Chapter 45 Nicolo
NICOLO
The morning starts with silence and ends with noise. In between, there’s work. There’s always work.
I’m at my desk before sunrise, cigarette burning low in the tray, papers spread out like a map of mistakes waiting to be signed. Numbers blur. The light outside shifts from blue to gold. I don’t notice until my phone buzzes for the third time in ten minutes.
Romiro
What the fuck did you do?
Alessia’s been cursing you for two hours straight. You’d better look both ways before crossing the road.
She said, and I quote, “Tell that brooding bastard he’s lucky geography is keeping me from breaking his face.”
I stare at the screen. The cigarette burns out on its own. Another message blinks through before I can type a reply.
Romiro
You alive, or am I talking to your ghost?
I text back.
Me
Working.
The dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Romiro
So you’re not denying you did something.
I toss the phone onto the desk and stand. The window behind me catches the morning glare, throwing light across the glass shelves. Empty bottles. Old books. Too many reminders of things that used to mean something.
When the phone buzzes again, I pick it up, exhale through my nose, and answer.
“What?!”
Romiro laughs. “Good to hear your charming voice too, big bro.”
“I’m busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
A pause. I can hear the muffled noise of traffic behind him.
“You gonna tell me what you did to piss Alessia off this bad? Because she’s been pacing our apartment like she’s planning a murder. And considering who she’s engaged to, I’d say she’s fully capable.”
I rub a hand over my jaw. “She’s emotional.”
“She’s pissed,” he corrects. “And when Alessia’s pissed, there’s usually a reason that starts with a name. In this case, yours.”
I don’t answer.
He hums. “Let me guess. Something to do with a certain Folonari?”
“Stay out of it.”
“That’s not a denial.”
“Romiro.”
He laughs under his breath. “You’re predictable, Nic. You disappear, drown yourself in work, and then act surprised when your name ends up on Alessia’s hit list. What did you do? Tell Mara something stupid?”
“I told her the truth.”
“Which was?”
“That she needs to stay away from me.”
He whistles low. “Ah. Classic Nicolo Esposito. Pushes everyone away, blames the weather.”
“Romiro—”
“Don’t Romiro me. You think I don’t know how you sound right now? You sound like a man trying to convince himself he’s not in love.”
The silence that follows feels heavier than it should. I glance down at the glass of vodka beside the papers, half-full, sweating against the wood. My reflection in it looks like a stranger.
Finally, I say, “Love doesn’t factor into this.”
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”
Something in his tone digs deeper than I want it to. I look out the window, past the skyline, past the city that never stops breathing.
“What’s she said?” I ask.
“Who? Alessia?”
“Mara.”
He chuckles, and the sound isn’t kind. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Romiro.”
“She’s not my fiancée, Nic. You don’t get updates through me.”
“Romiro.”
He sighs. “Fine. You want the truth? She’s not talking much. She’s quiet. Alessia says she looks tired. Valentina says she looks lost. Eli’s parading her around like she’s already wearing a ring. And from what I’ve heard, she’s playing along.”
My grip on the glass tightens. “Playing along.”
“Yeah.” A pause. “You know, for a guy who prides himself on control, you sure look like hell when you lose it.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re a fucking liar.”
The words hang between us. He doesn’t apologize. I don’t ask him to.
Then, more quietly, he says, “They’ve started the fittings.”
My jaw locks. “Already?”
“Vera Chernov’s in town. She’s running the show. You remember her. The one who thinks marriage is a business contract with lace attached.”
“She’s not wrong.”
“Stop pretending you agree with her.”
I don’t answer. The silence stretches long enough for him to sigh again.
“Listen,” he says. “I’m not here to give you advice.
God knows you don’t take it anyway. But if you’re going to sit in that fancy office of yours pretending you don’t care while the woman you actually give a damn about gets married off to some Eastern Bloc sociopath, you might as well at least be honest with yourself. ”
“You finished?”
“Not even close.” His tone hardens. “I know you think this is your way of keeping her safe, but you’re killing her. This…” He pauses, like he’s deciding whether to say the next part. “You will regret this.”
I take a slow breath. “You done lecturing me?”
He huffs a laugh. “For now.”
I pour another drink, clear liquid splashing against the glass. “Why’d you really call?”
“Wanted to know if you’re coming to the wedding.”
I almost laugh. “You’re joking.”
“I’m serious.”
“You think I’d sit in a church watching her say vows to another man?”
Romiro’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Maybe you should.”
“Why?”
“So you can finally admit what the rest of us already know.”
“Which is?”
“That you love her.”
The word sits heavy. Foreign.
I swirl the glass in my hand, watch the liquid catch the light. “Love’s a liability.”
“So is regret.”
I drag a hand through my hair. “I’m not coming.”
“I figured.”
There’s a pause.
Then, softer, “You know, for a guy who’s spent half his life trying to erase his past, you sure let one woman rewrite all of it.”
I don’t reply. I can’t.
He exhales. “All right. I’ll let you go, Mr. Esposito. Try not to break anything expensive.”
Before he can hang up, I say, “Romiro.”
“Yeah?”
I stare at the glass. At the faint reflection of the man I’ve become: cold, detached, built entirely out of choices I stopped believing were right.
“I need a favor.”
The line goes still.
He knows that tone. It’s the one that comes before everything burns. There’s a rustle on the other end. The sound of him moving, stepping away from wherever he is.
“What kind of favor?”
“The kind that doesn’t end well if I ask twice.”
A low exhale. “You sure about this?”
I don’t answer.
He swears under his breath. “Jesus, Nicolo. You really unwilling to admit it out loud?”
“Do I ever?”
There’s another long pause. I can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose, weighing loyalty against sense. It’s not the first time I’ve made him do it.
Finally, he says, “Fine. Tell me what you need.”
“I will,” I say. “Soon.”
“You planning on doing something stupid?”
“Probably.”
He sighs, resigned. “You always were predictable.”
“Keep your phone close.”
“I always do.”
The line clicks dead. I set the glass down and look out the window again.
The sky’s dark now, rain threatening. In the distance, lightning flashes—white, quick, gone. There was a time I thought storms like this could wash things clean.
Now I know better. They just remind you what’s already broken.
I light another cigarette, watch the smoke curl up toward the ceiling, and think about the only person who ever made this place feel less like a cage.
Mara Folonari.
Sooner or later, I’ll have to see her again. Whether it kills me or saves me…that’s still up for debate.
But one thing’s certain: I’m not done.