46. Nico
CHAPTER 46
NICO
I'm back at the Morelli mansion. Have been back for a while now with Uncle ill and Aunt begging for me to return. Licking wounds somewhere at the hotel seemed lonely, especially when rejection came after rejection.
It's one of those evenings when the air is not too cold and not too hot. Just the perfect temperature. I sit alone on the terrace, the whiskey burning my throat as I try to numb the dark thoughts in my mind.
Vlad.
The cold bastard who ripped out my heart and left me bleeding.
My fingers tap an agitated rhythm against the glass, matching the restless energy coursing through me. How could he betray me like this, after everything we've been through? The damn Brazilian coke. He threw it all away for a quick cash grab? Threw us away.
I run a shaky hand through my hair, tugging at the roots. None of it makes sense. We had plans, him and I. Whispered promises in the dark that night, plotting our rise to the top. Together. He promised to take care of me.
And now… nothing. Just the bitter sting of deceit and the aching void where my heart used to be.
The alcohol blurs my thoughts, a sickening downward spiral of longing and loathing. Part of me still yearns for his touch, his deep voice murmuring my name in that irresistible manly Russian accent of his. Nico. Romeo. Baby. Detka . But then the rage rises, white-hot, consuming. He played me for a fool, strung me along with sweet lies and empty vows.
Since California, since the first electric brush of skin on skin… was any of it real? Or was I just another pawn in Vlad's twisted game? The doubts gnaw at me, shredding the last tattered remnants of my pride.
I drain the glass, relishing the flames licking up my insides, the momentary flare of pain that eclipses the agony in my chest. But it's not enough, never enough to erase the memory of his phantom caress, the ghost of his lips on mine.
Damn him. Damn Vlad Solovey and the day he walked into my life, all lethal grace and those cold eyes. I should have known better than to trust a viper, to bare my throat to his fangs. Should have listened to my uncle's warning. But I fell, hard and fast, a willing victim to his poisonous charms.
And now I'm left with nothing but the bitter dregs of what might have been, a future shattered like the empty bottle at my feet. The shards catch the glitter of string lights decorating the terrace, jagged and sharp, a fitting metaphor for the ruins of my heart.
I close my eyes, letting the gathering darkness swallow me whole.
I won't go back to Purgatory anymore.
I'm done humiliating myself in front of his employees.
The sound of approaching footsteps splinters the silence, dragging me out of the abyss of my thoughts. I don't bother turning, too lost in my own anguish to care about the intruder on my solitude.
The footsteps stop right behind.
"I'd be careful if I were you with the booze," the last person I expect to be here, at this house, says. "Or you'd turn into Roberto. Dumb and drunk."
Salvatore.
I twist in my seat, my gaze falling on his form. He looks like hell, but then again, so do I. Only his is a different kind of hell. Wary and bruised. Usually, people don't come back from it. He should be dead by now, or on some boat across the Pacific since Chiara pleaded for him hard enough. Tony simply wouldn't leave him be. Not after the attempt on his life. Still, the weasel is in the house. Walking free.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, my words slurring slightly. The whiskey has taken its toll, but I'll be damned if I let my cousin see just how far I've fallen.
Salvatore shrugs, a humorless smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I could ask you the same thing, cugino . Drowning your sorrows in daddy's expensive liquor?"
I bristle at the jab, my fingers tightening around the glass. "I thought you'd be a corpse by now," I shoot back. He looks like one too. "After all, Tony had you dragged out of here by your dick. You have no right to be in this house."
"It was my house before it became yours."
"It was always mine. You were simply too blind to understand that you don't have what it takes. You tried the coward's way. Didn't work out, huh?"
"I'd be careful what you say to me right now."
"Why? You're a fucking traitor. Tried to kill your own father who's one step in the grave already. Couldn't wait? Winning fair and square isn't on your resume?"
Something flashes in Salvatore's eyes, a hint of anger quickly masked. He steps closer, invading my space. "Funny you should mention that, Nicola," he hisses out. "Mamma wanted me back. Said the family needs to stick together now more than ever."
The revelation hits me hard. Of course, deep down I guessed a family member begged for Salvatore to be released from whatever basement Tony has been holding him in. Still, it hurts, hearing this from him. Zia Chiara, the one person who always had my back, wanting Salvatore back in the picture? It doesn't make sense, but then again, nothing does anymore.
I struggle to find words. The ground beneath my feet feels unsteady, as if the very foundations of my world are crumbling.
Salvatore watches me, a predatory gleam returning into his eyes slowly. He knows he has me on the ropes, and he's enjoying every second of it. The bastard always did love to watch me squirm.
"What's the matter, Nico?" he taunts. "Not used to being the one left in the dark?"
I want to hit him, to wipe that smug grin off his face. But I don't have the energy, the fight drained out of me by Vlad's stab in the back.
So I just sit there, staring at the desert sky stretched out in front of me, wondering if it was worth it. If being Tony's only legitimate successor was worth having my heart broken.
* * *
Anthony Morelli, the patriarch of the Morelli family, dies on a sunny Nevada day.
It's Aunt Chiara who spends his last moments with him, only calling me in for a second. Tony, all shriveled like a raisin kept too long in the sun, face unnaturally gaunt, holds my hand in his and says he is proud of me for stepping up. He is happy that fate has put things back where they have always belonged.
He has one last request.
Don't kill Salvatore. That would make Chiara happy.
Let Roberto in on a small portion of a family business, so he doesn't feel left out.
I promise all these things to the old man as I squeeze his thin hand tight. I promise to do what I'm asked because I'm not an asshole like his two useless sons. I know what a dying king wants—to be reassured his empire continues to strive and his line goes on.
So, that's what I do.
I vow to uphold the traditions the Morelli name has been upholding all these years.
I vow even though on the inside I'm already dead myself.
The funeral is a somber affair. The air itself inside the house feels heavy with the weight of his passing. And that heaviness follows us to the cemetery.
There, I suddenly realize I stand at the edge of the grave, in a black suit. Every moment up until now has been a blur. I've been on autopilot for days and in this instant—of all the moments—my mind clears. I scan the dark crowd, the sea of mourners gathered to pay their respects, looking for at least one friendly face. God knows I could use it.
But these people are weary of me. These people know Tony left everything to his only nephew and some are skeptic. Some are scared. Others are jealous. These are a few that are indifferent too. For them, the business will go on as usual.
Beside me, on the right, Aunt Chiara weeps softly, her tears hidden behind black lace. She leans on Roberto for support, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist. But even in her grief, there's a strength to her, a quiet resilience that speaks of the trials she's endured.
And then there's Salvatore, standing apart from the rest of us, flanked by the security detail. Not his. Mine. Just in case. His eyes are fixed on the casket as it's lowered into the ground. His gaze is hard, envious. He looks like a man on a mission, a man with nothing left to lose. Except for maybe his limbs.
My cousin Viola is to my left. She's been mostly quiet ever since she flew in from California, keeping to herself.
The family attorneys are a row behind. A grim reminder of the business that must be attended to after we return home, perhaps even on the way.
With Claudio, who managed the majority of family affairs, now being a mummy on the way back to Mexico—a present to El Jefe—things need to be handled fast, before there's an opening for someone to come and snatch what's ours.
I turn my attention back to the priest, his words washing over me like a tide. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," he intones, his voice carrying across the cemetery, a mix of English and Latin.
But even as he speaks of eternal rest and the promise of salvation, I can't help but feel a sense of unease. For in the world of the Morellis, there is no peace, no respite from the constant struggle for power.
As my gaze darts over from person to person, I catch the sight of the Sicilian. The soldier Tony summoned from Italy right before death. I don't like him lingering in the corners of the house even though he insists on staying. For my protection. But I don't feel protected when he's around. On the contrary. So I'm contemplating sending him back to Sicily. I'll choose my own people. People I trust.
* * *
The days after the funeral slip by in a daze of meetings and briefings, as I throw myself into the task of assuming control of the family's operations. It's a daunting undertaking, but one that I approach with a sense of responsible determination. My head hurts and my hands are a constant ache, fingers numb from gripping too tightly onto this new life that's somehow mine.
Funny thing but now that I have what I've always wished for, I don't enjoy it one bit.
Most of the time, I sit in my uncle's office, poring over ledgers and contracts, trying to make sense of the alliances and rivalries that he navigated so deftly. I'm yet to choose my adviser, but the only person I am certain is on my side—Costa—has disappeared.
I haven't been able to get a single word to him and he hasn't contacted me in what seems like an eternity. At this point, my hope is lost. I can't think of the reason why he's gone except for the fact that he's been caught by the cartel people in Guanajuato.
The weight of his absence is somehow just as heavy as Tony's.
But I refuse to let it break me. I steel myself against the grief, the doubts, the fears that threaten to overwhelm me. I know that I can't afford to show any weakness, not when so much is at stake. People depend me. Not just Chiara and Viola. Not just deadbeat Roberto who is drinking his sanity away and his poor wife. But people who work for the Morelli.
So I meet with the attorneys, the accountants, the enforcers who keep our empire running. I listen, I learn, I make decisions with a swift and ruthless efficiency that surprises even me.
And slowly, gradually, I begin to feel a sense of control, a sense of purpose that drives me forward. I may not have chosen to take this path the way it happened, but I'll be damned if I let anyone else dictate my destiny.
At night, when all is said and done, Vlad still haunts. The feel of his body against mine is a memory I can't seem to erase from my head no matter how hard I try.
But in the morning, I push those thoughts aside, bury them deep within the recesses of my mind. I can't afford to dwell on the past, not when the future of the family rests on my shoulders.
And so I press on, day after day, night after night, driven by a need to honor my uncle's legacy, to prove myself worthy of the mantle he's passed on to me.
And then, one evening, my phone rings, piercing the silence of the office. Jolted out of my thoughts, I glance at the screen, unsure of what to expect. Another call from a lawyer or an accountant, but the blocked number stops me cold.
I find myself reaching for the phone with a sense of dread.
" Padrino? "
Costa.
I gave up on ever hearing from him. I truly did. But here he is, reaching out from the darkness.
"Costa," I whisper reverently. "It's been a while."
"Sorry, Padrino . I know."
"I'm so happy to hear you're alive."
"Why wouldn't I be? I'm like a cat. I've got nine lives."
There's a pause and I'm wondering how off the grid he actually was and if he knows what's going on here, in Vegas. "Tony died," I finally say.
"I heard. My condolences."
I nod, even though he can't see me. "Thank you. It's been... a difficult time."
"Heard about Sal and Claudio too," he supplies.
"I could use your help right now."
"I'm on my way. Your guy, Shtyk… I'm bringing him back to the States with me."
For a moment, I can't breathe. I close my eyes, trying to steady myself against the sudden wave of emotion. Another unwanted reminder of what Vlad and I could have been.
But I can't let Costa see that, can't let him know how deeply this affects me. So I draw a silent lungful of air, exhale slowly, and then say, "Sounds good."
"See you soon." The line goes dead.
Hands suddenly shaking, I lean back in my chair, staring at the wall across.
For some reason, everything related to Vladimir Solovey is always just a little too late.