9. Nico
CHAPTER 9
NICO
The throbbing in my temples is what wakes me up in the morning. The mess the missing shipment created had me up all night, thinking, coming up with the ideas. But the only logical solution to avoid further complications is to cover the losses with a payout, which, I know Uncle will not agree to. Tony Morelli isn't the kind of man to give up the cash willingly when the cash is available. Unfortunately, it's not. Not at the moment.
I ruminate for a few minutes while in bed, then roll to the side and reach for my phone on the nightstand. There's a notification waiting for me. I squint at the screen, my head feeling like it's been trampled by a herd of elephants. One new message. From the number I don't know.
My finger hovers over the notification, heart suddenly racing. I tap it open.
Romeo
I'm awake now.
That single word sends a jolt through me, equal parts thrill and trepidation.
Vlad.
Immediately, I save the number under Hot Shot .
So he's playing our game. And he wants me to play along?
I stare at the message for a while like a teenager would stare at the text from his crush. It's silly but it's also exciting. And I haven't had real excitement in a long time.
Eventually, I toss the phone aside and drag myself to the shower, letting scalding water pound away some of the tension. In a steam-filled bathroom, I contemplate my next move. The heist of our shipment. Possible Toro's involvement. The upset Armenians. The new Russian player in town. Vlad. It's all a tangled mess, threads I can't seem to unravel.
Wrapping a towel around my waist, I creep down to the kitchen. Voices drift from the living room—angry whispers and hissed accusations. I grab some eggs and coffee and bolt before anyone notices me. This family is a bunch of stupid, money-hungry hyenas. I sometimes wonder why my father didn't just take me and leave when he realized the bloodshed was coming. He would have been alive now.
Back in my room, I swallow down hot bites of protein while staring at Vlad's message. My fingers itch to respond, but I can't seem to come up with an answer I like.
"Fuck it," I mutter, heading for the gym where I get on a treadmill. Maybe if I run fast enough, I can outpace all these complications.
My feet pound a steady rhythm as sweat drips down my back. Costa's sitting in the corner, iPad in hand. Probably reading news. He likes to stay informed. Mostly for my sake. I have a lot of investments that need to be watched.
With each step, Vlad's message taunts me even more. Romeo . Clever motherfucker.
I slow to a walk, chest heaving. This is insane , I tell myself. But my hand is already reaching for the phone.
Sending cryptic messages, are we, my Juliet?
I immediately regret it. Too playful. Too revealing.
The reply comes almost instantly.
Pining for me already, Romeo?
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. This man is infuriating.
Possibly. Does that make you blush, Juliet?
I'm not the kind of maiden who blushes.
No? Shame. I so enjoy making you blush. Or make sounds.
Oh. I do like me a reckless Romeo.
Heat creeps up my neck as I continue my walk on the treadmill. Dammit. Even through text, he has this effect on me. I hesitate, fingers poised over the keys. There are a dozen reasons I shouldn't engage. But only one matters why I should—I want to.
You'll have to try harder than that, caro. This Romeo needs more compliments to risk his life for you.
As I hit send, a bitter taste fills my mouth.
What am I doing? This isn't some romantic play. It's a powder keg, and I'm striking matches.
My phone buzzes again, and I nearly stumble off the treadmill. Vlad's latest message reads: Challenge accepted. I've got a few tricks up my sleeve that would make even Shakespeare blush.
I grip the handrails, heart galloping from more than just the exercise. This dance we're doing— it's exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. I slow the machine, stepping off to catch my breath and compose a reply.
Big words. Care to back them up?
I type, then pause. Am I really doing this?
Costa's watchful gaze burns into me from across the room. He doesn't say a word, but his raised eyebrow speaks volumes: I know what you're up to and it's dangerous.
I ignore his nonverbal cues and instead focus on crafting a response to Vlad's provocation by deleting the previous text and typing another one.
You talk big, Juliet. Show me.
With pleasure. Name the time and place, and I'll show you exactly what I'm capable of.
The promise in those words has my body buzzing.
I need to think. Need to take a moment before I say something I'll regret.
With that thought, I head for the shower again. My mind is racing with possibilities. As the cold water cascades over me, I try to rationalize this madness. It's just harmless fun, right? A distraction from the situation with the Armenians and the constant pressure of Uncle Tony's expectations.
But deep down, I know it's more than that. There's something about Vlad that draws me in, despite every instinct screaming danger.
Dressed and ready to face the day, I make my way to Uncle Tony's office. He's graciously allowed me use of the space while I'm here, a gesture that feels both like a test and a trap. I settle behind the imposing oak desk, firing up the laptop to check on my LA operations.
My phone lights up again.
Still waiting on that time and place, Romeo. Don't leave me in suspense.
I glance up, catching Costa's eye. He's lounging on the leather sofa, ostensibly reviewing some paperwork I gave him. But I know he's monitoring my every move.
How about tonight?
My pulse quickens.
The response from Vlad is almost immediate.
As much as I'd love to, I'm afraid I can't tonight.
I'm stunned by the amount of disappointment that crashes over me.
Bummer. Another hot date?
I wonder if my tone is casual enough not to come off needy but the text is sent, so there's no taking it back now if he reads too much into it.
No. Just a quick trip south of the border. Some loose ends to tie up in Mexico.
Mexico. The word sets off alarm bells in my head. Everyone knows that there are only two kinds of trips people take there. Vacation or deals similar to my uncle's. I'm guessing it's not the first one since loose ends are mentioned. And despite my curiosity I don't ask.
While I'm trying to come up with a worthy reply, Vlad sends another text.
How about tomorrow?
And you're certain you'll be back by then?
Missing my cock already?
The teasing reply comes with a winking emoji and immediately another message:
Yes, I will be back tomorrow. Things didn't quite go as planned here, so I'm cutting the trip short.
I lean back in the chair, completely forgetting that I need to check my stocks.
Just as I'm about to craft a witty response, a frantic pounding of the feet outside and then the aggressive swing of the door shatters the quiet.
Costa's on his feet, paperwork flying all over the carpet. Claudio's voice, usually so composed, rings out with uncharacteristic urgency.
"You need to come. It's Roberto!"
My stomach plummets. My brain goes into war mode, my phone forgotten, even before I know what exactly is happening. Claudio's ashen face tells me all that I need to know—trouble has arrived.
"What’s going on?" I'm already pushing myself from the chair and slamming the laptop shut.
Claudio shakes his head, words seeming to fail him. "He's in bad shape."
I bolt past the consigliere, my polished oxfords squeaking against the hardwood as I race down the hallway. The house is already in chaos, people streaming toward the front entrance. Family members, Uncle's employees, premises workers. Even Chef Trombetta, spatula in hand.
My mind is a speeding train, careening down a track of endless possibilities, each worse than the last.
As I burst through the front door, the scene before me stops me cold. An SUV idles in the driveway, its back door flung open. Salvatore and two of our security guys—Nino and Renato—are struggling to extract a limp form from the backseat.
I try to breathe through my nose, jaw clenched as horror quietly washes over me.
My cousin is a wreck. His designer shirt hangs in tatters, revealing angry red welts and darkening bruises. Blood matts his hair, trickling down one side of his face. Somewhere in the background, I can already hear women wailing. My only hope is that Aunt Chiara isn't back from her weekly market trip yet. She loves to catch up with the other ladies in the neighborhood a few times a week. If she sees her eldest son like this, it will break her heart. Then there's Roberto's wife, Maria. She better not be here. She better be in their own house Roberto bought for her.
"What the fuck happened?" I snarl at no one in particular, rushing forward to help, my pulse pounding in my ears.
Salvatore grunts, his face a mask of strain as we haul Roberto's dead weight.
I slip my shoulder over for support as Renato arranges Roberto's arm over my neck—even though I'm not so sure it's a good idea—moving him like this. He could have broken bones.
"How?" I ask under my breath, heaving on the way to the stairs.
"Found him like this outside that new club on 7th," Nino, who usually drives Roberto, whimpers.
"Someone worked him over good," Salvatore mutters with that familiar venomous edge in his voice. "Looks like your handiwork, cousin." He shoots me a toxic stare while we carefully maneuver Roberto up the steps, one at a time. His shoes scrape over them as we drag him inside the house.
"Doctor is on his way!" Claudio shouts.
"Lay him down," someone chimes in.
Silverware crashes to the hardwood floor with a jarring clatter as we clear space for Roberto on the dining table in the main room.
"Nobody tells anything to my father yet!" Salvatore orders. "And get back to whatever you were doing." He stops one of the maids to give her some sort of instructions.
" Padrino ," Costa whispers in my ear, a phone in his hand. "For you."
"Didn't I tell you not to call me this in front of these people?" I hiss out, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my bloody palm. I couldn't care less about appearance right now.
Costa's face remains a stony mask. I have no idea if he understands that calling me what my uncle presently is will be considered a betrayal in this family. There is a natural order to things among the Morelli.
I grab the phone from Costa's hand and move away from the chaos surrounding Roberto. "Nicola speaking."
"Did you get my message, boy?" Vartan's voice on the line asks.