Chapter 10 Nicolo
NICOLO
To say that I’d pay my entire fortune for Folonari to get his head out of his ass and take his little sister off my hands is an understatement.
This little nixie has me loaded down with shopping bags as she struts through the mall.
After buying out half of the boutique, she decided that she wasn’t done…
and dragged me along on what she called a “shopping spree.”
I can feel my blood pressure rising by the second. This deal is already proving more taxing than I’d anticipated—and not going in my favor in the slightest.
She walks a few steps ahead of me, blonde hair swaying down her back, head swiveling like she can’t decide which temptation to chase first. Always moving. Always looking. Restless in a way that makes me restless just watching her. I’m just a glorified babysitter at this point.
She stops abruptly, and I nearly walk into her. Her head tilts toward a small kiosk glowing with neon light: gelato. Of course. Because dragging me through a mall like a pack mule isn’t enough.
Without asking, she veers off. I follow because I have to, not because I want to.
My hands are still full of bags when she orders, all bright eyes and golden hair spilling over her shoulder as she leans against the counter.
She comes back with a cone—pistachio, melting already in the warm space.
I thought Europe wanted to be green, but the heaters in malls say otherwise.
She licks it once, slowly, and my jaw locks.
We keep walking, her eating, me watching despite myself. It’s infuriating how easily she does it—like she’s forgotten who I am, what I am. Like I’m not carrying the weight of this entire fucking deal on my shoulders while she plays tourist.
When she catches me staring, her lips curve. “Want some?”
For half a second, I consider saying yes just to shut her up. But I don’t give her the satisfaction.
“I don’t eat sugar.”
She blinks at me, disbelief flickering across her face. “You expect me to believe that? One bite won’t kill you.”
I say nothing, just keep walking, adjusting the bags in my grip. She shifts beside me, licking her ice cream again, slower this time. Watching me watch her. Squirming under the weight of my silence.
Finally, I nod once. “Fine.”
Her eyes light up like she’s won something. She holds the cone out, but I lift the bags higher, making it impossible.
“Figure it out.”
She huffs, mutters something under her breath, and then leans in. The cone wobbles precariously close to my suit jacket before she tilts it toward my mouth. I don’t break eye contact as I take a bite. A big one. Cold sweetness hits my tongue, but all I taste is her victory in the curve of her grin.
We walk on. She’s quiet now, which should be a relief, but somehow, it isn’t. I can still hear the soft sound of her licking the gelato. Can still see the little curl of her smile in my periphery.
Every step, I tell myself to focus on the exit. On getting her back to the Castello and locking her in that damn room where she can’t get under my skin.
But my eyes keep drifting. To the way her hair brushes her shoulders when she tilts her head to look into shop windows.
To the faint sway of her hips when she shifts her weight from one leg to the other.
To the way the ice cream is melting faster than she’s eating it, a thin line of it running toward her fingers.
It’s ridiculous that I notice these things. Worse that I register the urge to reach over and fix them.
I shift the bags again, the fabric handles biting into my palms. It’s a good distraction. Pain. A reminder that I’m here to work, not indulge.
Then she glances back at me over her shoulder with that look in her eyes like she knows exactly what she’s doing. And maybe she does.
We round the corner, and the air shifts. Colder. Open. The main exit is ahead.
Good. We’re almost done.
She licks the last of the gelato from the cone and tosses the paper into a nearby bin like she’s dropping the mic on our little exchange. My teeth press together and I push ahead, holding the door open for her.
She passes by without a thank you.
Fine. The sooner I get her back to the Castello, the sooner I can put some real distance between us.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
I pop the trunk and drop the bags with more force than necessary. The rest, I shove in the backseat of the car. Mara Folonari acts like the entitled brat she was raised to be and doesn’t offer to carry a single one. She just slides into the passenger seat like she’s earned the ride.
I get in, shut the door, and start the engine.
The drive out of the city is slow at first, traffic thick with people heading home for the evening.
She sits angled toward the window, quiet, but I can feel her watching me when she thinks I’m not looking.
Probably trying to read me. She won’t be able to.
The silence isn’t uncomfortable for me. I’ve lived my life in it.
Every few miles, I catch her reflection in the glass—eyes half-lidded, mouth soft, hair spilling loose over her shoulder. It’s too easy to imagine her like that for a different reason.
I push the thought down and focus on the road.
The air changes as we climb into the hills—cooler, sharper, carrying the faint scent of cypress.
The headlights cut through the dark, catching glimpses of vineyards and cypress-lined drives.
She leans her temple against the glass, her hair spilling forward in loose waves.
I keep my eyes on the road, telling myself I’m not looking at her reflection.
The gates of the Castello come into view sooner than I expect. I pull in, tires crunching over gravel, and kill the engine.
“Inside,” I tell her, my voice flat. “And remember the rules.”
She doesn’t answer, just slides out, her flats clicking against the stone. But there’s the smallest curl of a smirk on her lips as she walks ahead of me toward the doors.
This little shit is planning something.