Chapter 27
27
ARIA
I wake up feeling warm, wrapped in the lingering comfort of last night. My body aches most pleasantly, a gentle reminder of Nicolas’ touch—his hands, lips, and weight pressing into me.
Last night, we took things ‘easy’. That is if fucking me with four fingers and bending me in the most impossible position can be considered ‘easy’—and he promised that today, he would show me other heights of pleasure and it’s the first thought that comes to my mind as my eyes flutter open.
I stretch lazily, letting my fingers graze the empty space beside me, only to feel the coolness of the sheets. My heart skips a bit, a flicker of worry crossing my mind as I realize the space next to me is empty.
Sitting up slowly, I rub the sleep from my eyes, a sense of confusion settling in. Since the ambush with the Caldarones, Nicolas has never left the bed before me, especially after nights like those. He always stays, pulling me close, his kisses warming my skin, reminding me that he’s there, beside me, always.
But now, he’s gone.
I push the blankets aside and slip out of bed. The floor is cool against my bare feet as I grab Nicolas’ shirt from the night before and pull it over my head. It’s oversized, the fabric brushing against my thighs, carrying his scent—a lingering comfort in his absence.
I check the bathroom. Empty.
The balcony. No sign of him.
A quiet unease settles in me as I make my way downstairs. The house is unusually still. It’s never loud, but there’s always a presence, a rhythm to the space. Now, I only spot two maids hurriedly moving toward the door, whispering in hushed tones. My chest tightens as I glance around again, but Nicolas is nowhere in sight.
And then, for some reason, my feet carry me toward that room. The one I haven’t dared to enter since that night.
I know I shouldn’t. I should turn back. But curiosity tugs at me, a force I can’t resist.
I stop just before reaching the door and exhale sharply, shaking my head. No. I need to stop this. No more snooping. No more-
A muffled sound cuts through the silence, freezing me in place. A sound just like that night.
A chill races down my spine. My stomach knots. I know what’s at the end of that hallway. The room . The one where I saw him kill someone before.
Turn around. The voice in my head screams at me one last time.
But my feet keep moving.
I reach the door, my fingers grazing the cool handle. I don’t have to turn it—I already know it’s slightly ajar.
Why the fuck is this door never locked?
It’s almost as if Nicolas is daring anyone in this house to witness what happens inside. And somehow, I feel like I’m the only one reckless enough to take that dare.
Through the narrow gap, I see him.
Nicolas stands in the center of the room, sleeves rolled up, exposing the sharp lines of his forearms. His expression is calm.
The man in front of him isn’t nearly as composed.
He’s slumped in a chair, arms bound behind his back, head hanging low. His face is a ruin of bruises, blood smeared across his mouth, his torn shirt clinging to him in stained patches. His body trembles—whether from pain, fear, or exhaustion, I can’t tell.
Nicolas lifts a hand, pressing two fingers against the man’s throat, checking for something. A pulse, maybe. He nods to himself, then turns toward the table beside him.
My stomach twists.
A knife. A blowtorch. Pliers.
The sharp tang of blood lingers in the air, mixed with something else. Something burnt. What’s burning? Wires? Fabric? Flesh?
I should turn away. I should run.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
I watch as Nicolas picks up the knife, turning it between his fingers with quiet precision. He trails the blade lightly along the man’s arm—not deep enough to wound, just enough to make him flinch. The prisoner grits his teeth, a strangled groan escaping him.
“I need the names of your accomplices,” Nicolas says, his voice calm. Measured.
The man spits blood onto the floor. “Go to hell.”
Nicolas exhales, a quiet sigh of disappointment, as if this is nothing more than an inconvenience.
His grip tightens around the man’s wrist, fingers pressing into the tendons. Then, with an almost lazy movement, he slides the blade beneath a fingernail.
I slap a hand over my mouth.
The man jerks against the restraints, his body twisting in agony, but Nicolas holds him steady, unshaken by the raw, choked cry that fills the room.
Tears burn in my eyes.
This isn’t the man who holds me at night. The man who kisses my bruises, whispering promises against my skin. This is someone else entirely.
The knife clatters to the table, discarded.
Nicolas reaches for the pliers.
I shake my head. Please stop.
Nicolas grips the half-loosened nail with the pliers and pulls. A strangled scream rips through the room, raw and desperate.
My knees feel weak—the edges of the world blur.
The man gasps for air, his entire body shaking violently. He chokes on his breath, tears streaming down his bruised face. “Please,” he rasps.
Nicolas crouches beside him, his voice smooth, controlled. “Then talk.”
A sob racks through the man’s body, and he nods frantically. “Okay. Okay—I’ll tell you.”
I release a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Please let this be over.
Nicolas stands, dusting off his hands like he’s finished with an inconvenient task. “Good.”
He unties the man’s hands. The man collapses forward, too weak to move.
Nicolas gestures, and Matteo, undisturbed by what he’s just seen, moves forward, slipping a pen and paper into the man’s trembling hand. The man scribbles something down with shaky, bloody fingers before handing it over.
Matteo scans the paper, then nods.
Nicolas steps back, arms crossed, his voice as cold as steel. “Get up.”
The man shudders but forces himself upright. His legs shake unsteadily beneath him, and his body sways as if it might collapse again.
Nicolas gestures toward the back door. A silent command. The man hesitates, then glances at the door. He’s free.
A rush of relief floods through me. He’s letting him go.
The man exhales shakily, turning toward Nicolas. His voice is barely a whisper. “Thank you.”
And then?—
Pfft.
A single, muffled gunshot.
The man stiffens, his body locking in place. His eyes widen in shock. A small, perfect hole sits in the center of his forehead. For a heartbeat, he simply stands there. Then, like a puppet with cut strings, he crumples to the floor. Blood spreads in a dark pool beneath him.
My breath catches in my throat. My hands tremble. My stomach twists violently.
Nicolas exhales, slipping the silencer off the barrel. With slow precision, he sets the gun on the table. Click.
I stumble back, my foot catching a loose floorboard. The wood creaks beneath me.
Nicolas’ head snaps up. His eyes lock onto mine.
For a long, stretched moment, neither of us moves. His expression is unreadable, perfectly controlled, but his gaze pierces through me. My breath catches. My heart slams against my ribs so hard it’s painful.
Without looking away, he speaks. “Take care of it.”
Matteo nods, as if he already knew the command was meant for him.
Nicolas steps toward me.
I instinctively step back, but his hand closes around my wrist before I can move any further. His grip is firm—unwavering—but not forceful.
He doesn’t speak. He just holds me there, waiting. Watching.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to breathe.
Nicolas pulls me forward, guiding me away from the room—away from the blood, the body, the horror.
We walk in silence. Up the stairs. Into our room. Only then does he release me, and the moment he does, I stumble back, putting space between us.
The silence is unbearable.
He stands near the dresser, his reflection is sharp in the mirror. His shirt hangs open, revealing the fresh wound on his shoulder, the raw edges blending into the countless scars etched across his skin.
I sink onto the bed, curling my arms around my legs, my chest tight, my thoughts tangled. Nicolas turns slightly, his gaze meeting mine in the mirror. His voice is calm, steady.
“We need to talk.”
I swallow hard.
He turns to face me fully, his expression impossibly calm. “This is my world, Aria. I don’t want to pretend in front of my wife.” The weight of his words settles deep in my chest. “I even bought another house,” he continues. “Somewhere to keep that side of my life away from you. I thought it would be better that way.”
I shake my head, pressing my fingers against my temples. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I changed my mind.”
He steps closer. “I am not your father. I am not your brother. I don’t think you’re weak. I don’t believe you need to be shielded from my world.”
His world.
The blood. The screams. The way he ended that man’s life without hesitation, without remorse.
He crouches in front of me, his fingers grazing my knee. A shiver runs through me—part of me still craves his touch, but another part remembers what those hands have done.
“This is who I am,” he says softly. “And this is the man who loves you.”
Tears burn behind my eyes. I squeeze them shut, but the images remain. The man begging for mercy. The gunshot. The silence that followed.
I shake my head, my breath unsteady. “It’s different,” I whisper.
His gaze sharpens. “How?”
I open my eyes, meeting his. “Because it’s you.”
His expression hardens slightly, but I press on. “It’s different when it’s the man I love. The man who holds me at night. The man I share a bed with.” My voice wavers. “The man who kisses me like I’m his whole world.”
His body goes still, his eyes dark and unreadable.
I take a shaky breath. “I watched you kill him, Nicolas. I watched you torture him before you did.”
He stands up, and I can see his jaw tightening. His hands clench at his sides. When he speaks, his voice is ice-cold. “This is who I am, Aria. And that’s not going to change.”
The finality in his words hits me like a slap. He turns and walks out, shutting the door behind him.
I can still see the blood. I can still hear the shot. And I don’t know how to live with it.
I don’t know where he went. I sit in bed, curled beneath the blankets, but the cold still seeps in.
The space beside me remains empty, and the sun that had just risen a few moments ago begins to set. Or maybe time just passed too quickly.
When the door finally opens, Nicolas walks in without a word. He shrugs off his jacket, unbuttons his shirt, and folds both neatly by the side.
I don’t move.
He slides into bed beside me but he doesn’t touch me.
He always touches me.
But not tonight.
I stare at the ceiling, my hands clenching into fists. The distance between us feels too much. I wish I could pretend nothing has changed, that everything is as it was before. But it has. And I’m unsure if things can ever return to how they were.
I wait, listening to the rise and fall of his breathing, the soft rhythm that signals he’s drifted into sleep.
I slip quietly from the bed when his steady breathing settles into the room.
My hands tremble as I gather a few things into a small bag—just a jacket, a change of clothes, something simple. My heart pounds in my chest, but I keep moving, unable to stop.
I pause by the door, glancing back at him.
Nicolas is still, lost in his sleep.
I take a deep breath, stepping into the cool air of the hallway. The silence around me is heavy.
The guards don’t stop me when I walk past. They don’t ask questions when I request the keys to one of the cars.
I head outside, the crisp night air hitting my skin as I settle into the driver’s seat.
And then I drive.
Tears spill down my cheeks, and I’m unsure if it’s because I left… or because a part of me wishes he had said something sooner, something to make me stay.