32. Nico
CHAPTER 32
NICO
The heavy church doors creak open like a somber herald to my entrance. My footsteps against worn stone sound too loud in my ear as if I'm invading the hushed sanctuary. Incense hangs thick in the air, cloying and bittersweet, like the memories that plague me. My father used to be a man of God.
What good did it do him?
He is six feet beneath the ground.
I stopped going when the news of his death arrived.
I'm more of an occasional visitor now instead of a parishioner.
I scan the pews, searching for the familiar silhouette. My mind is a vortex of fears and contingencies. What if she refuses? What if Tony's word is truly final? The stakes crush me, a weight heavier than any sin I've committed.
Vlad's absence is like a phantom limb I can't shake. Mexico feels worlds away, and I ache to hear his voice, to feel the solid warmth of his presence beside me.
Is he safe?
Is he thinking of me too?
Worry coils in my gut, a toxic thing.
There–near the altar–Aunt Chiara kneels, head bowed, fingers working rosary beads with practiced grace. The sight stills me for a moment. She looks so small, so fragile in this massive space. It's easy to forget the hardness beneath her gentle exterior. Any woman willing to marry a Morelli man is as strong as they come.
I approach, each step measured as if she is a gazelle and I'm terrified of spooking her. The scent of candle wax and polished wood intensifies. My determination wars with an instinctive reverence for this holy place. But I can't back down. Not now. Not when everything I've fought for hangs by a thread.
I won't let them cast me aside. Not without a fight.
Chiara doesn't stir as I draw near. She's lost in her devotions. I hesitate, struck by a sudden, irrational fear. What if there's something wrong with me? What if… No.
I shake off the thought. God wouldn't have made me the way I am for no reason.
Meanwhile, my aunt rises to her feet and settles on the nearest bench, without looking at me.
I slide beside her before doubts have me leave.
" Zia Chiara," I murmur a greeting.
She lifts her head, mild surprise flickering across her face as she takes me in. Her warm brown eyes widen slightly. "Nicola, nice to see you in the house of God finally."
I offer a small smile, hoping to soften the unexpectedness of my presence. "I needed to speak with you, Zia . It's important."
Concern etches lines around her mouth. She glances toward the altar, then back to me. No words are uttered. Just a nod. Permission to speak.
"It's about our family's future. Can you please talk to Uncle?"
A sigh escapes her lips, barely audible. "Nicola, you know I don't involve myself in—"
"Please," I interject, careful to keep my tone respectful but urgent. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't crucial. You know the position I'm in, what Uncle Tony has decided."
Chiara's fingers tighten around her rosary. I can see the conflict in her eyes, the instinct to avoid these matters warring with her love for me.
"The path we're on," I continue, each word precisely chosen, "it's dangerous. Not just for me, but for everyone. The business, the family–we're at a crossroads. And I fear the direction we're heading will lead to ruin. Do you truly think that's what my father died for?"
My aunt's gaze sharpens, a flicker of alarm passing through her eyes. "Explain."
I lean closer, my voice dropping even lower. "The world is changing, Zia. Our... operations... they require a different approach now. Without the right leadership, without someone who understands both the old ways and the new..." I let the implication hang in the air between us.
Chiara's lips press into a thin line. I can feel her weighing my words against her loyalty to Tony, to her sons.
I take a deep breath, readying myself for what I must say next. "Salvatore and Roberto… They're family. I love them. But they don't have the skills for this, Zia . You know it as well as I do."
Chiara's eyes flash with maternal defensiveness. "They are my sons, Nicola. They have been raised for this."
"Being raised for something doesn't make you suited for it," I counter. "This isn't about deserving. It's about survival. Their survival. Think about it, Zia . The moment one of them takes over, they'll both have targets on their backs. Every rival family, every ambitious capo —they'll see two unprepared heirs and smell blood in the water."
Chiara's knuckles go white as she keeps in squeezing her rosary.
I press on. "Is that what you want? To watch them stumble into a war they can't win? To see them gunned down in the street because they trusted the wrong person? Or worse, to see everything your husband—our family—has built crumble because they made the wrong call? You've seen it—how Roberto keeps failing and how he got himself into trouble with the Armenians. And you know Sal is too impulsive. He thinks with his heart not his mind. There's a reason why Uncle have never asked him to help with the family business."
There's worry in her eyes now. It's a cruel tactic, playing on a mother's worst nightmares, but I have no choice. The stakes are too high.
"I'm not saying this to hurt you," I add, softening my tone. "I'm saying it because I care. Because I want to protect them, to protect all of us."
Chiara's eyes are fixed on the ornate altar before us. The rosary beads click softly as she resumes to roll them between her fingers, a nervous tic betraying her internal struggle.
"I have a solution," I supply. "Support my bid for leadership. Talk to Tony. I promise you, I'll ensure Roberto and Salvatore are safe, comfortable. They'll be set for life." I pause, weighing my next words carefully. "I know I'm asking a lot, Zia . But I care about this family and our future."
Chiara's eyes flick to mine, wariness in her gaze hard to miss.
I swallow hard before asking what I want to ask next. "Can I ask you something, Zia ? When you look at me... do you see something vile? Something sinful because of whom I chose to be with? Is it any different from when you didn't know?"
She tilts her head slightly but never breaks eye contact.
"We all bleed the same blood," I continue, my heart racing. "We will all die one way or another."
I hold my breath, waiting for her response. Seconds tick by. She says nothing but her expression softens, her eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. The silence stretches even more, punctuated only by the distant echo of someone's footsteps in another part of the church.
Finally, she reaches out, her hand cool against my cheek. The gesture is so unexpected, so tender, that I have to fight the urge to lean into it like a child seeking comfort.
"You're just like your father," she says with affection. "Filled with fire."
My heart clenches at the mention of my father. I open my mouth to speak, but she continues. "That fire, Nico... it can warm a home or burn it to the ground."
She drops her hand, and I feel the loss of contact acutely. Chiara rises, smoothing her skirt. I stand as well, uncertain.
"I'll think about what you've said," she murmurs. "But remember, the road you're choosing... it's not an easy one."
"I know," I reply. "But it's the right one. For all of us."
Chiara turns to me, a sad smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "We'll see, nipote . We'll see."
* * *
I step out of the church and into the bright sunlight assaulting my eyes. The contrast is jarring—from the cool, dim refuge to the harsh reality of the Las Vegas heat. I squint, fishing my phone from my pocket.
"Come on, Costa," I mutter, dialing his number. The line rings, each unanswered tone ratcheting up my anxiety. Pick up, damn it.
It's the third time I'm trying to call him in the past two days and his phone is still off.
The driver Vlad arranged is there, standing next to the hulking Escalade. A gun is hidden underneath his jacket. The man's face seems unmoving as if carved from stone, revealing nothing. I toss him a brief nod and settle into the backseat.
"Where to, Mr. Morelli?" the driver asks, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
"Just drive," I reply, my attention back on the phone. "I need to make a call."
As we pull away from the curb, I try Costa again. Still nothing. The city zips past the tinted windows, a flashy tableau of sin that usually energizes me. Today, it just feels hollow.
" Merda ," I curse, tossing the phone onto the seat beside me. My mind races, each thought a jagged piece of a puzzle I can't quite solve. Where the hell is Costa? And more importantly, has he succeeded in his task of infiltrating the compound where he believes Shtyk is hiding?
I lean my head back, closing my eyes. Vlad's face swims into focus—those gray eyes, and that resolute mouth. God, I miss him. The ache in my chest is a physical thing, sharp and insistent. And I'm scared of it.
But if I can just find Shtyk first, maybe Vlad's reckless crusade ends. Then I can have him all to myself.