15. Nico #2
“I wasn’t going to cross,” she says, untangling herself from me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s blushing.
“Of course not,” I say as I guide us to the storefront for Fortune & Sons.
“How about this? My mom is going to tell my father what we’re like together.
It makes the most sense for us to show them we have a connection.
If my father sees that I love you, and that I’m on my best behavior, he won’t rock the boat. ”
She jolts to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. I turn toward her, my arm outstretched for the front door.
“But you don’t love me,” she says firmly. Her hands make tight little fists against her sides, but instead of looking angry, she looks worried.
Tiny concessions.
I smile and open the glass door. “Sure.”
We step into Fortune & Sons.
It’s not as nice as some of the other home goods stores I’ve been into—thanks to Alessia, I’ve been in more than I can count—but Valeria’s eyes go wide when she spots the price tag of the first shoddy sectional.
She tugs at her coat collar, gaze never leaving the dollar sign on the couch tag. “Everything in here is too expensive. Let’s go to a thrift store.”
“Too expensive?” I scoff. “I have shoes that cost more than this couch.”
“Are you going to be selling your shoes to pay for the couch?”
“I don’t need to. I can just pay for it.”
Valeria crosses her arms. “Well, I can’t afford my half.”
My blood runs cold.
Some guy in a brown polo walks up to us with a broad smile. “Hi! How can I help you—”
“Not now,” I snap.
To his credit, the guy pulls a one-eighty and heads in the other direction.
I step toward Valeria. “I already told you—you don’t have to pay for anything while we’re together.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, sure.”
“Did your family make you pay for everything too?”
“Of course they do. Everyone pays for themselves—that’s fair.”
“When you go to a restaurant, who pays?” I ask icily.
“We’ll pay for ourselves.”
“Who pays for your clothes?”
“I do.”
“Who pays your fucking insurance?” I ask, though I’m already guessing at what the answer will be. It’s a good thing her dad is at the Canadian border. I’d love to hear whatever excuse he came up with for making his daughter pay for his obligations.
“I do.”
She’s so matter-of-fact about it, like it’s normal to pay for yourself when your dad was a high-level member of the fucking Cosa Nostra.
“Val, how much money do you have in your bank account?”
She narrows her eyes, her shoulders tightening. “That’s private.”
“I’m not going to take your money.” In the charged silence that follows, I understand. “Does your family ever borrow money from you?”
“No.” I can’t gauge her expression. “They just take what they need.”
“What the fuck does that mean? How can they just take money from your bank account? You’re an adult.”
“An adult who still lives with her parents—or did. Mom and Dad wouldn’t let me set up a bank account unless they knew my PIN, and they just take money from there when they need it.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“Mom, Dad, Stefano.”
Adrenaline rushes through me, and I shove my shaking hands into my coat so I don’t scare her.
Her mom, out of reach. Dad, defector. Stefano is the only poor bastard left in Chicago. I know her family’s safety is a powerful leverage to keep her in this charade of a marriage, but it might not be worth it if Stefano gets to live any longer without going unpunished.
I let him get off easy. Next time I see him, I’ll make him shave off little pieces of his tongue. One scrap for every dollar he’s stolen from his sister.
“How much fucking money do you have in your bank account?”
Her jaw flexes. “Sixty dollars.”
I might be out of touch with finances, but even I know somebody who’s frugal, lives at home, and works should have much more than sixty dollars in their bank account.
“Do you have any debt?”
“Who doesn’t have debt? Not all of us have a rich dad to take care of things.”
“You do. Your dad should’ve taken care of these finances, but for some reason, he was born without a fucking brain. Do you know how much debt you have?”
“No,” she says with an expression that suggests I’m extracting teeth from her head. “My parents just take out loans in my name when they need cash.”
The rage is suffocating, but I manage to choke out, “I’ll be back.”
I storm out of the building.
The blast of cold air helps to cut through the fog of anger, but I’m a hair-trigger away from strangling the next man who looks at me wrong.
Taking out loans in her name? Running her into debt? All that woman has done is work and go to school and try to do the right thing—and now she’s sacrificing her chance at that life she’s worked so hard for just to make sure her shit family is safe.
With shaking fingers, I call my accountant.
Twenty minutes later, when I come back to Valeria’s side, she’s speaking to the guy in the brown polo.
“We’ll come find you when we need help,” I tell him, cutting through whatever he was saying.
His eyes go wide at my expression. He mumbles something about “other customers”, and scurries off.
A slight frown crosses Valeria’s mouth. “That was rude.”
“It’s taken care of.”
“A hot pink couch with seating for three?”
Her joke tempers my anger a little. “No. Your debt. I spoke to my accountant—Billy. He’s gonna track down all the debt in your name and take care of it.”
She blinks several times, her lips parting in shock. My muscles relax, my breathing returning to normal. She’s with me now. She’s taken care of.
“Nico, what? Why would you do that?” Her voice pitches high. She takes a step back like a wary deer. “I can’t pay you back—I can’t afford that.”
I grab her wrist before she can run.
I’ve never seen her look so terrified and angry before.
That family of hers did a fucking number on her.
I slide a hand up her shoulder and rub my thumb against the slender slope under her jaw. She’s stiff, but she doesn’t pull away. Her chest heaves like she’s on the cusp of a panic attack.
Even now, she’s beautiful—like a painting. I wonder if she’d sit for one. We could decorate my entire apartment with her portraits.
“You’re not paying me back. It’s a gift,” I tell her.
Her eyelashes flicker. “No. It’s a gift with strings.”
“Not this one.”
Her lower lip quivers. “Why would you do this?” All of the fight drains from her voice. She sounds small. Broken.
It crushes me that she really doesn’t seem to understand.
And it triggers alarm when I recognize exactly why I’ve done this for her.
I’m in over my head, and what’s worse—there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
“Because I want to take care of you,” I say.
Tears fill her eyes, and she bursts forward to bury her face against my shoulder. I squeeze her tight, soaking in the feeling of her body—at how well we fit together.
To anyone else, we look like a normal couple hugging. Only a single, quiet sniffle, muffled by my coat, gives away that she’s crying.
When she finally pulls away, she swipes at her eyes and turns from me. “I’m going to pay you back,” she says in a strained voice.
If it makes her feel better, she can believe that.
“Sure,” I tell her.
“So.” She takes a shuddering breath. “Heath said they don’t carry any hot pink couches, but they do have a blush pink one.”
I take her hand in mine. “Lead the way.”