17. Nico
NICO
The Prius rattles like a tin can as I floor it onto the road.
The second the restaurant disappears from view, Alessia yells in French at someone on the phone.
I glance at Mamma through the rearview mirror. She’s staring out the window, eyes rimmed with tears.
Valeria clutches my hand tightly in both of hers. She’s pale.
Adrenaline rockets through my body.
Police cars scream past us.
A hit. That was an intentional hit.
A message.
I need to process what happened, and I need to figure out my next steps. But I can barely think, knowing everyone in this car had just been at risk.
I tightened my hand over Valeria’s. If I had lost her—it’s the only thought tearing through my mind. What if I had lost her?
What if I had lost her?
Nausea roils through me.
At Mamma and Alessia’s hotel, I take the rear to make sure no one follows us.
The moment their hotel door closes shut, Alessia goes to a kitchen table and sits down, folding her hands on top of the lacquered wood.
“Okay, let’s debrief,” she says.
“Alessia, not now,” I snap. I turn toward Valeria and rub along her arms, casting an eye for injuries.
She winces, cringing away from my left hand.
Blood.
Blood on her shoulder.
“Mamma, do you have a first-aid kit?” I call out.
“Nico, I’m fine,” Valeria protests as I twist her around to inspect her more fully. The cut is barely longer than an inch, but purple swirls over her skin, hinting at more bruising to come.
That was the shoulder I dropped her onto when the shooting started. It was my fault.
She’s pale as a ghost. When our gazes touch, her pupils dilating, all I can see is her fear.
I swallow acid.
“Nico, cazzo, you’re smothering her,” Alessia complains from behind.
Mamma appears at my side with a washcloth, antibiotic cream, and a single band-aid. “Darling, get a drink. She’s okay.”
“I am,” Valeria says. “Really, Nico.”
I step back so Mamma can attend to her. My fingers are shaking. I shove them into my pockets.
Valeria holds perfectly still for Mamma to doctor her up.
I roll my jaw, my hands forming fists in my pants. A need for violence shudders through me in suffocating waves, but there’s no enemy to fight here, only myself and the women I love.
Valeria doesn’t meet my eye. I wish she’d look at me, even if I don’t want to see that wide-eyed expression again.
I’d rather her hate than her fear.
She’s only been playing along as my fiancée for her own safety, and tonight proved that even if she does everything right, she’s still in danger.
Valeria is a fighter, but everyone has their limits.
At some point, she’ll realize running before our year ends is the smarter call.
I need to remove the threat or get her pregnant, and I already told her I wouldn’t do the second.
Mamma drops her supplies off in the kitchen and grabs a bottle of white wine from the hotel fridge. “I heard Russian.”
Valeria holds my gaze for a lingering moment, her expression shuttering closed—shunting me out of her thoughts—before she pivots her attention to Mamma.
My stomach drops.
“The window next to our table was the only one left intact,” Valeria supplies softly.
Alessia and Mamma glance at her with surprise. I think back to the restaurant—she’s right. That’s a detail I normally would’ve paid more attention to if I hadn’t been losing my head to get everyone out in one piece.
“I’m pretty sure he said, ‘Die, bitches,’” Alessia says. “So, it was a message, but for who? Me and Mamma? As far as I know, Papà has good relations with the Russians. Nico, have you met with the pakhan here?”
Fuck.
Without looking away from Valeria, I slowly admit, “I may have stolen the pakhan’s car.”
“Nico!” Mamma spills her wine as she pours.
Alessia pinches the bridge of her nose. “Real classy.”
“And I threw millions of dollars of Russian cocaine into Lake Michigan,” I add.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Nicolo,” Alessia says as Mamma chugs her glass of wine.
I glance at Valeria. She has to be putting two and two together and realizing that the cocaine in her purse—that losing her dream job—was my fault. Her shoulders are tense, but otherwise, she projects a cool calmness, her gaze fixed on Mamma.
“You already know why,” I say to Mamma and my sister. “I swore I’m not gonna be a puppet for Father anymore. That means fueling his drugs either. You know who they sell those drugs to?”
Alessia groans. “Not this again.”
“Fucking kids, Alessia. Addicts and homeless people and rich assholes. It’s fucked up—and I don’t want to be a part of it anymore.”
“Oh, grow up, Nico. You can’t just do whatever you want and expect there not to be any consequences. Tonight was plenty proof.”
“You know better than anyone how fully aware I am of the consequences.”
Alessia meets my gaze steadily.
When I was forced to face trial, Alessia was the only person who went to bat for me.
She hired an obscenely overpowered team of lawyers to fight for my case—for all the good it did when Father had already blackmailed the judge.
She and Mamma visited me every week for an entire year, and it was Alessia who smuggled in everything I asked for. I owe my sister my undying gratitude.
“Then you should know to listen to Papà,” she says with a hint of bitterness.
A knock at the door breaks our standoff.
“Who is that?” I ask.
Alessia lifts a finger, stands, and walks to the door.
Giovanni strides in, looking as unruffled as ever in his grey suit. He scans my sister, then the rest of us. “Anyone hurt?”
“I broke a fucking nail, but otherwise no,” Alessia says. “Come in.”
I take two steps back so that I’m standing between him and Valeria. I haven’t figured out how yet, but I’d bet everything I own he was behind tonight’s drive-by, acting on Father’s orders. This entire situation reeks of Father’s scheming.
Giovanni glances at us with a flicker of quiet disapproval.
My gun heats against my lower belly.
If I shot him here and now, would that be enough to stop the threats to Valeria?
It’s a pretty thought, but I know it wouldn’t. Father would punish me, and the simplest path to hurting me is in a black dress right behind me.
“You got here fast,” I say, and because I can’t fucking help myself. “Waiting nearby?”
His eyes narrow.
“Enough.” Alessia leans against the kitchen counter, next to Mamma. “Gio, why do the Russians want us dead?”
“They are upset about their involvement with Valeria’s family. They want her out of the picture.”
Valeria tenses behind me. I reach for her hand, and I’m soothed, a little, that she doesn’t jerk away from my touch.
“So let me get this straight,” Alessia says. She clicks against the counter with her nails, inspects the broken one, and sighs. “The Russians have had every opportunity to attack Nico and Valeria for weeks now, but tonight, when Mamma and I are in town, is when they finally decide to strike?”
“You should speak to your papà to see if he has more information,” Giovanni says smoothly. “I don’t know why they have chosen tonight. I agree it is strange.”
Alessia glares at him like she’s trying to launch a psychic attack into his thoughts. Giovanni calmly endures her scrutiny. It’s a familiar dance between the two—one that Giovanni tends to sidestep, because he knows as well as I do that no one is more stubborn than my sister.
“Alessia and I will leave for New York tomorrow.” Mamma takes a sip of wine. “Nico, it might be a wise decision to come with us. If the Russians are targeting you, you’ll need all the support you can get.”
No one else can see as Valeria squeezes my wrist.
“I’ll have to discuss this with my wife first. But thank you. I’ll let you all know.”
On the drive back, I make a list.
I need a new car. Something sturdy and bulletproof. And a team. Trusted men who will watch Valeria from a distance.
Father’s blessing.
Salvatore’s support.
I almost laugh as I let us into the apartment. I’m going to end up begging on hands and knees for the very resources I’ve resisted for so long.
In the entrance, Valeria braces a palm against the wall and bends down to untie her heels.
Might as well start now.
I drop to my knees. “I’ll do it.”
She inhales lightly as I take her heel in my palm and undo the buckle. Her toenails are painted black, the edges chipped.
I add pedicures to the list. She needs me to take care of her. If I’m not getting her pregnant yet, I need to prove to her how I’m going to satisfy her every need.
When I place her shoe down and reach for the other, she hesitates.
“I can do it,” she says.
“I know you can. I want to do it for you.”
An inscrutable look crosses her face. I decide I’m going to be the one who learns to read those little expressions. I’ll be the only one who sees past her mask.
She lifts her foot and places it lightly in my hand. I take my time to unbuckle her shoe, checking for any injuries and committing every inch of her to memory.
“What did your sister mean?” Valeria asks softly. “About the consequences.”
I hesitate, my fingers grazing her ankle.
“That’s not the sort of story you want to hear before bed,” I say as I slip off her shoe.
Her fingertips come to the top of my head, the feather-light touch showering sparks down my spine and igniting a fire in my groin.
I stay on my knees and reach for her calves, filling my palms with soft skin, before I look up at her.
Her mouth is gently parted, eyes wide.
“I want to know,” she murmurs.
My brain is on the verge of short-circuiting. If I lean forward only a few inches, I could bury my face between her legs.
Maybe her expression at the hotel hadn’t been fear.
She strokes over my head again, and my resolve crumbles.
She can have whatever she wants.
“A few years ago, I had a job. Father sent me to deliver a message to our enemy—the Irish, at the time—and when I got there, the target wasn’t there. But his wife and their infant son were.”
I lean into her hand. Fear—real, raw fear—enters her eyes.