Chapter 24 Nicolo
NICOLO
THREE DAYS LATER
She’s completely moved her attention to that creature that she called Duchess. Should’ve known that was all it would take to get her off my back.
I should be grateful. Should enjoy the quiet for however long it lasts.
But instead of doing the sane thing and going back to building my empire, I stand by the window watching her.
She’s in the garden, laughing like the world outside these walls doesn’t exist. That yellow dress clings to her like it was made to torment me, the hem flirting with her thighs every time she bends to scoop the kitten up.
Her hair is loose today, tumbling over her shoulders like sunlight made tangible, catching on the breeze.
She looks so bright, it hurts to look at her.
The kitten bats at her fingers, and she coos, soft and unguarded, her mouth curving into a smile I’ve never once seen aimed at me.
She doesn’t know I’m watching her from here.
Doesn’t realize how reckless she looks, a beacon in a world full of men who would gut me just to get close enough to touch her.
My phone buzzes on the desk behind me. Urgent. Business.
I don’t turn. Because for one dangerous second, all I want is to stay right here watching her.
I only turn when my phone rings again. Picking it up, I swipe to answer the call.
“What is it, Theo?” I ask, my voice clipped.
He’s straight to the point. “The Mancinis might be looking to have a meeting with you. Face-to-face.”
I mull over it, turning the idea in my head. As I calculate the risks and the advantages, my gaze cuts back to Mara. I watch as she throws her head back and laughs with abandon. Turning back around sharply, I give Theo a short answer before cutting the call.
“Set it up somewhere neutral.”
The sound of metal clanging fills the gym while sweat rolls down the length of my back and my hair sticks to my forehead.
I’m on the last set when I feel something soft rub itself on the side of my leg.
Looking down, I spot the little creature that Mara promised to keep out of my way no less than three days ago.
What did I expect from a reckless, spoiled mafia principessa?
Cursing under my breath, I pick Duchess up. The little menace purrs like she’s pleased with herself, tiny claws flexing against my chest as if she knows she’s dragging me around the Castello like some servant. I don’t even know how she slipped into the gym.
I head down the hall, my steps echoing against the stone floors. First stop, Mara’s room.
Dark. Door shut. No light under the crack. Figures.
“Where the hell is she, huh?” I mutter down at the kitten.
She blinks up at me, wide-eyed, useless.
I keep moving, irritation pulling me through the corridors.
Past the grand staircase. Past the closed library doors.
Past one of the guards, who stiffens as I walk by but wisely keeps his mouth shut.
The house feels cavernous at this hour, shadows stretching long across the black walls, chandeliers dripping with silent gold.
Finally, I push open the door to the living room. And stop.
The place is dim, lit only by the low glow of recessed ceiling lights and the faint amber burn of sconces along the walls. And sprawled across the massive cream couch, surrounded by pillows like she owns the damn place, is Mara.
Asleep.
Her robe has slipped off one shoulder, baring a curve of skin that’s too soft, too vulnerable. Her hair has come loose, spilling across her cheek, hiding half her face. Her lips are parted, breath steady.
Duchess squirms in my arms, lets out a soft mewl, and Mara shifts. Even in sleep, murmuring something faint, it’s as if her body already knows the kitten is close.
For a long moment, I just stand there.
Every instinct in me says wake her. Drag her upstairs to her room. Remind her that this isn’t the place for her to go falling asleep wherever she pleases like a child. But I don’t do any of that.
Instead, I move closer. I lower myself onto the ottoman placed directly beside the couch, Duchess still squirming in my arms. For a while, I just sit there, elbows resting on my knees, staring at her like a man who’s lost his mind. The kitten paws at my chest, purring, content.
I should be furious. Instead, I’m…still.
She shifts slightly, her hand twitching as though, even asleep, she’s searching for something to hold. Her hair falls further onto her face, hiding her.
My fingers twitch. I shouldn’t. But I do.
Leaning forward, I brush the strands gently away, tucking them behind her ear. My knuckles hover for a second too long, almost grazing her skin. She sighs, lips parting a little more, and for a dangerous heartbeat, I forget myself.
Duchess lets out a soft squeak, breaking the spell.
I shake my head, jaw tight. This is madness. All of it.
I set the kitten down beside her, and Duchess wastes no time curling against Mara’s side, her tiny body fitting perfectly in the crook of her arm. Mara stirs, but doesn’t wake, her hand falling protectively over the creature, instinctive and natural.
I reach for the blanket draped at the end of the couch, shake it out, and cover her carefully. The fabric settles over her shoulders, softening the edges of her bare skin. For a moment, the sight almost feels…right.
I sit there for a moment longer, watching her chest rise and fall, the kitten purring in sync.
Then I force myself up.
Safe. That’s the joke.
Because she isn’t. Not with me. Not with enemies waiting for a weakness. And she’s already wormed her way into being something she shouldn’t be.
I stand, forcing my gaze away, and step back. The room feels too warm, too close. Still, I linger a second longer than I should, staring down at her.
Rounding the couch, I move toward the arch that will lead me into the garden, but just before I’m out the door, my phone rings. Theo.
“What is it?” I answer, keeping my voice low enough not to wake her up.
“I’ve secured the meeting with the Mancinis. They’ve agreed to meet at Di Matteo’s. At nine tonight.”
“Di Matteo’s, the Pizzeria? Tell them that I’ll be there at ten, and not a minute earlier.”
“Right. I’ll let them know. They seem to be the meeting.”
“And they are?” I urge Theo to carry on.
He clears his throat before answering. “No guards. Just you and the don and his brothers. Guns are allowed, but that’s as far as they’ll go when it comes to security.”
Running my hand down the front of my neck, I debate whether to entertain the idea or just flat-out refuse.
But with someone under my protection, I can’t take as many risks as I would if I was here alone.
I turn my head slightly, looking back at where Mara is still sleeping, unaware of the danger that circles this place like a noose.
“Fine,” I mutter under my breath.
Theo confirms with me what I’ve agreed to before ending the call.
Di Matteo’s at ten. Tonight will either end with bloodshed or with the Mancinis standing down the way it’s meant to be.
The weight of my gun sits heavy in my jacket pocket, as familiar as a second spine. By the time I pull up outside Di Matteo’s, the streets are already half-asleep, neon bleeding into the puddles on the cracked sidewalk.
This is neutral ground, but neutral doesn’t mean safe. Every instinct in me says this is a trap. Too easy, too fast, too quiet. But I walk in anyway, because that’s what men like me do: we walk straight into the lion’s den, gun drawn, smile steady.
As I step inside Di Matteo’s, the bell above the door rattles, and the air is filled with the scent of scorched dough and cheap wine.
Three men already wait at the table in the back, their guns gleaming under the low light.
The Mancinis don’t waste time pretending this is anything other than what it is: war dressed as dinner.
Fausto sits in the center, of course. The eldest, if the lines cut into his face are anything to go by.
Broad shoulders fill out his black blazer, the fabric tailored within an inch of its life.
His hair is slicked back, dark and precise, and his jaw is trimmed to perfection, like everything about him has been sharpened for control.
His eyes track me the way a chess master watches the board: calculating, patient, already five moves ahead.
The kind of man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to slit your throat.
On his left sprawls Vittorio, or Vitto. Taller than his brother, leaner, with that wiry restless strength that comes from street fights and bad decisions.
His white shirt is half-unbuttoned, collarbones gleaming under the low light, a cigarette dangling from his mouth like an afterthought.
He grins when he sees me, sharp and mocking, smoke curling around the edges of his smile.
There’s a wildness in his eyes, a volatility that says he’s just waiting for an excuse to flip the table and start shooting.
And then there’s Moreno. The youngest, but no less lethal.
He doesn’t posture, doesn’t smile, doesn’t even lean forward like the others.
He sits back, long legs stretched under the table, jacket open over his broad chest. His dark curls fall loose over his forehead, shadowing a face cut from stone—silent, steady, unreadable.
He doesn’t need theatrics. It’s written in the set of his shoulders, the unblinking weight of his stare.
He’s the kind of man who lets his brothers talk, because when he finally does, the world listens.
Three predators in tailored suits. Each one dangerous in his own way. And together…they look like a storm waiting to break.
I don’t sit. Not yet. Fausto tips his chin, the smallest acknowledgment, like a kind humoring a visiting envoy. His fingers drum lightly against the table near the barrel of the gun gleaming under the low light.
“Esposito.” His tone is smooth, controlled. “You’re late.”
“I’m on time,” I counter flatly, letting my coat shift just enough to show the butt of my Glock. “Which is more than I can say for anyone stupid enough to keep me waiting.”
Vittorio’s grin sharpens. He leans forward, smoke curling from the end of his cigarette, eyes glittering with the kind of amusement that comes from knowing he’s the most dangerous man in the room—or at least believing it.
“Careful, Nicolo. Talk like that, and I might think that you don’t like our company.”
“I don’t,” I say. Simple. Cold.
That earns a low chuckle from him, but Moreno doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He just watches me with the steady stillness of a world biding its time. His silence is louder than his brothers’ words.
Fausto raises a hand, and the room stills. Even Vittorio leans back again, his smirk curling slow and lazy.
“We didn’t agree to a meeting for a dick measuring contest,” Fausto says. “We want peace. But peace requires…cooperation.”
My jaw flexes. I’ve heard this speech a hundred times from a hundred different men, and it always ends the same way: with blood on the floor.
“Peace,” I echo, the word tasting like ash.
“Yes,” Fausto continues, voice silken. “Your little Castello. Your little…guest.” His hazel eyes gleam sharp. “Word spreads fast, Nicolo. The American Camorra doesn’t give away their jewels without reason. So, tell us…what’s she worth to you?”
The air shifts, heavy with tension. Vittorio’s smirk widens, as if he’s already picturing the answer. Moreno finally leans forward, elbows on the table, his gaze pinning me in place like a blade to the throat.
My hand itches for the Glock. My pulse pounds steady, a drumbeat in my chest. They’re watching me. Watching for a sign that I care. They won’t find what they’re looking for.
I let the silence stretch, let them feel the weight of it, before I finally speak.
“She’s worth nothing. To me and to you.” My voice is low, clipped, lethal. The lie tastes like blood in my mouth. “And if you so much as whisper of her again, I’ll make sure the Mancini line ends tonight. Here. On this floor.”
The words hang, thick and cutting.
Vittorio exhales a plume of smoke, grin unfaltering. Moreno studies me like he’s carving my face into memory. And Fausto? He just sits back, his mouth curving into the faintest, coldest shadow of a smile.
“Then I suppose…” he murmurs. “We understand each other.”
The bell over the door rattles again, a sudden intrusion that cuts through the tension like glass shattering. All four of us turn, hands sliding toward our guns in unison.
And that’s when I hear her voice. Bright. Defiant. Out of place in this den of wolves.
“Wow. Cozy little dinner party you’ve got going on.”
My blood turns to fire, and the world tilts. I growl, the sound torn from my chest before I can stop it.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”