3. Nico
CHAPTER 3
NICO
Hello, Devil's ass , I think to myself as I step into the large dining room of Uncle's Seven Hills home. It's all gilded mirrors and dark wood. The scent of garlic and tomato sauce is heavy in the air as it drifts from the kitchen where Chef Trombetta is cooking something delicious. Food—that's the only good thing about these Morelli dinners. It's family, yet the atmosphere crackles with tension thick enough to cut with the sterling silver knives laid out on the damask tablecloth.
Uncle Tony sits at the head of the long table, his silver hair carefully styled and gleaming under the crystal chandelier. He's in his early seventies, and although rumor has it his health has been failing, his hazel eyes are still sharp and analyzing as they land on me. To his right slouches Roberto, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. Clearly, the older cousin has been hitting the bottle since the moment he woke up. You'd think by forty he'd get his shit together. His poor wife, Maria, who barely speaks, is by his side. From her expression, it's not hard to tell that she's only enduring this gathering because of her duty to her family. This is a business transaction, but a real marriage, so Tony could work with Maria's father.
Next to Maria, Tony's younger son, Salvatore, glowers at his empty plate like it personally offended him. He mostly goes by Sal, and he's the one to watch out for.
"Nicola, tesoro , you made it." Aunt Chiara glides over in a rustle of silk. She cups my face like I'm still ten years old, kissing my cheeks affectionately. My mother passed away shortly after giving birth to me and Tony's wife has been the only maternal influence I had, not counting my nanny Tata. But Tata found herself a husband and started her own family. She left after I turned twelve, leaving me alone with Aunt Chiara, the only buffer between me and her jealous sons. She's always been the reasonable one, the perfect matronly hostess. Curvy and pretty even in her sixties, every ash-blonde hair in place, keeping up appearances despite her family threatening to implode around her.
I greet her warmly, only too aware of the eyes tracking my every move as I take my seat by my aunt's side. Salvatore's glare burns into me from across the table, but I keep my face pleasantly neutral. The staff finally emerge from the kitchen bearing trays heaped with antipasti, homemade prosciutto, caprese salad, and stuffed mushrooms. I inhale the familiar scents of basil and olive oil, my mouth watering despite my unease. LA food doesn't even compare. Chef Trombetta knows his dishes.
"How was your flight, Nico?" Uncle Tony's gravelly voice cuts through the clinking of cutlery as soon as the staff is gone. "I trust Los Angeles has been treating you well?"
"Can't complain," I reply casually, spreading my napkin on my lap. "The weather agrees with me."
And plenty of distance between me and this viper's nest , I add silently.
"Good, good." Uncle nods. "I'm happy to hear it."
Conversations flow around me, forcibly light, Chiara inquiring about my girlfriend I still don't have to her chagrin, Roberto making some slurred wisecrack that earns a stern look from Tony. All the while I feel Salvatore's resentful gaze like a dagger between my ribs. Both my cousins are disgusting, but although Roberto is loud and out of control at times, he's harmless mostly due to his own stupidity. It's Sal who I need to avoid. Sal and his scheming.
Once everyone has asked me at least one question, Aunt Chiara again draws all attention to my need—at least according to her—to meet someone. "Do you know, tesoro ," she says, "I met Valentina Barone the other day at the market…"
"Seriously, Mom," Salvatore mutters, shoving a piece of marinated artichoke into his mouth.
Uncle gives me a hopeful look.
"She's asked about you," Aunt Chiara drives her point home. "You should give her a call."
"Sure. I will." I don't have it in me to tell my aunt openly I have no interest in rekindling my short-lived high-school romance with Valentina Barone. I'm still not over my hot one-night stand with the handsome stranger with the Russian accent.
Roberto snorts, swirling the wine in his glass. "Mother, your efforts are all in vain. You should know it by now."
"It would be nice for my favorite nephew to have someone by his side," Aunt Chiara muses with a polite smile on her face, ignoring her son's remark. "I'd love for him to spend more time here with us in Las Vegas."
" Zia , LA is great. You should come and visit me sometimes," I offer, knowing Uncle Tony won't let her anyway.
"You love that city so much, it distanced you from your family," he grits out.
"Of course our Nico loves LA," Roberto slurs. "All sorts of freaks out there. Probably feels right at home with them, don't you, cugino ? Fucking anyone you wa—"
Before he can say more, Tony slams his fist on the table, rattling the dishes and proving once more he can be physically intimidating even at his age. "Enough," he growls, an angry expression on his lined face. "I won't have this nonsense at my table. You're drunk, Roberto. Keep your mouth shut before you embarrass yourself further."
My jaw tightens. Roberto's insinuations never truly reach Uncle's ears. Otherwise, I'd be dead by now. Or maybe Uncle suspects something and is in denial because his own sons aren't fit to do the job he's been doing all these years.
In any case, I refuse to rise to my cousin's bait. Typical Roberto, lashing out like a spoiled child who can't have what he wants just because he wants it. With Tony, you need to prove yourself first.
Chiara reaches out to lay a soothing hand over her husband's, ever the peacemaker. "Tony, please. Let's just enjoy our meal as a fam–"
But Tony ignores her, his eyes hard as flint. "Since you brought it up, Roberto, let's talk about your little screw-up with the Armenians, shall we? I'm hearing rumors, and I don't like what I'm hearing."
The color drains from Roberto's face and he shrinks back in his seat like a scolded child. I watch the trainwreck unfold, morbidly fascinated. This ought to be good.
"My eldest son," Tony continues, each word dripping with disgust. "The one who's supposed to take over this family's operations. What a disappointment you turned out to be. Can't hold your liquor, can't maintain a business relationship to save your life. You're good for nothing, you know that?"
Sal's mouth is closed, eyes bouncing from his father to his older brother, then to me.
Chiara's knuckles are white where she grips Tony's hand but she doesn't dare interrupt. The rest of us sit in stunned silence, the air crackling. I've never seen Tony lay into Roberto quite so viciously before in front of Roberto's wife. Or the entire family.
"It's your own fault," Roberto blurts out with a scowl on his face.
"What?" Tony's furious, face twisted up.
"You could have helped when I asked for a loan."
"Or you want a loan without working for it?"
I keep my expression carefully blank, sipping my wine to hide the bitter curl of satisfaction in my gut. About time someone put that arrogant bastard in his place.
"I'm your son, aren't I?"
"Sometimes, I doubt it."
Roberto looks like he wants to melt into the floor, his earlier bluster completely evaporated. He opens and closes his mouth a few times but no sound comes out.
I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
"If you'd stop comparing Roberto to Nico, maybe he wouldn't be drinking so much," Salvatore pipes up.
Aunt Chiara shoots him a sharp look. "Salvatore, don't—"
But Tony ignores them both, his steely gaze fixed on me. "Nicola."
I sit up a little straighter, meeting his eyes. "Uncle?"
"Since you're back home, why don't you handle the situation." He's saying it like the idea just came to him but we all know that's the main reason he summoned me here to Vegas. And right now, he is publicly humiliating his own son at my expense. "I need you to meet with Vartan," Uncle goes on. "See what you can do to smooth things over." His tone leaves no room for argument.
A weight settles in my chest. Of course. Because his own sons are hopeless, I'm the one left to fix shit. It's a familiar role I've played too many times before. I just don't know why. I've yet to seriously think about it.
At my uncle, I nod stiffly. "I'll take care of it."
"Good." Tony leans back, regarding me with an inscrutable expression. "We'll discuss the details in my office after dinner."
Fantastic. A private audience with the Godfather himself. My skin prickles with unease but I incline my head in acquiescence. "As you wish."
Across the table, Sal's dark eyes glitter with hostility. I can practically hear the gears turning in his devious little mind, scheming, always scheming. He resents Tony tasking me with this, resents my position in the family. Tough shit. I didn't ask for any of it.
But what choice do I have? This is my life, for better or worse. Bound by obligation to a world I never asked to be part of.
I drain the rest of my wine in one large gulp, relishing the kaleidoscopic taste. It does little to quell the dread churning in my gut.
This is going to be a long fucking night.
* * *
The door clicks shut behind me as I step into Tony's office. He sits at a massive oak desk, the golden light from the antique lamp casting sharp shadows across his weathered face.
"Sit." He gestures to the chair opposite him. An order, not a request.
I comply, sinking into the plush seat, the rich scent of leather and Tony's expensive cigars engulfing me. He leans forward, steepling his fingers. "Set up a meeting with Vartan but ask him to bring Arman too. He is younger, not as experienced and easier to crack. Vartan will only give you a hard time if he is alone. That old fox is tough. We have to clean up this mess Roberto made before it turns into a real problem."
"Consider it done." My voice is steady, betraying none of the unease. Cleaning up after Roberto's fuck-ups has become a full-time job. You'd think with eight years on me, he'd have a shred of common sense by now.
Tony nods, a flicker of approval in his shrewd eyes. "He's in over his head with this real estate nonsense. He needs to forget it. Doesn't have the head for it. Managing a casino and a hotel is no easy task."
I want to agree with Uncle, but it's not in my best interest to badmouth his own son in front of him. So, I keep my opinion to myself. "Don't you worry, Uncle," I tell Tony with a smile I force onto my face. "I will figure it out. Just need your blessing to do what needs to be done."
"You have it, Nico. Get it sorted."
A heavy silence descends, the unspoken words creating tension between us.
The leather creaks softly as I shift in my seat. "If there's nothing else..."
"Nico." Tony's face softens all of a sudden. "I know it is my fault you grew up like this, without a father…"
"Let's not go down that road, huh?" I don't want to do this. Don't want to rehash the history of this family and all the losses that the war fifteen years ago brought.
"Okay. As you wish." Tony waves a dismissive hand.
I rise up and cross the room toward the door.
"Nico," Uncle calls as I grab the handle to let myself out. His gaze sharpens, pinning me in place when I glance over at him over my shoulder. "Watch your back with these new players in town. Russians. They're making moves. Bringing the cartel business over."
A light chill skitters down my spine. Russians. Fucking perfect. As if we didn't have enough problems. "I'll be careful. Thanks for the warning."
"You better be. I can't afford to lose you."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. A rare admission from a man who never shows his cards. I swallow hard, a lump forming in my throat. "Thank you."
And with that, I stride out of the office. My mind is reeling from his warning about the Russians. For some reason, the mention of it has me thinking about the hot stranger from LA again. That goddamned accent. The hallway stretches before me as I make my way toward my bedroom in the other wing of the house.
Just when I'm about to turn the corner, Salvatore materializes from out of nowhere, stepping in front of me and blocking my path with a hint of a sneer across his face. Immediately, the air thickens while we stare each other down. There's a lifetime of resentment simmering between us as all of the bullying he attempted while I was in this house flashes in my mind like a film strip. He always hated me when we were kids. He hates me even more now.
"You shouldn't have come back from LA, Nico," Sal hisses leaning in, his breath hot against my ear. "You're not part of this family. You're just Tony's little orphan dog, begging for scraps at his feet."
"I would watch what you say, cousin," I reply.
His words slice through me, rekindling the deep-seated insecurities I've fought so hard to bury. I clench my fists at my sides, knuckles whitening as I struggle to maintain my composure.
"That's why he keeps throwing you bones, Nico. Because he pities you," Salvatore continues, twisting the proverbial knife. "But you'll never truly belong. You're nothing. So just stop trying already."
I swallow hard, tasting bile in the back of my throat. Every fiber of my being screams to lash out, to make Sal bleed for his insolence. But I know the consequences all too well. One wrong move, and everything I've worked for could crumble to ash.
Salvatore smirks as if aware of my internal battle. With a final, dismissive glance, he brushes past me and disappears down the hall, leaving me alone with the wreckage of his words.
Entitled asshole.
No wonder Uncle hasn't named a successor yet.
Neither one of his sons are fit for a job.
I force myself to take a deep, shuddering breath, fighting the urge to chase after him and unleash the fury coursing through my veins. Instead, I stalk into my bedroom and slam the door shut behind me.
The rage consumes me, a wildfire burning through my last shred of restraint. Before I can think, my fist collides with the wall, pain exploding through my knuckles as the plaster cracks and crumbles. But the physical anguish is nothing compared to the chaos inside me.
I lean my forehead against the cool wall, eyes squeezed shut as I try to regain control. But Salvatore's venom still lingers, a poison seeping into my already fractured soul.
In this moment, I've never felt more alone, more trapped by the twisted web of loyalty that defines my life. The weight of it all threatens to crush me, and I wonder how much longer I can bear it before I finally break.