Chapter 16 Nicolo
NICOLO
The Castello is quiet again. Too quiet. My men swept the halls, flushed out the breach, confirmed every inch of this place was clear. But silence after chaos is never peace. It’s a question mark. A weakness waiting to be exploited.
I should be focused. The Mancinis have been circling too close, and three armed men slipping past my walls isn’t just an insult. It’s a declaration.
They’ll pay for it. I’m already drafting the terms—and if they won’t back down, I’ll bleed them out one brother at a time.
But instead of seeing their faces, I see hers. The way her hands shook in the safe room. The sound of her voice when she whispered please. The weight of her against me when sleep finally dragged her under.
Pathetic.
I drag my hand down my jaw and force my attention back to the laptop in front of me. Contracts. Numbers. Strategy. Things that matter. Things that aren’t her.
My phone buzzes with a message from Theo confirming the Mancini men are being “persuaded” to talk. It won’t be enough. I need leverage, something to keep them out of my territory and away from my Castello. Away from her.
I push to my feet, pacing the length of my office, every muscle wound tight.
Training would have eased the tension had I not dragged the person causing the tension into my morning routine.
I don’t have the luxury of distractions.
And yet when my gaze slides to the window, I find myself looking for her.
And there she is. Out in the gardens, in the sunlight, dressed in pale blue that doesn’t belong in my world. Too soft. Too bright.
I need to keep her at arm’s length at all times. She’s reckless and doesn’t understand who she’s provoking.
She laughs at something the gardener says. I tell myself to turn away. I don’t.
The gardener says something else, and she tilts her head back, sunlight catching her hair as she laughs again.
I don’t hear the words, don’t care. What I hear is the vulnerability she tries to hide under all the snark and sass.
A softness the Mancinis would carve into pieces if they could get their hands on her.
They don’t care if she isn’t involved. If they think I care about her, they will use her.
My hand tightens on the glass of scotch I don’t remember pouring. It burns down my throat, but the fire does nothing to cauterize the thought slashing through me.
She shouldn’t be out there. Not without guards flanking her. Not without me knowing exactly who’s close enough to touch her.
Theo’s text lights up my phone again.
Theo
One of the men is talking. He’s naming contacts.
Good. I’ll bleed them dry, one confession at a time. But when my thumb hovers over the screen, my eyes drag back to the window, to where she moves across the garden like she doesn’t have a target painted on her back.
Fucking reckless.
I slam the glass down and turn away, jaw locked.
I should put more men on her, double the perimeter.
Hell, I should lock her back in the safe room until I know every Mancini in Naples is six feet under.
But she’d fight me, push me, needle me with that sharp tongue of hers until I either silence her or give her exactly what she wants.
And that is something I can’t afford.
My desk phone rings. It’s Romiro. I answer, more out of habit than patience.
“Brother,” he drawls, too smug for the hour. “Heard about your little blackout. Mancinis getting bold, huh?”
“Not bold,” I deadpan. “Stupid.”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Eli is questioning whether you can protect his sister from the Mancinis. He already has the Outfit he needs to deal with.”
“Tell him there’s nothing to question. The Castello is more secure than his own bedroom. We made a deal, and if he doesn’t understand that I’m capable enough, he needs to come get his sister.”
I end the call before his nonsense can grate on my nerves even further. Silence floods the office again, broken only by the ticking of the antique clock on the wall.
And beneath it, faint but relentless, her laughter from outside. It worms under my skin, dangerous in a way bullets never were.
I tell myself to focus. To plan. To prepare for whatever shitstorm is heading my way. But all I can see is Mara, bathed in sunlight, too soft for this world. Too soft for me.
And I’m already in too deep.
I should’ve left it at one lesson. She’s already a distraction, and every second I waste in this room with her is a second I’m not following my own rules. A second I’m not making the Mancinis pay for transgressions.
But liabilities get people killed, and Mara Folonari is the walking definition of one. That’s the only reason I’m here.
She steps onto the mat without hesitation this time, leggings and a tank clinging to her like she chose them just to irritate me. Her hair is pulled back, exposing her throat, and my jaw tightens when I realize I’ve noticed. I’m starting to notice a lot of things about her that I shouldn’t.
“Again?” she says, her voice deliberately aloof, but her eyes sparkle like she’s already plotting how to get under my skin.
“Again,” I confirm, tone clipped, final. I circle her once, slow and deliberate, forcing her to follow me with her gaze. “Yesterday was stance. Today is ground defense. Most attacks end there. If you can’t break free, you’ll die.”
She folds her arms, smirking. “So romantic. You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet.”
“This isn’t meant to be romantic. It’s for your safety,” I snap, ignoring her while motioning with my hand. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Hands ready. This time, you fight to get free.”
She takes the stance I showed her yesterday, but it’s halfhearted, her weight uneven, her arms loose. She’s doing it wrong on purpose.
“Sloppy,” I snap. “Again. Tighter this time.”
Her lips curl. “You say the sweetest things.”
I don’t answer. Instead, I step in, close enough to smell her skin, close enough to feel her shift back a fraction. My hand clamps over her wrist, dragging her arm higher, angling her elbow. She tries to hide the shiver that runs through her. I pretend I don’t notice.
“Most attackers will go for your wrists, your throat, or the ground,” I tell her. “If you don’t break free, you’ll die. And it won’t be clean. Or painless.”
Her smile sharpens. “You’ve got a lot of gray hairs.”
I snap my finger in front of her face. “Focus.”
She rolls her eyes. “How about you stop barking at me like I’m some soldier?”
“How about you show me some respect and stop provoking me? I’m old enough to be your dad,” I grit out, voice flat, warning.
She leans in, smirk wicked. “Should I call you Daddy, then?”
My pulse slams once, hard enough to shake me.
She knows what she’s doing. Pushing. Testing. And for one second, I want to show her just how dangerous that game is.
Instead, I move. My hand snakes around her wrist, twisting gently but firmly until her balance tips. She goes down hard against the mat, breath rushing out of her lungs. I pin her with my weight, knee braced between her thighs, wrist locked above her head. Her chest heaves under me, eyes blazing.
“Lesson two,” I say, gravely. “Run your mouth like that in the wrong place, to the wrong man, and you’ll find how quickly words can get you killed.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Her lips part, and for a fleeting moment, I think she’ll make another joke. But she doesn’t. She just stares back at me, silent, defiant, eyes wide.
The silence is worse than whatever she had to say. Because I notice too much: the heat of her body beneath mine, the way her breath fans against my jaw, the line of her throat bared and vulnerable.
One slip. One move. And I wouldn’t be teaching her how to fight anymore.
I shove off her like she burned me, standing fast, my jaw locked so tight it aches. “Again. This time without the jokes.”
I shouldn’t notice the way her chest rises, the flush on her throat, the fire in her eyes. I shouldn’t want her to fight back.
But I do. And that’s the most dangerous truth of all.