Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Nico
The back office of Bellini's is quiet and the best place having meetings in. Lorenzo's restaurant serves as neutral ground for meetings we don't want at the compound.
I tap my finger against the table, scanning the quarterly reports Claudio spread across the surface twenty minutes ago. Numbers don't lie. People do. Numbers just sit there, waiting to tell you exactly how fucked you are if you're smart enough to read them.
"The Bratva undercut us by fifteen percent on the last three shipments to the West Side," Claudio says, sliding another paper toward me.
He's been with us eight years—started as muscle, proved he had a brain worth using.
"Dealers are switching. Can't blame them when the price difference is that significant. "
Liam sits to my right. His eyes haven't stopped scanning the room since we walked in.
"Which faction?" I ask.
"Baganovs."
My jaw tightens. Of course it's the fucking Baganovs. The same crew holding Kristen's debt over her head like a guillotine blade. They're the smallest of the Bratva operations trying to carve territory in Chicago—desperate, hungry, and stupid enough to think low prices will build loyalty.
"Quality?" Liam's voice cuts through, British accent subtle but present.
Claudio shrugs. "Word is it's garbage. Cut to hell. Three ODs in Pilsen last week traced back to their product."
"Being cheap means being shit," I say, leaning back. "Anyone can slash prices. Takes actual infrastructure to maintain quality while staying competitive. The Baganovs don't have that. They're burning through capital to grab territory they can't hold."
"Agreed. Short-term problem. They'll collapse under their own business model within six months." Liam says.
"Unless they find alternative revenue streams." I pull up the intel report on my phone, scrolling to the section that's been keeping me awake. "They're diversifying. Protection rackets on the South Side. Loan sharking."
The words taste bitter. Loan sharking. Like the $140,000 noose they slipped around Kristen's neck while her piece-of-shit ex-husband pocketed every payment she scraped together.
"The Morozovs and Volkovs are the real concern," Claudio continues, oblivious to where my mind just went. "They've got actual backing from Moscow. The Baganovs are—"
"Cockroaches," I finish. "Small. Annoying. Easy to crush when the time comes."
Liam's gaze flicks to me. He knows about Kristen's situation. I see the question in his eyes: Is this business or personal?
Both. The answer is both, and I hate that I can't separate them anymore.
"What's our play?" Claudio asks.
I force my attention back to the spreadsheets. "We don't engage directly. Let them hemorrhage money trying to maintain their market share with substandard product. When their dealers start losing customers to overdoses, they'll come crawling back to quality suppliers."
"And if they don't?"
"Then we remind them why the Sartoris have controlled Chicago for three generations while Russian crews come and go like seasonal allergies."
Claudio nods, gathering his papers. "I'll have updated territory reports by Friday."
After he leaves, the silence stretches. Liam waits. He's good at that.
"The Baganovs," he finally says. "They're the ones holding Miss Thomas's debt."
Not a question. Statement of fact.
"Yes."
"Convenient that they're also our least significant threat."
I meet his eyes. "What are you implying?"
"Nothing, sir." The corner of his mouth twitches—as close to a smile as Liam gets. "Simply observing that eliminating them would solve multiple problems simultaneously."
"Pietro already authorized paying off her debt through shell companies."
"I'm aware. I'm also aware you haven't executed that plan yet."
My fingers stop tapping. He's right. I've had the authorization for days. The money's ready. One phone call, and Kristen's nightmare disappears.
So why haven't I made it?
Because paying off her debt means she's free. Free to leave the compound. Free to take Lily back to that shithole apartment. Free to walk away from me before I figure out what the fuck I'm even feeling.
The compound goes quiet after midnight. That's when I do my best thinking.
Tonight, the quiet betrays me.
Light spills from the living room.
I should walk past. Head to my office. Pour a whiskey and review the Marchetti files again until my eyes blur.
Instead, my feet carry me toward the doorway like they've got their own fucking agenda.
Kristen sits curled in the corner of the leather sectional, legs tucked beneath her, a thick hardcover balanced on her knees. She's wearing pajamas with tiny flowers on it. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders.
A notebook sits open on the cushion beside her, covered in handwriting.
She hasn't noticed me yet.
I lean against the doorframe and let myself look.
Her lips move slightly as she reads, forming silent words. Every few seconds, she reaches for the notebook and scribbles something without looking away from the page, muscle memory guiding her hand.
"Couldn't sleep?"
Kristen's head snaps up. The pen falls from her hand, clattering against the floor. For a split second, fear flashes across her features.
Then she registers it's me, and the fear shifts to exhaustion. A flicker of that stubborn defiance she wears like armor.
"You move too quietly for someone your size," she says. Her voice comes out rough. Sleep-deprived.
"Force of habit." I push off the doorframe and cross toward her, stopping at the arm of the sectional. Close enough to read the book's spine. "What are you reading?"
She doesn't answer immediately. Just watches me. Deciding how much of herself to reveal.
I wait. Patience isn't my strong suit, but for her, I find it.
"Emergency medicine," she finally says. "Trauma protocols. Advanced cardiac life support." She touches the book's cover almost reverently. "I've been reading medical texts since I was nineteen. Whenever I had time. Whenever I could afford a new one."
The words land like a confession. Like she's handing me something fragile and expecting me to crush it.
"You wanted to be a doctor."
"I wanted to help people." She looks down at the book, her fingers tracing the embossed title. "Lily's surgery changed things. Jack changed things. But I never stopped reading. Couldn't. It's the only thing that's ever been mine."
Jesus Christ.
This woman spends her nights studying medicine she'll probably never get to practice.
Not because someone's making her. Not because there's a reward waiting at the end.
Because it's hers.
I've seen beautiful women. I've had beautiful women. But I've never wanted anyone the way I want Kristen Thomas right now, with her tired eyes and her pajamas and her goddamn medical textbook.
Why the hell does this make me want her more?
I know the answer. I just don't like it.
Because she's not broken. She's bent by circumstances, by poverty, by a man who tried to crush everything good in her. But she's not broken. She's still fighting. Still dreaming. Still hers.
And I want to be the one who gives her back everything that was taken.
"You're exhausted." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "You should sleep."
"Can't." She shrugs one shoulder. "Brain won't stop."
I understand that better than she knows.
Kristen
My eyes burn from staring at the same paragraph about traumatic hemorrhage for the past twenty minutes, but closing this book feels like admitting defeat.
This is relaxing, I remind myself. Normal people watch TV. You read about blood loss.
Nico hasn't moved from the doorway. I can feel him watching me, that intense focus that makes my skin prickle with awareness even when I'm pretending to ignore him.
"Do you need tea or something?" The words tumble out before I can stop them. Hostess instincts die hard, apparently. "I could make—"
His laugh cuts me off. Low, rough, genuinely amused. "I don't drink tea."
"Ever?"
"Ever."
I raise an eyebrow, setting my pen down. "What, not masculine enough for you? Worried the other mafia guys will make fun of you?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. He walks toward me now. Each step brings him closer, and my pulse picks up speed like a traitor.
Stop it.
Nico settles onto the sectional beside me. Not across from me, not at a professional distance. Beside me.
"Tell me something," I say, because apparently my mouth has decided tonight is the night we make terrible decisions. "What's it really like? Being in a mafia family?"
His jaw tightens. "You don't want to know."
"I do." I close the textbook, giving him my full attention. "For real. I'm living in your house, Nico. I'm already in this, whether I wanted to be or not. So tell me."
For a long moment, he just stares at me.
"It's business," he finally says. "Territory. Loyalty. You protect what's yours, and you eliminate threats to it."
"Eliminate meaning..."
"Meaning exactly what you think it means."
My stomach drops, but I don't look away. "And the family stuff? Whatever you do in here? That's all real?"
"That's the only thing that's real." His voice softens, just barely. "Everything else is strategy. Survival. But family..." He shakes his head. "Family is everything."
I tuck my legs underneath me, shifting slightly closer without meaning to. "How do you decide who to trust?"
"You don't. You verify. You watch. You wait for people to show you who they really are."
"Is that what you're doing with me? Watching and waiting?"
His gaze drops to my mouth for half a second before snapping back up. "You ask a lot of questions."
"I want to know you."
The words hang between us. I meant the family. I meant all of them, the Sartoris as a unit, this strange world I've stumbled into.
But Nico's eyes darken, and I realize he heard something different.
I want to know you.
Him. Specifically.
And maybe... maybe that's what I meant after all.
"Kristen." His voice is a warning. Low and rough and doing things to my nervous system that should be illegal.
"Nico." I match his tone, tilting my chin up. "What?"
He shifts closer. The space between us shrinks to inches. I can see the stubble along his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands grip his thighs like he's physically restraining himself.
"People in my world don't play games. You keep teasing me, acting like a badass when we both know you're a kitten, and there will be consequences."
Consequences.
The word should terrify me. This man is a criminal. He probably knows seventeen ways to kill someone with his bare hands.
But instead of fear, something else bubbles up in my chest.
Laughter.
I bite my lip to contain it, but a small sound escapes anyway. Nico's eyes narrow.
"Something funny?"
"You." I shake my head, unable to stop the smile spreading across my face. "God, you really think that works, don't you?"
His jaw tightens. "What?"
"The whole..." I wave my hand vaguely at him. All of him. The intense stare, the low voice, the crowding into my space like he owns it. "This. The 'I'm dangerous, don't mess with me' routine. Does that usually make women swoon? Fall at your feet?"
He looks at me like nobody's ever called him out before.
Probably nobody has.
"I'm serious, Kristen."
"Oh, I know you are." I tuck my legs underneath me, settling deeper into the couch cushions. "That's what makes it so entertaining. You're acting like a high school quarterback who thinks he can snap his fingers and have any girl he wants."
His nostrils flare. "I'm not—"
"You absolutely are." I'm grinning now, full and genuine, and I can't remember the last time my face did this without forcing it. "What's next? You gonna tell me you're not like other guys? That I should be careful because you're bad news?"
Nico stares at me like I'm speaking a language he doesn't understand.
And honestly? Good.
Because Jack spent years making me feel small. Making me believe I was too much and not enough, all at the same time. Too loud, too opinionated, too fat, too ugly, too everything that wasn't exactly what he wanted.
This? Watching Nico Sartori fumble because I'm not reacting the way he expected?
This feels amazing.
"You should be scared of me." His voice is rougher now. Less controlled.
"Maybe." I shrug. "But I'm not."
"Why?"
I consider lying. Playing it off with another joke. But Nico's watching me with those dark eyes, and suddenly the playfulness drains away, leaving something more honest in its place.
"Because you had every chance to hurt me, and you didn't." I meet his gaze steadily. "All you did is to help me instead."
Nico's throat moves as he swallows.
"Dangerous people don't scare me, Nico. I lived with one for five years." My voice doesn't shake, and I'm proud of that. "I know the difference between someone who can hurt me and someone who will. You're the first kind."