Chapter 8 Bambalina
Bambalina
I almost bounce off the doorframe when I see Nicolò standing in the kitchen with a smile on his face and two coffees in his hands.
I’m still bleary-eyed from a long sleep and unsure whether it’s morning, afternoon or the middle of the night.
The numbers on the clock suggest the eleventh hour. The light outside suggests daytime.
Normally, mornings in this house mean stone cold silence, or the sound of Papa and Antonia leaving the house, not Nicolò actually being here, awake and… pleased to see me?
“Cappuccino,” he says, sliding a mug toward me like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
I freeze mid-step, suspicion prickling my skin. “Uh… thanks?”
“Don’t look so shocked. I am capable of making coffee for other people you know. Including my little sister.”
His voice cracks halfway through the word ‘sister,’ but it still makes something warm stir in my chest. Antonia must have spoken to him.
I knew I shouldn’t have told her how he treats me.
First, he’s bathing my hand and wrapping it in a dressing, and it was only a cut, and now he’s making me coffee?
It’s like he’s had a character lobotomy.
I sit tentatively, half-expecting the bar stool to explode if I put my weight on it. Something about the way he’s standing and the way he’s looking at me feels too intense. When I’m satisfied my ass isn’t going to be blown up, I wrap both hands around the warm mug.
“Why are you still here?” I ask, focusing on the steam rising from the mug instead of his forearms resting on the counter. “You’ve usually left for work by now.”
He waits until I lift my gaze to his before he answers. “I’m interviewing gardeners for your father.”
My brows knit in confusion. “We already have a gardener.”
He tips his hot espresso down his throat without so much as a wince. This man is made of asbestos. “Not anymore we don’t.”
We. Wow, he’s making an effort.
My chest tightens. “What happened?”
“Broke all his fingers, his wrist. Whole arm basically,” he replies with a shrug. “Not much gardening you can do one-handed.”
I watch his mouth for any suggestion there’s more to it than a random accident. I know Papa hasn’t been impressed with our gardener of late but there’s no way he’d have hurt him.
Something pulls at the edge of Nicolò’s lips and a shadow falls over my awareness. Nicolò did it. Nicolò broke the gardener’s arm.
“Why?” I ask, quietly.
“Why what? Why did he break his arm? Probably to get out of doing actual work.”
My eyes narrow. I’m not fooled that easily, but neither do I particularly care about laboring an accusation. Especially when Nicolò sits back on his stool and parts his thighs, casually.
I glance down at the coffee and take a slow, concentrated sip.
“So, who was the kid who ripped off your schoolwork?”
I swallow the coffee too fast and nearly choke. “I’m sorry?”
His eyes dance with dark promise, as though revenge is what he lives for. It probably is.
“If I remember correctly, you had two choices of target to aim the barrel of your gun at in the shooting range…”
I cringe.
“Me… or a kid who stole your work and passed it off as his own, right?”
I glance up to see his eyes sparkling, and huff out a taut breath. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh really?” His nonchalant tone has a threatening edge. “So you’re going to let this guy get away with it and believe he can continue ripping off peoples’ work? That’s how criminals are made.”
I arch a brow. “Is it now?”
“Tell me his name and I’ll make sure he doesn’t run so fast in gym class anymore.”
Despite myself, a laugh escapes. “That won’t be necessary, but thanks. I can handle Taylor myself.”
Nicolò tilts his head before swiping open his phone. “Taylor… Parker.”
Huh? “How do you know his last name?”
This is exactly the reason I haven’t made a big deal about Taylor’s behavior.
If anyone in my extended family knew what he’s been doing, he’d be a dead man.
And I wouldn’t be able to survive with his death or injury on my conscience.
I’ll be leaving that school anyway soon.
I can deal with the bullying a little while longer if it means no one gets hurt.
He doesn’t look up from his phone. “I’ve done my homework.”
My chest starts to thump. “And what do you plan to do with your findings?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“You can’t hurt him, Nicolò,” I say, straightening. “That would be ridiculous.”
And… he wouldn’t. Would he?
“Why did he fuck you over like that anyway?” He asks this while his fingers dance smoothly across his phone screen.
I swallow, unsure how honest to be. But something tells me that if I glaze over the facts, Nicolò will find a way to entice the truth out of me. “Because I said no.”
His lids lift and his gaze meets mine with an unexpected edge. “No to what?”
“A date. He asked me out, I said no, and now he’s… well, hating on me.”
“What do you mean?”
I shift uneasily on the kitchen stool and divert my gaze to anything that isn’t him. “You know… Saying stuff on Instagram, spreading false rumors, making me out to be some kind of slut.”
Silence weighs on the air around us, heavier than the steam curling out of my mug. I risk a glance at him. His jaw is tight, his brows dipped and his shoulders tense. For a second I imagine he might actually track Taylor down and do something… permanent.
My words rush out. “It’s okay. I’ve survived worse.”
He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile. But he gives a single nod in reply, and I can’t help but think he’s storing this information up for using later.
“Okay, fine. Still. If he keeps running his mouth, let me know.”
This is the stepbrother I always wanted. Someone who’d come to my defense should I ever need it. A smile begins to lift my lips, then stops when his gaze burns into me, reminding me that a good stepbrother would never make me wet between the legs.
When I return to my room, I feel hot—everywhere. And it isn’t because I just drank the first coffee Nicolò has ever made me.
I didn’t think he was the kind of person who’d actually research the name of the guy who plagiarized my work, let alone threaten to kneecap him. And I’m confused as to why he’s suddenly behaving like this toward me.
For the last six months he’s treated me like I don’t exist. And now he’s dressing my wounded hand, making me coffee and threatening to harm people who’ve betrayed me.
As much as I hate Taylor for what he’s done, I genuinely fear for his safety. Nicolò is a made man. He nails hands to walls. He brings body parts home. Parts that belong to people who’ve perhaps done less damage than Taylor Parker has.
I should have rolled my eyes and told him to leave it alone. I should have written it off as Antonia twisting his arm. But when he leaned across the counter and asked why Taylor was being a jerk, and I told Nicolò the truth, he looked like he wanted to break the internet with his bare hands.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
I swear I felt a faint note of anger on the edge of his tongue. His reaction felt like more than protection. It felt like ownership.
Like I belong to him.
And that thought lights me up more than Taylor Parker’s demise ever could.