Chapter 18 Nick #2
“I have gotten help, but the drugs they put me on made me feel worse, so I stopped going because talking to a psychiatrist didn’t help. It only made me feel like a science project being dissected and studied.”
I see her shoulders shake a little.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, just never had anyone compare counseling to being dissected.” I see her take a needle and inject it in her arm, and I never realized how much diabetics have to do just to survive, but this must be minuscule compared to what she’s had to do to survive since she was thirteen.
I could relate in a sense, though. When Dax and I were kidnapped, we had to eat crickets to survive until we were found, since we went missing for six days.
“It’s been great talking with you, but I need to go get groceries and learn to cook shit I’ve never cooked before, then head to work with a fucking smile on my face since this is s my life now.”
She snatched her purse off the hook with one hand, the strap catching briefly on the corner before she yanked it free. Loco immediately trotted after her, his little nails tapping the floor like a frantic metronome.
“If you don’t mind feeding Loco and letting him out while I’m gone, I’d appreciate it, honey,” she tossed over her shoulder, already halfway through the door. It slammed behind her with more force than necessary.
“Wait,” I called, grabbing my keys off the counter, heart ticking faster. “We need to go to the base to show them our marriage license to get your medical card to show the pharmacist. We were supposed to do that today.”
She came to a halt halfway down the driveway, exhaling hard as she turned back to face me. “Are you serious? I can’t just show them my regular ID?”
I shook my head, shoulders tense. “No, unfortunately not.”
She let out a groan, deep and frustrated, dragging her hands down her thighs. “Okay, c’mon, soldier.”
She marched over to the motorcycle like she was on a mission. I watched her swing one leg over and drop onto the seat with a casual confidence that made it impossible not to stare.
“Don’t you want to take the truck since you’re going grocery shopping?” I asked, half-hoping she’d change her mind.
She didn’t even glance back. “Nah, another fact about me: I prefer to ride motorcycles or convertibles. Not a fan of dark windows and enclosed transportation.” The engine roared to life beneath her like it answered to her moods.
I felt a warm little body settle against my ankle.
Loco sat beside me, ears perked, eyes locked on the road like he was waiting for her to come back.
When she finally disappeared around the bend, he looked up at me with those round, too-big-for-his-head eyes.
Even though I wasn’t much for small dogs, I had to admit—he was kind of adorable.
I bent down, scooped him up, and ran my hand over his tiny head.
“Your mom is one crazy chic.” Loco barked once, sharp and clear, like he knew exactly what I meant.
After I left the military base, I headed to the restaurant early, hoping work would clear my mind, but my thoughts were a storm I couldn’t shut off.
I sat in my office, hunched over the numbers, inventory reports stacked beside me like they held answers I couldn’t find.
Veal, lamb shank, chicken pasta—they were doing well, but nothing consistent.
I rubbed my hands over my face, the roughness of my palms dragging across my skin as I leaned back, exhausted.
Every idea I came up with felt like a dead end.
Melanie’s confession echoed in my head, pounding against every wall I’d built to keep focused.
The pressure behind my eyes was growing, and I wanted a drink more than a solution to our cost margins.
That tight, charged feeling in my chest—the same one I used to feel before going out on a mission—was back.
I hated it. I craved it. I tried to block the image, but it kept clawing back in—Melanie as a kid, scared, trapped, violated.
Bile crept up my throat, burning. I swallowed it down hard.
She was a child.
The thought hit like a gunshot every damn time.
The door creaked open. “Niccolò,” my mother’s voice pulled me back. Her silhouette filled the frame like it always did—one hand on her hip, fire in her stance, and that same sharp tone she used when scolding me as a kid.
“Yes, Mamma.”
“It’s almost 6:30. What are you doing here?”
I glanced at my phone. Shit—it was past six. Time had slipped through my fingers like sand. Ever since we opened, I’ve been either back here crunching numbers or out on the floor pretending everything was fine.
“Sorry,” I said, sitting up straighter. “I was doing inventory. Trying to see where we can cut back.”
“Ah.” She gave me that look—the one where she’s already dissecting my soul. “You sure it has nothing to do with your blonde wife?”
“Why do you have to say it like that?”
“Like what?” she said, her accent thickening with that innocent tone she only used when being anything but innocent.
“Blonde wife. What does it matter if she’s blonde?”
“It doesn’t.”
I groaned out loud, dragging my hands down my face again. “Then why would you mention it?”
“Because I care about you, Niccolò. And your behavior is concerning. As a mother, I’m allowed to be concerned.” She tilted her head, soft but sharp.
“Never said you couldn’t be,” I muttered, standing up, but she blocked my path like a brick wall in heels.
“I just hope you know what you’re doing. You’ve always been impulsive growing up, but this one has taken the cake, Niccolò. What if she’s just trying to suck you dry? I know she’s beautiful, but a lot of those women come with a price.”
“Mom,” I bit out, the word colder than I meant. I only called her Mom when I was officially over her bullshit. “That girl comes from more money than we could ever imagine. If anything, she’d be worried I’m the one sucking her dry.”
Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“Her stepdad is a big-time producer in Hollywood,” and a fucking predator I’d love to drag behind my car until his bones splintered on asphalt.
My mom waved me off like I’d said nothing. “That’s her parents’ money, not hers. And how did she end up here in the first place? Doesn’t make any sense, Niccolò.”
I hesitated. My tongue felt heavy, stuck between honesty and self-preservation. If I told her everything, she’d start asking about Diablo, and I wasn’t ready to open that door. She deserved peace after a lifetime of worry. For once, I wanted her to breathe.
“She originally came here to see Abigail and go on that trip, but when her parents cut her off, she thought she could get a job here to prove to them she could be responsible and stop drinking.”
“So she’s an alcoholic, too?”
I exhaled hard, hands tightening at my sides. “I don’t know.”
“Cosa vuol dire che non lo sai?” Her voice rose, Italian slicing through the room like broken glass—passion or pissed—either way, the 2 P’s meant danger.
“I’m not sure. I think she’s just going through a lot, Mom.”
“And you’re here to pick up the pieces. How convenient. You don’t need any more liabilities, Niccolò. Let’s not forget what you struggled with when you were healing after you got back from Afghanistan.”
I shut my eyes, counting silently to ten. My fists curled. That old itch was back—rage behind my ribs, pressing to break out.
“I know, Mom. And that’s why I can relate. Okay.”
“And what about children?” she fired back. “How can you two bear children if she’s an alcoholic? That’s nine months of being sober, and even after, the middle of the night changes, and cries. You can’t be drunk while taking care of a baby. They are innocent.”
“Mom, you are pressuring again. Stop. I told you—we are not ready for that.”
We haven’t even had sex, I thought, but bit down on the words.
She had no clue how far from grandkids she really was.
“We want to enjoy our honeymoon phase, okay? Now, will you relax, go home? Go knit or do something that people in their sixties do.”
She huffed and flung her towel on the table. “Ah, mi fai impazzire.”
“I heard that,” I called as she stormed off.
“Mom,” I said, just before she slipped out.
She paused.
“Why did you never date after Dad? Didn’t you want to move on?”
She turned slowly, eyes softening. For a moment, I saw something ancient flicker across her face. Regret, maybe. Or just the weight of years she never talked about.
“Why? Where is this coming from?”
I shrugged, pretending like the question didn’t burn in my chest.
“Because,” she said, lifting her chin, “I had a daughter. And I didn’t want men coming in and out of our lives, especially men who weren’t her father. I didn’t want to do that to you or her. So I made a decision that I thought was best for us at the time.”
She looked away, then back. “I know not having a father around could hurt you, but choosing the wrong guy? That could have hurt worse. I loved you both too much to risk it. So I stayed alone… so you’d know what love was supposed to look like.”
I nodded slowly, eyes drifting down to the floor.
“Even though you both are a pain in my ass.” She smirked and turned, walking out the door.
I stood there for a beat, that smile tugging at my lips, until the noise in the kitchen brought me back to reality.
After checking in with the line, I stepped out onto the main floor, moving from table to table, putting on the charm, making sure everyone was satisfied.
Then I turned the corner.
And there she was—Mel.
Her ponytail was up, and her laughter rang out across the room, light, easy. It stopped me in my tracks.
She was laughing at something Josh said.
My stomach dropped. Jaw tightened. A pulse of heat surged in my chest and rose straight to my face.
Then I saw his hand resting on hers, casually, like he had the right.
Red flashed across my vision. My fists curled at my sides, and all I could think about was how satisfying it would feel to knock that smug look off his face.
So I started walking, straight toward the table.