Chapter 40 Nicolo
NICOLO
Romiro’s name flashes across my screen before I’ve even had my first cigarette. Every time he calls me, something has to go wrong. I answer anyway.
“What?”
He laughs on the other end—that lazy, amused sound that always grates on my nerves. “Good morning to you too.”
“It’s not morning,” I say, lighting the cigarette. The smoke hits my lungs, sharp and grounding. “It’s barely six.”
“Early bird, late demon…whatever you are,” he drawls. “I thought I’d call with some good news.”
“You always say you have good news, and it ends up being mediocre at best.”
“Emiliano confirmed. He’s coming in two days.”
I don’t say anything.
He keeps talking, voice light. “Looks like you’ll finally get rid of your houseguest. I bet you’re counting the hours.”
I take a slow drag and exhale through my nose. “Is that all?”
“Come on,” he says. “Don’t tell me you’re not relieved.”
My hand tightens around the cigarette. Ash drops onto the floor beside my desk.
“I’m not discussing this.”
“Touchy,” he says, mock sympathy dripping from every syllable. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re actually going to miss her.”
“Romiro.”
“What?” He laughs again. “You’ve been complaining about her since she showed up. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
I close my eyes for half a second. “Do you ever shut the fuck up?”
“Not when it’s this entertaining.” A pause, then softer, “Look, I’m serious. You did your part. Made sure she was safe, kept your hands off her. That’s the job. You start caring, that’s when you lose. You know that.”
I grind out the cigarette in the ashtray, jaw tight. “I’m not you.”
“No,” he says. “You’re worse.”
He hangs up before I can respond. Typical.
The silence after the call is worse than the conversation itself.
It fills the room like smoke, heavy and choking.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling, trying to remember what it felt like before all this started.
Before she walked into my life like a fucking storm and made a mess of things I’d spent years keeping in order.
Two days. That’s all that’s left.
Two days, and she’ll be gone. Safe. Out of my reach. Out of my control.
It should be a relief. It isn’t.
The phone buzzes again, this time with a calendar alert: a meeting I’d already forgotten about.
Business. The one thing I can still manage without letting it bleed.
I get up, straighten my tie, and leave before I can think myself into something I’ll regret.
By the time I reach the meeting room, the rain’s stopped. The sun’s trying to break through the clouds, the light cutting clean lines across the polished floor.
The clients are already there: two men I’ve worked with before, Paolo Ricci and his partner, Dima Rinaldi. Both talk too much, drink too much, and think money makes them untouchable.
I sit at the head of the table. “You’re early.”
“Always a good sign,” Ricci says with that fake grin people wear when they’re about to try something stupid. “Means we’re eager.”
I don’t return it. “Then let’s make this fast.”
We start talking numbers. Figures. Percentages.
It’s supposed to be simple. I’ve done this a thousand times: sit, negotiate, agree, move on. But halfway through Ricci’s pitch, I realize I haven’t heard a single word he’s said.
All I can hear is her voice. All I can see is the look on her face when she told me I was a coward.
She wasn’t wrong.
I blink and focus. “Your numbers are off.”
Ricci chuckles. “No, they’re not.”
“They are.” My voice stays even, but there’s an edge to it I don’t bother hiding. “You’re lowballing me.”
“It’s called negotiation, Esposito.”
“It’s called wasting my time.”
The room shifts—a small ripple of tension.
Rinaldi clears his throat. “We’re all friends here.”
“No, we’re not,” I say. “We’re businessmen. Don’t mistake one for the other.”
Ricci leans back in his chair, smug. “You never change. Always about putting yourself first.”
I meet his gaze. “That’s what makes me a businessman.”
“Or maybe it makes you a shark.” He smirks, the kind of smile that makes me want to break something. “But even sharks need pretty distractions. Word gets around, Nicolo. Heard you’ve been keeping company.”
My jaw tightens. “Careful.”
He raises a brow, mock innocence all over his face. “What? Just saying, everyone needs a hobby.”
The sound that leaves me isn’t a laugh. “You have two seconds to take that back.”
“Oh, come on,” he says. “Don’t tell me she’s gotten under your skin.”
The glass in my hand hits the table harder than I mean it to. He flinches.
Good.
I stand. “We’re done here.”
Rinaldi tries to diffuse it, voice too calm. “Nicolo—”
“No,” I cut him off. “You want to talk business, come back when you remember how to keep your mouth shut.”
Ricci’s smirk fades, replaced by something that almost looks like fear. “You’re making a mistake.”
“Wouldn’t be my first. Get out.”
They go. Fast. The door slams behind them, the sound echoing down the hall.
I drop back into the chair, the adrenaline burning off almost immediately. My pulse is still too high. My hands ache from how hard I clenched the glass. I look down; there’s a crack running through it, fine but deep, right down the middle.
Perfect.
I reach for another cigarette, light it, and inhale until the burn settles low in my chest. It doesn’t help.
I’ve just blown a deal worth millions because some idiot said her name without saying it.
Because I can’t stand the idea of anyone talking about her. Because I’m weak.
The thought makes me laugh, quiet and humorless. I used to pride myself on control. On precision. Now a woman half my size can undo me with a look.
And she’s leaving. In two days.
I lean back, run a hand through my hair, and stare out the window at the garden. It’s the same view from my office: the one she used to stand at, barefoot, half-awake, staring out like she was waiting for the world to end.
I wonder if she’s doing that now. Counting down the hours like I am.
Romiro was right. I’m worse.
I should be glad. I should be celebrating. I should be relieved that soon I won’t have to see her, smell her perfume on every goddamn surface, or remember the sound she makes when she laughs.
Instead, I’m thinking about how quiet this house will feel without her. How empty.
I crush the cigarette in the ashtray and pour another drink. The whiskey hits the back of my throat, warm and mean.
It’s not enough. None of it ever is.
By the time I make it back to the Castello, it’s dark again. The air feels different, heavier somehow. I know I should head straight to my room, but my feet take me down the corridor instead. Past her door. I stop before I can stop myself.
Light spills from the gap under it. I can hear movement inside. Soft footsteps. A drawer closing. She’s packing.
I stand there for too long, staring at that thin line of light, jaw tight. My hand almost reaches for the doorknob—almost—but I stop before I touch it. I have no right.
She’s leaving because I told her to. Because I made it impossible for her to stay.
I turn away and head back to my office. The glass I cracked this morning is still on the desk, a small dark stain from the whiskey I spilled earlier marking the wood. I pick it up and turn it over in my hand, studying the fracture line.
It runs clean through the center, neat and final. Like everything else in my life.
I throw it into the trash and pour another. The phone buzzes again. Romiro. I consider ignoring it, but I don’t.
“You look like shit,” he says the second I answer. “Just thought I’d remind you.”
“Thanks.”
“Rinaldi called me. Said you blew the deal.”
“I did.”
“You planning to explain?”
“No.”
He sighs. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be the calm one, you’ve been real unpredictable lately.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. You’re cracking. I can hear it.”
I don’t respond.
“You know what your problem is?” he continues. “You started to care. You let her in. And now she’s leaving and you don’t know what to do with yourself.”
“Enough.”
“You should thank me,” he says, ignoring me completely. “In forty-eight hours, this whole thing will be over. You’ll be free.”
I hang up.
The silence that follows feels heavier than before.
Free. That’s what this is supposed to be.
Except it doesn’t feel like freedom. It feels like loss.
And I don’t lose. Not people. Not control. Not myself.
I take another drink and stare out the window again. She’s somewhere in this house. Probably pacing, probably angry, probably hurting because I made her. And I know I should let her. Let her hate me enough that leaving feels like relief.
But part of me wants to walk down that hallway, knock on her door, and tell her the truth. Tell her that it wasn’t indifference that made me cold. It was fear. That every time I looked at her, I saw a future I couldn’t afford to want.
And that the worst part of all this isn’t losing her. It’s knowing she’ll never know why.