6. Nico
NICO
The bastard threw his wine on me.
A car honks as I blast through the four-way intersection. I flip them the bird through the open window, the wind whipping across my split lip, and the engine roaring through my bones.
Tonight, my dear, sweet brother sent me to go have dinner with Gavin Boughan, leader of the Irish mob. I didn’t make much progress in Italian-Irish relations, but I did pick up a few new Irish curses and discovered Gavin throws a mean right hook.
I clench and release my jaw in a steady rhythm—a little trick I’ve learned that’ll make it easier to eat later.
I’m lucky he didn’t land a solid hit, because otherwise, I would’ve been eating through a straw.
I was so distracted after his associate threw a cup of wine on me like he was my jilted fucking lover, that I barely managed to tuck my chin in time for Gavin’s fist.
Giovanni threw himself into the fray next, knocking men over like bowling pins, while I gave everyone the slip through the restaurant’s backdoor.
I’m not worried about Giovanni—he’s a natural diplomat and a damn good fighter—but if the Irish do tear him apart, then that would be karma for all the times Giovanni beat the shit out of me on Father’s orders.
Part of me still hisses to go back. Finish the fight. Satisfy the itch in my veins for the rush of adrenaline and testosterone, a moment’s relief from the more evolved emotions swirling through me—doubt, shame, and an overwhelming sense of self-disgust.
But if I go back, I’ll end up killing someone, and I’m not a killer.
I laugh, the sound whipping from my mouth into the highway.
I’m not a thief, says the thief. I’m not a killer, says the killer.
It’s funny, because it’s a joke.
I scrub my fingers through my hair, already getting too long for my liking. I need a haircut. Maybe a new tattoo or a piercing.
My phone buzzes. I glance at it—brother dearest, likely calling to chastise me about getting into a fight with his leprechaun. I chuck my phone out the window. Salvatore can make a visit to my place if he wants to chat. My door is always open for family.
I nearly miss my exit and flick the steering wheel to the right. The Ferrari leaps to my bidding.
It’s been a few days now, and I’ve fully expected Yevgeniy to send his goons to shoot out my windows, or at least throw spikes into the road and stop me.
I lick my split lip, tasting blood. Maybe one of his men will try to catch me.
Alessia and I have been racing supercars since we were old enough to see over the steering wheel, but I’m rusty enough that it might even the playing field.
Once I spot Zephyr’s twinkling display windows, I brake to a creeping stop, the kind that would keep a full cup of coffee from spilling. Stealing the pakhan’s car was an F you for making me kill that guy, but the Ferrari has done nothing wrong, and I’m not in the habit of hurting innocents.
I clamber out of the car—long legs don’t mix well with a seat so low that my ass is scraping the road—and walk to the store.
I came tonight for two reasons.
One, Father has let my engagement go much further than I expected.
Instead of an icily furious phone call or Valeria’s dad quietly suffering an “accident”, I’d found a personalized whiskey decanter outside my front door with a note that added congratulations in Father’s cramped handwriting.
Something’s up, and the game is if I can figure it out before Father shows his hand.
Maybe he’s hoping I’ll get bored of my fiancée if he isn’t actively opposing us—though he’s too much of a control freak not to crack first.
Maybe he thinks he can raise Valeria’s family name out of the mud and spin this whole situation to his advantage.
Giovanni’s been giving Valeria’s brother shit jobs here and there—deliveries, shopping, picking up Giovanni’s dry cleaning—but no amount of hard work or clean-pressed suits is going to make Salvatore forget the attempt on his life by the Aceto family, which Father knows.
The mystery lingers at the back of my mind like an especially heinous cold case file, but even Father and his schemes aren’t the most compelling reason I came.
Because if I’m being honest with myself, I’m really here for the second reason.
I wanted to see Valeria’s reaction to my arrival.
The front door bell chimes, and my dirty black boot steps onto silver-veined marble.
The interior of the jewelry store is as aggressively white and sterile as a hospital room.
Glittering necklaces, bracelets, and rings fill rows of spotless display cases, chandelier lights and mirrors strategically placed to exaggerate the diamonds’ brilliance.
A middle-aged woman with waves of blonde hair and glasses hanging from a turquoise chain around her neck leers at me from a velvet tray she’s filling with top-heavy engagement rings.
Stefano stands at attention, nodding to me with respect.
Annoyance flashes through me at the reminder that I have to tolerate his presence tonight.
He’s a born and bred ass-kisser without the competence to do it subtly.
I’ve met a thousand men like him before, and not a single one was worth a second thought.
Valeria, on the other hand, I can’t seem to get out of my thoughts.
She’s the only person left sitting. Her arms are tucked into her puffer jacket, and her khaki-covered legs are crossed, one sensible black sneaker hanging in the air. It looks like a work uniform. Does she have a job? The thought had never crossed my mind.
She looks at me from under her black bangs, her ruby lips set in a flat line. I might as well be a fly on the wall for all the interest it sparks in her dark eyes.
The buzz in my veins slows to a thrum. Blood rushes south.
She thinks she can deadpan her way through tonight, but I already know her better than that.
I’m going to tease a response from her, and with any luck, I’ll get a repeat performance of that night in her friend’s bedroom.
Last time, I was a gentleman. This time, I’m going to unravel some of those tightly-wound emotions she guards so closely.
Stefano shifts to look back, sending a tight smile toward his sister, a hint of threat in his lingering stare until she stands.
My focus splits. He looked at her the same way that night I met them at the restaurant.
That’s not the way he should look at my fiancée.
I fling my car key at Stefano. He flinches as it hits his chest and drops to the marble floor. Anger flashes in his face before he tamps it down, clenching his jaw and showing me his neck.
Looks like Valeria is the only one who inherited the family backbone.
“Get that parked,” I say breezily.
At least he’s quick enough to put two and two together. “Yes, boss.” He scrambles to pick up the key and jogs out of the store.
It’d be a damn shame if the Russians chose this moment for a drive-by on the Ferrari. I wonder how sad Valeria would be. What tugs at those heartstrings under all that armor?
I step into her personal space, my boot wedged between her shoes. Her jacket brushes against mine.
Heat rolls off of her in waves. Sweat gathers on her upper lip, and her face is flushed. Why the fuck is she still wearing that jacket if she’s so hot?
I’m not going to find any answers in her face. She looks up at me, completely unruffled, like she’s waiting for me to impress her.
I smirk. “Aren’t you going to give your fiancé a kiss?”
The room is dead silent. The employee at the counter is seasoned enough to keep her mouth shut through all of this, pretending to busy herself with her tray of jewelry.
I expect to receive a blunt no, but Valeria stands delicately. Her dark, impenetrable gaze flicks down to my mouth. She’s going to do it.
I wet my bottom lip, tasting blood.
She tilts her face and leans forward, dark eyelashes fluttering closed.
I don’t move a muscle, in part to make things a little harder for her, and also because my body is reacting to her nearness and remembering how well we fit together.
She smells like sugar cookies, and very faintly, of bleach. My mouth waters.
Gently, like the brush of a butterfly’s wing, her lips touch mine.
My groin tightens.
She drops back and goes to turn away, but I grab her elbow.
Barely, almost imperceptibly, her shoulders tense. If it makes her feel better, she can pretend I’m a random hookup again.
I lean in. “A little more.”
This time I’m sure she’ll say no, tell me I can shove a little more up my ass.
But again, she rocks forward and tilts her face up. I’m finding what my new favorite color is as her ruby lips part. Her forearm twitches in my hand, fingertips grazing my chest.
Her pupils are huge, swallowing dark brown irises.
This time when she kisses me, I drag her body close, and she melts against me with a soft moan.
I can barely feel her slender form beneath her stupid coat, but it’s enough to impress the memory of our night together, her muscles working as she writhed underneath me on the bed.
She’s a good kisser—I remember being shocked by that, given how stiffly she holds herself—but she follows my rhythm easily, like we’ve known each other for years. Ignoring the throbbing pain in my jaw and my split lip, I shove my tongue into her mouth—
She stiffens.
I jerk back like I’ve been stung.
She pants, her face even more flushed than before. Her perfect lipstick is smudged, and when she glances down at my lips, I know I’ve got some on me too. Good.
“Take off your coat,” I tell her. She’s too fucking hot.
It’s not like I’m going to fuck her in the middle of the store—at least not without kicking out everyone else first—but she acts like that’s what I’ve just proposed.
“No.” She folds her arms across her chest.
“You’re hot. Take it off.”
She stares up at me, resentment simmering just beneath the surface. So I can tongue her in the middle of the store, but she stomps her foot down for a fucking coat?
The front doorbell chimes, and Stefano slips in, heaving like he raced back here.
Fine. She can sweat if she wants.