Chapter 5
Aubergine
I cried in the shower. By the time I shut off the faucet twenty minutes later, my skin was bright pink and my eyes burned.
But the shaking stopped.
I pulled on a camisole and an old pair of pajama shorts that barely covered my ass. It was the middle of summer, and my apartment always felt ten degrees hotter than everywhere else in Manhattan.
Considering the night I had, I earned the luxury of a cooled apartment, so I turned the thermostat down several degrees.
The air conditioner motor kicked on and I stood before the vent to let the cool air blow over my face. I glanced at the microwave clock.
2:30 A.M.
Wonderful. I had to be up for work in four hours.
Sleep wasn’t happening. I moved into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of red wine from the cupboard. The amount I poured into that glass could only be described as... generous.
A soft, but deliberate double-knock sounded at my front door. I froze just before I could take a sip.
The Ferraros. Had someone followed me home?
The wine glass landed silently on the counter. I reached into the wooden block and wrapped my fingers around the handle of the biggest kitchen knife I owned.
It wasn’t much, but made me feel marginally less helpless.
Holding my breath, I crept toward the door. I rose onto my toes and peered through the peephole.
Nicola.
I jerked backward so fast I nearly landed on my ass. The knife was dropped onto the counter.
“What the fuck?” I whispered, then quickly peered back through the hole to make sure I saw that right.
He was still standing there. But he didn't look well. His suit and hair was rumpled and his tie was crooked.
One hand was shoved into his pocket while the other rested loosely at his side.
I unlocked the deadbolt, then the chain. When I cracked the door open, he didn’t greet me with the expected dazzling smile.
“What, Nicky?”
His gaze swept over me so quickly I almost missed it, like he was checking for something. He let out the smallest breath.
“Are you okay?” His voice was quiet enough that it barely carried into my apartment.
No. Don’t do that. Don’t do the concerned face.
Gentle, pleading eyes stared at me, waiting for an answer.
Don’t get sucked back in, Abby.
“No,” I answered. I folded my arms across my chest. “I told Michael I’m done. Did he not tell you?”
A faint smile appeared, but it never reached his eyes. “He told me. Right after he carried you out of that container like a fucking knight in shining armor.”
“What does that have to do with anything? If you know I’m done, then why are you here?” The answer suddenly occurred to me and my arms loosened. “Oh. The money.”
I stepped backward into the apartment and grabbed the white envelope I’d stuffed the cash into before bed. I thrust it out toward him.
“Here. I didn’t finish the cleanup." I raised it up to his face. "And I’m not going to. Dad’s too sick. So you’ll have to find somebody else.”
Nicola looked at the envelope with disinterest. One ringed finger slowly reached up and pressed against the edge of it until I lowered my hand.
Then he stepped past me and into my apartment.
“Nicola.” I spun around. "What are you doing?"
I was ignored. His eyes wandered around the tiny apartment while he loosened his tie completely. His suit jacket was removed and draped across the back of a recliner.
The front door shut with a hard slam. “Oh yeah, go ahead. Make yourself comfortable.”
His gaze drifted from the kitchen to the couch before finally settling back on me.
“I think if I stretched my arms out far enough, I could probably touch both sides of your apartment at the same time.”
I bit the inside my mouth hard.
Nope. Don't laugh, Abby.
“We can’t all live in mansions,” I shot back wryly.
As he reached to undo the top buttons of his shirt, I noticed red, split skin across his knuckles.
I frowned. Had they looked like that at the docks? Or had something happened afterward?
He scrubbed a tired hand through his hair, mussing it in a way I’d never seen before. It was only with a second pass over his face that I noticed shadows beneath his eyes.
They were tiny cracks in the polished version of Nicola Moretti. My heart squeezed painfully.
No. I wasn’t doing this.
I wanted the overconfident mob boss, the smooth talker. The man who flirted his way through beautiful women and who made rooms of important men freeze up in terror and awe.
Because this version… it made me want to hold him and tell him it was all going to be okay.
I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.
Instead, I turned toward my refrigerator.
I pulled out the leftover pasta from a tupperware container and placed it next to the stove top.
“What are you doing?”
“Feeding you.” My hand reached into the cupboard for a second glass. “You want some wine?”
There was an uncertain pause, followed by, “Okay.”
He lowered himself onto one of the bar stools with a tired exhale, then reached into his pocket. I set the filled glass in front of him.
Something silver flashed between his fingers. He folded it once, then twice.
Curious, I pointed. “What are you doing with that?”
He glanced up just once between a screen of messy black hair. “It's a nicotine gum wrapper.” He folded in the corners. “I’m trying to quit smoking. It keeps my hands busy.”
“You? Really?"
“I had a horrible chest cold back in April and thought I was gonna die,” he replied.
I turned back to the stove before he could see me smile. “So you finally realized you aren’t twenty-one and invincible anymore?”
“Maybe."
I faltered. That wasn’t the answer I expected.
The silence stretched between us while I spooned pasta into a saucepan, adding a splash of broth before covering it with a glass lid.
Steam slowly began to fog the top of the lid. By that point, I had gathered enough courage to speak again. “Are you okay, Nicky?”
He didn't answer and for a moment, I wasn’t sure he heard me.
“Here," he said and I glanced over my shoulder. A tiny folded horse appeared on the countertop.
I laughed despite myself.
“That’s adorable.” I picked it up to study it, and then gingerly placed it down again. “You could make a fortune selling these on the side of the road.”
That finally earned me a real smile. “You were trying to throw me out of your apartment a few minutes ago. I think you’ve finally accepted that we’re friends again.”
My eyes flattened. “We are friends. I care about you, Nicola. You, the person. Not the don.”
He nudged the little paper horse toward me with one finger. "There's not much difference between the two.”
“There is.” I turned back to the saucepan. “I think you’ve just convinced yourself there isn’t.”
Everything changed when he was made. Or maybe I'd just grown up enough to see that I couldn't exist in that kind of world anymore.
The room fell quiet-- only the soft bubbling of the sauce filled the apartment. I lowered the heat.
I searched through a couple kitchen drawers and found the unused first-aid kit Dad had given me for Christmas a few years earlier.
I held up a roll of gauze. “Give me your hand.”
He looked down at his bloodied right hand. “It’s just scraped. I washed it. It’s fine, Abby.”
"Your hand," I insisted. "You might want to take off your rings. Just while I wrap them."
Nicola propped his elbow up on the counter and held my gaze as he slowly took each silver ring off.
His bare hand extended out to me; his other hand reached for his wine glass.
I rested it gently in mine. His skin was warm. The cuts across his knuckles were shallow, but angry-looking. I carefully laid the gauze across the worst of it before wrapping the tape around his hand.
My stomach was fluttering. Not because I was touching him. Well… Maybe a little of that.
Mostly because he was being so unbelievably quiet. It was unnerving.
I tore off the tape. “Tell a joke or something. You’re driving me nuts.”
A quiet laugh escaped him, but it was brief.
“I fucked up.” His voice had gone flat. “You never should have been there. My guys know better than to do hits in the middle of the dockyard exposed like that. I didn’t even know Michael called you.”
His jaw tightened. “In fact, I didn’t even know you were there until I saw Mike carrying you out.”
“He protected me.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
I looked up. “Then why are you taking a shot at Michael? He saved my life.”
“I’m not.” He finally met my eyes, but I wasn't entirely sure I believed him. “I’m saying he never should’ve had to. You could’ve died.”
I searched his face, bewildered by the intensity of them. “How were you supposed to know the Ferraros were going to show up?”
“We were unprepared.” He looked away. “That’s my negligence.”
Heavy was the head that held the crown.
I smoothed the last piece of tape into place and rose. “There.”
His eyes remained fixed on the bandage. “Abs, next time–”
“There won’t be a next time.” I interrupted softly. “Not for me.”
I removed the lid from the sauce pan and steam rolled out. The smell of garlic and cheese filled the apartment.
The pasta was plated onto two dishes before sprinkling each one with an unreasonable amount of Parmesan.
I turned around and met Nicola's gaze. There were shadows beneath his eyes now that hadn’t been there a week ago. His shoulders seemed heavier, slumped low.
Christ. He looked like Dad after chemo.
I slid the plate in front of him, unsettled by that thought.
"Eat.” I pointed.
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he obediently lifted his fork. “Your Italian side’s coming out. Your mom would be proud.”
I settled back down onto the bar stool beside him. "Thanks.”
Nicola took a moment to even acknowledge his food. He stared at it, then slowly twirled a bite around his fork.
His eyes drifted shut as he chewed, savoring. “Oh, fuck, that’s good.”
I was almost sweating as his tongue darted to the corner of his mouth, like he couldn’t handle missing a single drop of sauce.
Sweet fucking Jesus. That was pornographic.
I deliberately looked down at my own plate before my imagination got carried away.
Nicola folded one more miniature animal out of nicotine gum wrappers while I washed the plates and saucepan.
Everything was cleared away. The wine glasses sat beside the sink.
I glanced at the clock on my phone. 3:32 A.M.
Nicola was not making any attempt to leave, and I couldn’t tell if I was happy about that or not.
He hadn’t spoken much when we ate, only asked for seconds. For an Italian cook, that was like being given an Olympic gold medal.
I moved into the living room and sank onto the couch with a tired sigh. After fiddling with the remote, I turned it on a cooking competition show.
Nicola sat down beside me. I mean, right beside me. No space in between. I caught a whiff of his scent, something akin to cologne and... well, tobacco.
I couldn't blame him for smoking, it was a shit night.
We watched contestants sprint around their tiny kitchens.
“You still like these shows?” I asked for the sake of conversation. My voice cracked like I was going through a second puberty.
“Sure.”
I smiled to myself. Maybe he didn’t care what was on. He wasn’t here for the show.
He probably just… didn’t want to be alone. Well, neither did I.
We watched in a comfortable silence. You know, as comfortable as I could be with my heart pounding in my ears.
After a few minutes, Nicola shifted beside me. Slowly, carefully, he stretched out across the couch.
Then, without a word, he lowered his head into my lap.
My brain came to a screeching halt. My entire body locked up.
What?
One of his arms rested across his stomach. The other hung over the edge of the couch.
He looked comfortable.
Was lap-as-a-pillow a thing friends did? God damn it, my phone was too far away for me to reach. I wanted to discreetly get an answer from Google.
My pulse thundered in my ears. Was he flirting? Did he even realize he was flirting? Where were my hands supposed to go?
I had absolutely no idea. I stared helplessly at the ceiling, trying to keep my breathing calm so he didn’t notice my impending panic attack.
No, Abby.
You just told Michael you never wanted to see another Moretti again.
You meant it. You did.
My hands ignored that. They hovered awkwardly in the air. Then, almost of their own accord, one settled lightly against his hair.
It was unfairly soft. I ran my fingers back through the dark strands, and then a second time. It felt like fucking silk.
What the hell kind of hair products was this man using? Knowing Nicola, he probably got some outrageously expensive salon treatment every week.
The thought made me smile. “Nicola?”
His response was little more than a hum, as if he was about to fall asleep. “Mm?”
I continued absentmindedly combing through his hair. “Your knuckles… did you hurt someone tonight?”
I could feel his jaw shift.
“Yes.” It was matter-of-fact, not gloating.
“Oh.” I stopped and didn’t know what else to say except stared blankly at the screen.
Nicola’s large, warm hand found my knee and he gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Keep doing that with your fingers.” His voice was so quiet I almost missed it. “Please.”
Please.
I wondered how many times in Nicola's professional life he had ever said please, if ever.
Privately, I was certain the number was equally as low. It wasn't that he wasn't polite, he could be. I knew that.
But that was a plea-- a weakness that he willingly showed me.
My fingers slipped back into his hair. Slowly and gently, I stroked his head.
I wouldn't stop.