Chapter 20
TWENTY
NICOLO
Other than swimming, playing video or board games, watching television, or getting off with Sebastian, there isn’t a lot to do while we wait for our new identities. A process that Sebastian, Simon and even Burke swear is quick but seems to be taking forever.
I’m not complaining, not when Sebastian finds every opportunity to use his hands or mouth on me with Simon and Burke none the wiser. It’s easy to miss what you’re not looking for, and no one expects two brothers to be sneaking away three or four times a day to get off together.
We’re careful to never leave easily seen or identifiable marks on one another, but Sebastian has learned to wear a shirt because the claw marks on his back are a wide-open picture book. I won’t be taking my pants off in front of anyone for a while because there’s no mistaking the numerous dark, circular bruises on my inner thighs as anything but exactly what they are.
I’m looking forward to the days when Sebastian and I don’t have to be so careful, when we have our own place, out from under the ever-watchful eye of the US Marshals, where I can be as loud as I want as often as I want but for now, this isn’t so bad. Not so bad at all.
My balls are officially drained by dinnertime every day, but that doesn’t stop Sebastian from coaxing at least one, sometimes two more orgasms out of me before we pass out in an exhausted slump only to wake up and do it all again.
Today, instead of sneaking away for my mid-morning wank with not-so-surprising assistance from my big brother, I’m at the kitchen table, tapping a pen against the woodgrain, trying to decide exactly what to tell Mom.
I can’t tell her about Sebastian. It’s better for her, and him, if she continues to believe he died in a car accident ten years ago. If Vincent learns Sebastian’s alive, he’ll spare no expense trying to find the both of us. It’ll be wasted money if Simon’s to be believed, but I’d rather not have the knowledge that someone wants Sebastian—and in turn, me—dead hanging over our heads for the rest of our lives.
For that reason alone, I can’t mention going into Witness Protection either. This is just . . . a standard issue goodbye letter, with no return address, that Simon and Burke will shove in the mail when they pass through Corvallis, Oregon.
“Alright?” Sebastian asks as he pauses long enough to squeeze my shoulder on his way to the fridge.
I slump in my chair and wave to the blank paper in front of me. “I don’t know what to say.”
Sebastian leans against the counter, a bottle of water dangling from his fingers. “What do you want to say?”
If I knew, I wouldn’t be having such a hard time writing my letter.
“How do I say goodbye?” How does anyone say goodbye to someone who isn’t dead or dying, but who they know without a doubt they’ll never see again? “How do I—” I suck in a sharp breath as my eyes burn.
“Nicolo.” Sebastian drops to his knees beside me and pulls me into his arms. I fall into him, bury my face in his neck and wrap my arms around his shoulders.
This shouldn’t be so hard. I said goodbye already, didn’t I? But this is different. Before I left home, left the Family, part of me knew I could crawl back. Vincent would laugh, would mock me, but he’d accept me into the fold so long as I fell in line and promised to be a good puppet that danced on his strings.
There was a chance, however small, that I could have a relationship with Mom.
Choosing a life with Sebastian means I can never go back. I’ll never speak to Mom again in any way, shape, or form. I can’t have my cake and eat it too, not unless I’m willing to say goodbye to Sebastian in the same way I have to say goodbye to Mom now, because if I ever choose her and the Family over him that’s not a choice I can walk back.
I’ll know without a doubt he’s alive and well and living his best life, but he’ll be lost to me. A living ghost haunting my memories.
“I don’t know how to fit a lifetime on a single sheet of paper,” I choke out.
Sebastian pushes me back and cups my jaw, drying my tears with his fingers. “You don’t have to fit a lifetime on that paper, Nicolo. Only what’s truly important.”
How do I know what’s truly important?
“Say thank you for the love and sacrifice. Tell Mom how much you love her, that you’re going to miss her every day.” A smile tugs at the edge of Sebastian’s mouth, but it’s as sad as his eyes. “Tell her you’re going to light a candle on her birthday, and give olive oil to any new friends you make.”
I choke on a laugh but nod. Mom’s family has roots in southern Italy where olive oil, the yellow gold of the Mediterranean, is a symbol of abundance. When given as a gift, it means prosperity will follow. In that same vein, if you spill said oil, especially on the ground, kiss those you love goodbye because a life disaster is on the horizon.
“You don’t have to say goodbye, Nicolo.” Sebastian presses his forehead against mine. I curl my fingers around his wrist, close my eyes, and soak in the comfort he’s offering like a sun-starved plant. “All you really need to do is tell her she doesn’t need to worry because you’re happy, healthy, and safe. Everything else is just details that won’t matter ten, fifteen years from now.”
“Okay,” I choke out around the lump in my throat. “I can do that.”
“You’re going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay.” He presses a dry kiss to my forehead before he pulls the pen from my lax fingers and reaches for the paper on the table.
In the top right corner, he scribbles a date, but not today’s date. Not any recent date, for that matter. It takes a long minute for me to recognize the day, month and year Sebastian testified against Father. The last day I saw him, when he found me in the bathroom and gave me a hug goodbye.
He taps the end of the pen on the date. “She’ll know and that will be enough for her, so say what you need to say, not what you think she needs to hear.”
I’m not sure how smart it is to indicate I’m with Sebastian at all, even in such an underhanded and coded way. What if Vincent reads the letter, sees the date, and understands what it means? Is the risk really worth the reward? But I can’t force myself to scribble out the date when I put my pen to paper.
Instead, I do what Sebastian suggested.
Mama,
Thank you for all your love and sacrifice . . .