23. Savio
23
SAVIO
I can’t help but wonder if I’d met Nicci before all of this, if I’d seen her the way she is now, if I would have felt differently. Here at the cabin, there’s a different, freer side to her that makes me feel things I haven’t felt in years. Things I would have never imagined feeling for her.
Two days pass at the cabin, and I can feel the walls between us breaking down. It’s impossible for them not to, no matter how much I can tell Nicci is scrambling to keep them up, trying to keep distance between us. She doesn’t sit in the kitchen with me again while I cook, instead disappearing into the living room or upstairs with a book until I find her and tell her that the food is ready. But every time I walk into a room and see her there, it feels more right than it should. Every time she looks up and catches my eye, I feel like something in my chest is cracking open.
With the formality of our former relationship gone, I start to notice little things about her in the moments when we are in the same room. I notice that she always goes for the fantasy novels tucked on the bookshelves, never anything grounded in the real world—which is hardly surprising. She wakes up earlier than me each morning, and I always find her down by the pond, watching the ducks. On the third morning, when I walk down the hill, I see her with a pad of paper and a pencil that she must have dug up somewhere, sketching them.
There are other little things, too. Things you only find out by living with someone day to day, which I’ve never done before. In the weeks that Nicci was in my penthouse, I kept her isolated, specifically to avoid what’s happening now—which is that I know she despises mealy fries and loves crunchy ones, that she turns the water in the shower up so hot that there’s never any left when it’s my turn, and that she talks in her sleep. Never anything that I can pick up—just small, mumbled words that sound sad enough that when they wake me, I want to roll over and reach for her.
I never lived with Sophie, so I never knew the smallest details about her, but I did know enough in all the time we spent together. I’d forgotten, in the years since then, what it was like to know someone like this and how it can change the way you feel about them.
Is it changing me, too? I catch myself wondering, as we sit in the living room after dinner—Nicci sipping a glass of wine as she thumbs through A Feast For Crows, and I read a thriller that I’m pretty sure I’ve read before. What would it be like if this continued? If we stayed like this, just the two of us, and left New York behind?
Is it possible to put the past behind us to that extent? Nicci has done terrible things—and so have I. I’ve done terrible things to her. We hated each other in the beginning, and while I know that I stopped hating her the moment that I came to understand her that afternoon, I’m still not sure that I can trust her. I know, even if she doesn’t hate me as much as she might have before, that she doesn’t trust me. We trust each other only when our goals are fully aligned—such as in going after the Crows—and aside from that, it’s questionable.
She doesn’t even know the truth of what I want with Gallo—that I have plans to take over the Italian mafia from him…or at least, that I did. I’m no closer to figuring out a solution to that thorny problem, either.
It wouldn’t be a problem if I left. If we both left.
I look over at Nicci—her blonde hair thrown up in a messy bun on top of her head, her lips stained pink from the wine. This is her , I think. Her with her guard as low as I’ve ever seen it. And as I look at her, I can’t help questioning all of my goals. We’re two people capable of viciousness, yes, but maybe that makes us more compatible, not less. And in the past few days…
Nothing intimate has happened between us. But I’ve caught her gaze straying towards me, just as mine constantly strays toward her. I’ve had to jerk off in the shower every fucking night just to keep my hands off of her in bed, knowing that she doesn’t want my advances. I’m not treating her like a possession or my submissive any longer, and it feels wrong for me to try. But sharing a bed, more than anything else, has made me ache for her in a way that I’d forgotten I could.
I’m losing sight of what I came back to New York for. I know that, on the surface, and yet…in these past three days, for the first time in my life since Sophie, I feel something that I think feels like happiness.
It’s been so long since I’ve felt it, really felt it, that I have to question if it’s real. If that’s really what I feel warming my chest as I look at her, as I watch her bite her lip as she reads, absently reaching for her wine glass with her eyes glued to the page.
Neither of us are normal. We’re traumatized, haunted—Nicci a thousand times more so than me. We’re both killers. I’m a billionaire; she’s a former socialite with the ashes of a dozen burned bridges clinging to her. But here, in this secluded bubble, it almost feels like we could be normal. Like we could get back what we once lost.
Nicci finishes her glass of wine, setting it aside. I feel her eyes on me, and after a moment, I hear the rustling of her book as she sets it aside on the coffee table, too.
“How long are we going to be here?” she asks quietly, and my heart does a quick stutter in my chest.
I set my own book down, turning to face her. “I suppose that partially depends on you.”
“On me?” She looks at me quizzically. “How so?”
“Do you feel well enough to go back? We’ll need to put together a plan for taking out Francis and Martin and then your father and brother. I have some information on the former, but you’ll need to fill me in on your thoughts about the latter. And then—” I break off because I still haven’t told her anything about Gallo, or about the ultimatum that Yashkov and Gallagher gave me.
“I have felt well enough.” She looks at me almost crossly, and something in my stomach drops. “I’ve just been waiting for you to say the word.”
“I thought it was best for us to lay low for a few days. Given the…mess we left behind. But maybe we should start making plans, then.” Even as I say it, I can feel the reluctance to leave tugging at me.
“What do you know about Francis and Martin?” Nicci sits up, pouring herself another glass of wine, her attention fully on me. “They’re the last, as far as we know. Once they’re dealt with, Barca’s Crows will be finished.”
She seems eager to plan—eager to leave. I try to push aside the irrational disappointment I feel at that, and focus on her question instead.
“They own a restaurant,” I say slowly, reaching for the glass of whiskey I poured earlier. “A means to launder money, as far as I know, although it is operational—and fairly busy. I did a little recon before this last job, and it seems that on Thursday evenings, they’re both there after closing. That seems to be the day they handle joint administrative tasks. If we hit the restaurant while just the two of them are there, we should be able to take them out.”
Nicci’s eyes glitter. “Let’s do it.” There’s an almost feverish look on her face, and I wonder if it’s at the prospect of finishing off the Crows—or at the fact that after that, her father and brother will be next.
“We’ll have to leave tomorrow.” I think, as I say it, that I catch a flash of disappointment on her face, but I can’t be sure. I know I feel it, cold in the pit of my stomach, a feeling that once we leave here, this fragile thing that I can feel blossoming between us will be lost, too. I have no intention of treating her as a submissive the way I did before, even once we’re back in New York, but the traces of the way things were before will be there in the penthouse, reminding us. Reminding her . The security I hired will be there, making her uncomfortable again.
It won’t be the same. But what I feel here, I remind myself, isn’t real. It’s the product of circumstance, of being in this close, secluded space, a manufactured intimacy. The reality is what’s back in New York. It’s the deal I made with Nicci, and nothing more. It’s the goal that I’ve been working toward for years.
“That’s fine.” Nicci sips her wine, looking contemplative. “Have you noticed that they have others there with them? Backup?”
I shake my head. “Most of these guys were all real low-level before they hooked up with Barca’s crew, and they’ve gone back to being low-level after. Not the type to have an entourage.”
Nicci nods. “Alright. You take one, I’ll take the other, then. I don’t care which.” She blows out a sharp breath. “I just want it done.”
She leans back against the back of the couch, tucking her feet under her, and takes another sip of her wine. I watch as she stares pensively into the distance— I don’t need to ask what she’s thinking about. It’s easy enough to imagine.
And what will I do when my deal with her is finished? The thought alone is enough to tell me that I don’t know. I’m no closer to making inroads with the other families. Yashkov and Gallagher have made it clear that they consider their alliances to be sacred—and that they’re not going to have any part in betraying Antony Gallo. I’m not sure that they’ll have any part in backing me, even if I find a way to take Gallo out on my own.
Which brings me to the other problem that having Nicci in my life—in any way—poses. If I kill Gallo, it will likely start a bloody war, one that I’m not entirely sure I can win. The desire to avoid that is why I spent so many years planning ways to make myself seem like a viable alternative to Gallo—and even if I can get Yashkov and Gallagher to see sense and call a truce, there will be bloodshed in the meantime. It would put Nicci in danger.
That’s made me falter, as much as anything else. I know it’s one of the reasons why I keep shying away from making a new plan—why, every time I think about it, I consider simply leaving. Accepting the ultimatum I’ve been given. Putting the past behind me in its entirety.
Is it failure, if I choose to walk away? I can’t decide. I’m not sure any longer if this is truly what I want or if it’s an echo of the past—something I can’t let go of simply because I’ve sunk so much into it for so long.
Nicci has no part in it, regardless. Even if I were successful in overthrowing Gallo, even if there was a truce, even if it all worked out—the other families wouldn’t accept Nicci as my wife. Gallagher wouldn’t approve of a disgraced socialite as my wife, one who’s been publicly embarrassed in front of most of New York’s society, and Dimitri?—
Well, the reasons why Dimitri would have no part of it are obvious. I’d start another war just by trying to introduce Nicci to him as my wife.
“I’m going up to take a shower.” Nicci drains the last of her wine from the glass, setting it back down, and I can tell from the way it tilts just a little that she’s slightly tipsy. I watch her go, standing up as well to gather the glasses and take them into the kitchen, and my gaze drifts down her body.
Fuck , I want her. Not in the way I did before, as a means of manipulation—I want to find out what it's like to have her in bed without all the other complications. I want something different from the rough fuck in the car or the times I dominated her, made her bend to my will. I want to find out what pleases her. I want to find out what she’d do to please me, free of any constraints or expectations.
I turn away, doing my best to ignore my thickening cock as I go to rinse the glasses out and clean up, before heading upstairs. I collect a pair of sleep pants and a fresh towel, setting them down on the bed just as the door to the bedroom opens, and Nicci steps in.
My cock instantly jerks the moment I see her. She’s wearing a pair of thin cotton shorts and a tank top, her damp blonde hair clinging to her shoulders, and my jaw tightens as my hands clench convulsively around the clothes and towel that I’m holding.
“I’m—” I swallow hard. “Did you use all the hot water?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “I guess you’ll have to find out.”
“Do you ever give a straight answer to a question?” I start to walk past her, but she smells like roses and vanilla, her skin radiating warmth, and I pause, so close to her that I could reach out and touch her. Reach out and kiss her, a real kiss, one full of nothing but desire.
“Maybe.” She looks up at me, a small smirk on her lips, and I want to kiss it away. I want to leave her gasping, begging, pleading for the pleasure I can give her, for no reason other than that she craves it.
I don’t want to go back to reality. I want this to be reality. This—right here, right now. This thread of lust strung taut between us, this dream that we’ve been living in for days now, where nothing that came before matters and nothing that’s ahead of us is real.
Nicci looks up at me, and I can see that she wants it, too. Her eyes soften for just a moment as they catch mine, and for the briefest second, I think she’s going to lean in and kiss me. Her lips part, and I can feel the connection between us pulsing as if it has a heartbeat of its own.
She turns away abruptly, and the moment shatters. “Goodnight, Savio,” she murmurs, walking past me to the side of the bed that I’ve started to think of as hers , and she slides under the covers, reaching for the light.
I stand in the doorway, looking at her for a long moment. Tomorrow, we’re heading back to the city. I’m not ready, and deep down, I don’t think she is, either.
My jaw tightens, and I turn away, hardening myself against the possibilities that feel like they’re still lingering there, in the space between us.
If anything was going to change, I tell myself as I walk down the hall, it already would have. She would have changed it. She would have made a move.
It was a pleasant, brief dream. And it’s time for us both to wake up.