Chapter 41 Nicolo
NICOLO
I’m in the library, where the air still smells like leather, dust, and rain-soaked stone. The fire’s burned down to embers, the light low, orange, and unsteady. There’s a half-empty bottle of vodka on the table beside me, condensation running slowly down the glass like time refusing to move.
I’ve been sitting here for hours. Not reading. Not thinking. Just breathing. If you can call this breathing.
This is what happens when you let yourself believe in something more than control, even for a second. It rots the edges. Makes you hesitate. And hesitation gets you killed in my world.
It’s ironic. I’ve survived gunfire, betrayal, and men with knives to my throat. But one girl—one stubborn, reckless girl with eyes too bright for her own good—has managed to take me apart without even trying.
I pour another drink. The burn feels clean. If I drink enough, maybe it’ll scrape her out of me.
The door opens. She doesn’t knock. Of course she doesn’t.
Her reflection catches in the window before I turn. Bare feet, hair loose, wearing that same soft gray sweater she favors when she can’t sleep. Duchess trails behind her, tail flicking, unimpressed as always.
“Mara.” My voice sounds rougher than I intend. “You should be in bed.”
“So should you,” she says quietly, stepping further into the room.
I don’t answer. She closes the door behind her, the latch clicking into place—a soft sound, but it cuts straight through the stillness. The silence stretches until it feels like something alive between us.
She crosses her arms. “You’re just going to sit here and drink until I leave?”
“Seems like a good plan.”
Her lips press together in a small, bitter smile. “You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She takes a slow breath. “Emiliano will be here tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“That’s it?” she asks, voice shaking. “That’s all you have to say?”
“What else is there?”
She stares at me for a long time, and for a moment, I think she might give up. Leave. Walk out like she should have weeks ago.
But she doesn’t.
“Why are you like this?” she whispers.
I look at her then—really look. Her eyes are tired and red-rimmed, her hands clenched at her sides like she’s holding herself together by sheer force.
She looks older tonight. Not in the way of years, but in the way grief ages you.
“Because I have to be.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’ll get.”
Her voice rises and cracks. “I just want to understand, Nicolo! You make it so fucking hard to care about you. You push me, pull me, then act like I’m the one who’s lost my mind.”
I take a drink. “Maybe you have.”
“Stop it.” She steps closer. “Stop hiding behind that wall you built for yourself. I’m not asking you to fix anything. I just need to know why.”
I set the glass down, slow and deliberate. The sound of it against the table is louder than it should be.
“Because this…” I gesture between us. “…was never supposed to happen.”
Her chin trembles. “Then why did you let it?”
“I didn’t.”
“You did,” she insists. “Every time you looked at me like I was something you wanted but couldn’t have, every time you didn’t walk away, every time you touched me like it meant something—”
“Stop.” The word comes out harsher than I mean it. “You don’t understand.”
“Then make me understand,” she says, her voice breaking now. “Because I’ve been trying to, and all I get is silence.”
I drag a hand through my hair and look away. “Because I can’t love you.”
The words land between us like a gunshot. She freezes. I don’t take it back.
“I’m too broken,” I say, quieter now. “Too far gone for something like that.”
She laughs, but it’s not amusement. It’s disbelief, pain wrapped in sound.
“You think I didn’t know that?” She steps closer, tears already gathering in her eyes. “I never asked you to be perfect. I just wanted you to care.”
I can’t look at her.
“Did you ever?” she asks, voice trembling. “Even for a second?”
My jaw tightens. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
The room feels smaller now. The air heavier. I want to tell her the truth: that of course I cared, that I’ve thought of nothing else for days, that every breath since I told her to stay away has hurt.
But if I do, she’ll stay. And if she stays, she’ll get hurt. And I won’t survive that.
So I lie. “No. I never did.”
She stumbles back a little, like I’ve hit her. The tears fall fast now, but she doesn’t make a sound. She just stands there, breathing hard, looking at me like she’s trying to memorize the shape of the wound.
Her knees give out first. She sinks to the floor, her palms pressing against the carpet, shoulders shaking.
“Why?” she whispers, her voice breaking on the word. “Why would you say that?”
“Because you need to hate me,” I say, my voice low. “It’ll make leaving easier.”
She shakes her head, tears running down her cheeks. “You’re lying.”
I don’t answer. That’s enough of an answer.
“God, I hate you,” she says, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “I hate that you make me feel like this.”
“Good,” I mutter. “Hold onto that.”
She looks up at me, eyes bright and furious. “I thought maybe there was more.”
I stare into my glass. “You thought wrong.”
For a long time, neither of us speak. The only sound is the faint crackle of the dying fire and the soft purr of Duchess curling herself around Mara’s leg.
When she finally finds her voice again, it’s small. “My bags are packed.”
I nod once. “And the cat?”
“She’s coming with me.” She sniffles, swiping another tear from her cheek. “Emiliano said he’d take her.”
“Good.”
She looks around the room one last time, eyes landing on the half-empty bottle, the untouched books, and the cold edges of this house.
“I used to think this place was haunted,” she says softly. “But it’s just you.”
I don’t argue.
She stands, wiping the last of her tears with the sleeve of her sweater. When she finally looks at me, there’s something new in her expression. Not anger. Not sadness.
Acceptance.
“Goodbye, Nicolo.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
She turns, walking toward the door, each step slow, deliberate. When she reaches it, she hesitates just long enough for me to almost say her name. Almost.
Then she’s gone. The door closes softly behind her. The kind of soft that hurts more than a slam.
I stay where I am. The fire pops once, a spark flaring before it dies. I pour another drink and stare at it without really seeing.
This is what I wanted. Distance. Control. Safety.
So why does it feel like losing something I never had in the first place?
I lean back in the chair, eyes on the door she just walked through, and wait for the ache in my chest to dull. It doesn’t.
The vodka’s gone before I realize I’ve finished it. My hand’s shaking when I set the glass down, but I don’t care. I close my eyes, and for the first time in years, I feel it: regret. Heavy, slow, relentless.
I warned myself what would happen if I got too close to the flame. I just didn’t expect her to be the one holding it.