Her breath catches.
I glance at her and keep my voice even.
“It’s dinner,” I say. “They eat. They talk. They ask annoying questions. You’ll survive.”
Her mouth tightens like she wants to laugh and can’t quite get there.
“Dinner at your dad’s house,” she says. “With your entire, humongous family.”
“It’ll be all right,” I promise.
Erica shifts again.
“I don’t think I’ve even been in a room with that many people I know,” she says. “Ever.”
“I’ll be there,” I say.
She blinks at that.
“I met your dad,” I add, because she needs the logic, not the comfort. “It’s only fair.”
Her gaze flicks down to our hands.
“That’s different,” she mutters. “One person versus a million.”
“It isn’t different,” I say.
She makes a small noise in her throat, half skeptical, half resigned.
“And my family wants to meet you,” I continue. “They’ve wanted to since Vito said he met you.”
Erica’s face goes red immediately.
“Oh my God,” she says.
“Now they’re all on me about bringing you to meet the family because it’s not fair that only Vito’s met you.”
“What is it, a competition?”
“It is for them.”
She stares at me for a beat, then exhales.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay. I just… I don’t want to walk in and have everyone staring at me like—”
“Like what?” I ask.
She lifts her shoulder in a small shrug, but it’s not casual.
“Like I don’t belong there,” she says quietly.
The words soften me.
I keep my hand around hers.
“You do belong,” I tell her.
She looks out the windshield, then back at me.
“I don’t want to be too late getting back,” she says.
“We won’t be,” I say. “How’s your dad doing?”
Her gaze drops again, and the edge of something anxious shows under her calm.
“He’s been feeling under the weather,” she says.
“In what way?” I ask.
She looks at her lap.
“He’s just… always tired,” she says. “Still doesn’t have much of an appetite.”
I grip the wheel a little tighter.
“And he gets…” She hesitates. Swallows. “Irritated. More than usual.”
I turn my head toward her fully now, even though I’m still driving slowly.
“Irritated at you?” I ask.
Her eyes flick to mine and away again.
“Not at me exactly,” she says, but it’s not convincing. “Just… everything. The nurse. The food. The meds. Me hovering.”
My jaw tightens.
“He never used to be like that,” she adds, and the words come out raw with frustration and worry tangled together. “Ever. I don’t ever remember him being like that.”
I know that tone. I’m getting more and more familiar with her tones.
It’s fear disguised as annoyance.
I reach for her hand again, not letting her pull it away this time.
“It’s the recovery,” I say.
She doesn’t look convinced.
“Nico,” she says, small. “What if this is what he’s like now? What if the surgery changed him somehow?”
“Recovery is hard,” I say. “It’s pain. It’s fatigue. It’s his body trying to get back on its feet. That’ll pass, but at his age it will take some time.”
She swallows.
“He hates needing help,” she says. “He hates it.”
“I know,” I say.
I don’t know her father the way she does, but I’ve met men like him. Proud. Stubborn. The kind who would rather chew glass than admit they’re scared.
“And he hates seeing you worry,” I add.
Erica’s mouth tightens.
“That doesn’t stop me,” she says.
“No,” I say. “It doesn’t.”
Her eyes shine, just a little. Not tears. The start of them.
I rub my thumb over her knuckles.
“Once the recovery is over,” I tell her, “you’ll both feel a lot better.”
It’s the best I can give her without lying. Because I really don’t know. Maybe he has changed.
She watches my hand on hers.
“Okay,” she whispers.
I squeeze her fingers once.
“You’re doing very well,” I say.
She huffs out a humorless breath.
“Am I?” she asks.
“You’re here,” I say. “That counts.”
The street curves, and the stone wall comes into view. It’s the same iron gate I’ve driven through countless times. Same place I’ve walked through so many times I could do it blind.
My stomach tightens anyway.
Erica straightens in her seat, smoothing her dress again, checking her hair in the side mirror like she’s trying to get herself ready for impact.
I slow to a stop at the gate.
A small light blinks.
The gate opens.
Erica’s breath catches.
We drive through, and the gate closes behind us.
I don’t look at her because if I do, I’m going to see the nerves on her face, and it’s going to make me want to turn the car around and take her home and keep her to myself.
Instead, I keep my eyes forward and guide us up the drive.
The house comes into view—lights on, windows glowing warm in the deepening light, cars already lined up in the drive. Of course they are.
No one was going to miss this.
Erica’s fingers squeeze mine.
“You sure?” she whispers one last time.
I lift her hand and kiss her knuckles again.
“Yes,” I say.
Then I pull up in front of the house and kill the engine.