Chapter 9
NINE
HENRY SALMAN
By silent but seemingly mutual agreement, we reseal the boxes and shove them into the utility closet. One day maybe I’ll go through them, thoroughly examine my past, but not today. Not after working so hard to put it behind me. Not while Nicolo is attempting to do the same in the only way he can.
“You hungry?” I ask him. It’s closing in on dinner now, and the freeze-dried gummy worms I gave him earlier hardly count as a meal.
“Not if you’re cooking,” he counters, trying for a smile. It’s weak and tired.
In truth, we’d both be better off calling it a day. I know I could use a nap.
“I can cook,” I protest. Over the last ten years, I’ve had to learn how to cook for myself if I didn’t want to survive on fast food and takeout. I’m not nearly as good as Mother in the kitchen, but I can feed myself without needing a trip to the emergency room afterwards.
Nicolo looks doubtful but finally nods. “Okay. Show me what you can do.”
I snort as he follows me into the kitchen. “Not much, but I can keep you alive. How about a burger?”
“So long as you hold the onion.” He pulls himself onto the counter as I pull out the hamburger meat I shoved in the fridge before I left the house this morning.
“Still not over that.” I shake my head and hide my grin by gathering the rest of the supplies.
“Never.” Nicolo kicks me in the hip as I pass him—not hard, but hard enough to have me stumbling and fumbling to keep a hold of the lettuce. “I’m still mad at you.”
“What if I say I’m sorry?” I ask as I start to prepare the meat.
Nicolo hums. “Are you really sorry?”
I glance over my shoulder. His arms are crossed over his chest but he doesn’t look upset, not anymore. It’s been over a decade since I handed him a candy apple that wasn’t an apple at all. Plenty of time to forgive me for my childish prank. Despite all the time that has passed, I can still recall the look of shock and horror on his face as he bit into the ripe onion.
“Sorry.” I pause and grin. His brow furrows as his lips press into a thin line. I shrug. “Not sorry.”
“Bonehead,” he mutters, but I can hear the love in the insult.
“How about you make yourself useful and cut the tomato.” I nod to the cutting board. “Mom had to show you how to cook with Anthony out of the house.”
She loved to cook, and when I was young, before Anthony found out and had a problem with it, she’d started to teach me old family recipes. Unfortunately, her husband didn’t think men belonged in the kitchen so before I could learn anything worth remembering, I was set to tasks more befitting a boy my age.
Nicolo sighs and slides off the counter. “You really trust me with a knife right now? I might stab you for revenge.”
“What’s a little murder between brothers?” I ask, and bump my shoulder against his before passing him a knife.
“Usually a prison sentence.” He takes the knife and starts chopping the tomato with familiar ease while I drop hamburger patties in the already hot pan.
Our bodies brush together as we work side by side in silence. There’s something peaceful about working with Nicolo to make dinner. The moment reminds me of when we were children, hiding from Anthony together, but doing our own thing.
Me, most likely playing a game on my phone or texting the few friends I had to bitch about whatever teenagers felt the need to bitch about. Nicolo pressed against my side, safe and sound, but nose deep in his handheld, fighting hordes of fantasy monsters.
“Do you think someone will eventually come looking for me?” Nicolo asks as I pull the finished patties from the pan and set them on a plate. The worry, the note of fear in his voice, makes my heart squeeze.
“I don’t know.” I wrap an arm around his midsection; he leans into me, his soft hair brushing my chin. “Maybe.”
In a few years, once Vincent thinks Nicolo has learned his lesson—learned how hard it is to survive outside of the Family—and can be useful, he might show up with an offer to come back. To take his rightful place as a Rastelli. Nicolo won’t be able to refuse either, not if he wants to survive.
“It’s not safe for you to stay with me, is it?” His voice cracks around the question.
I tighten my hold on him. “Let me worry about that, okay?”
I promised him, pinky swore I wouldn’t leave him again. And I won’t.
What that means for me, him, and our future, I don’t know, but I do know nothing needs to be decided right now. We can eat, get some sleep, and figure shit out in the morning. Vincent isn’t coming for him tonight.
“Sebastian.” He fists the front of my shirt, his stormy eyes meeting mine. “Just be honest with me. I need to know.”
I sigh and lead him to the counter, pulling out a stool. He climbs up and I grab our plates before settling beside him. He doesn’t reach for his burger. Nor do I.
“It’s not safe,” I tell him, because it’s the truth and he asked me to be honest. Nicolo sucks in a sharp breath and I take hold of his hand, lacing our fingers together. “But I’m not leaving you. Just give me some time to think and figure out what needs to be done.”
More like time to accept what I need to do. Because I already know. I need to call my handler, tell him my identity is compromised, that Nicolo is with me now and I’m not leaving him behind.
Hopefully, Simon understands and is willing to bring Nicolo into the program, give him a new identity so he can stay with me. If he’s not . . . I guess I’ll have to figure out where to go from there.
The idea of abandoning the life I’ve built for myself as Henry Salman, going on the run with Nicolo, doesn’t have any real appeal, but if that’s what I have to do to keep my little brother with me and both of us safe—well, I suppose I’ve been saving part of every paycheck for ten years for a reason.
Nicolo squares his shoulders. “What can I do to help?”
I chuckle under my breath and lean over to press a kiss to his hair. I can’t help myself. He’s just too fucking cute. “Eat your dinner.” I nod to the quickly cooling burger and fries on his plate. “Stay out of trouble.”
He snorts, a half-born laugh, as he finally reaches for his food. “I was never the troublemaker between the two of us.”
That’s true enough. Nicolo was a good kid, never one to question mother or father. If they said jump, he didn’t even ask how high—simply did so. Me, on the other hand—I questioned everything, and eventually, when the answers no longer satisfied me, I started asking questions that put Anthony Rastelli behind concrete and steel bars.