Chapter 20 Bambalina
Bambalina
I’m halfway through an episode of Suits when I hear a glass smash somewhere downstairs.
Papa and Antonia retired to their room hours ago, so I know it wasn’t them.
Nicolò seems to be working round the clock at the moment, so it’s unlikely to be him.
Maybe it’s Tess? My heart beats to a happy rhythm as I turn off the TV and head downstairs.
When I round the corner to the kitchen, my mouth falls open. Nicolò is standing over the island, stabbing at his phone with a finger, and swaying.
Two wine glasses lie on their sides across the island. One is intact, the other a curl of glistening ruin. He looks up at the sound of me entering and scowls at me like I’m the last person he wants to see.
“Go back to bed,” he says with the hint of a slur.
My heart pulses at his rudeness and I walk toward the island to clean up his mess. His gaze follows me, driving in deep when I look up. “You’re drunk.”
“You’re a virgin.” He spits out the words like an insult, pulling me up short.
“You’re observant,” I manage, my breaths short.
He barks out a laugh. A nasty, bitter, abrasive laugh. “You wouldn’t know it by observing.” He drags out the last word until his meaning perforates my skull and my patience.
I stop at the kitchen island and rake a disgusted gaze over him. “Are you saying I dress ‘easy’?”
Another barked laugh. “Ha. I wouldn’t say anything about you is easy, Bambalina.”
I get the strange and uncomfortable feeling he’s talking in code. He has something he wants to say—needs to say—and he’s not saying it.
“Well, you’re in a good mood. What’s your problem, Nicolò?”
He lifts his gaze and instead of it swimming, it digs into me, like he resents the very fact I exist. “You,” he sneers. “You’re my fucking problem.”
As I step back in shock, something sharp slices into my foot.
I hiss a breath in through my teeth. “Ow, shhhhhiit.”
When I lift my foot, a single, thick line of blood runs down the sole and drips onto the black and white tile.
Nicolò’s face changes in a single, animal instant. The drunken vacancy has gone, replaced by something urgent and possessive. He rounds the island fast.
He’s careful when he catches my ankle, his fingers sure despite the drunken tremor in his hands. He bends to look at the gash in my foot.
“Jesus.” His voice is thick with guilt. “Hold still.”
I grip the island with both hands and grit my teeth as he gently tugs at the shard of glass wedged in my foot.
I hardly dare to look as he holds it up. The clear slice of glass glistens with blood as it catches on the security lights beaming in through the windows.
He straightens his legs and drops the glass in the trash, then he lifts me at the waist and sits me on the island. I blink when he switches on the light.
“I need to check there are no small splinters in there.”
He walks over to where he’s thrown his jacket over a stool and pulls out a small case. Popping it open, he pulls out a pair of glasses and slides them over his nose. My eyes almost pop out of my head.
“You wear glasses?”
He bends again to study the wound. “Contacts usually. But I’ve worn them for forty-eight hours straight. My eyes need a break.”
He doesn’t sound drunk anymore. He sounds sharpened, like something’s shocked him sober.
“Do you know if the first aid supplies in the utility have been replenished?”
I shrug. “Probably not. Why?”
“Because I used the last dressing on your hand.”
“Oh.” I stare at the blood. It’s dripping onto the floor. A queasier person would have fainted by now.
“I can get a towel.” I’m about to hop off the counter when he tears off his shirt, winds it into a long strip and starts wrapping it around my foot.
“Wait—”
He looks up. “What?”
I swallow at the sight of his marbled chest, glistening with sweat. “That must have cost you a few hundred dollars.”
“Try a few thousand,” he mutters, tying it into a knot.
My skin prickles at the thought he just wasted a few thousand dollars on my bloody foot. When he stands again, he presses his hands into the surface of the island at the side of me and drops his head.
I remain still and unnerved by the silence, then in one swift movement, he sweeps the broken glass into his cupped hand and lets it fall into the trash.
When he returns, he doesn’t look me in the eye, but he stands close with his head tilted to the ceiling.
“What did you mean?” I whisper.
He doesn’t respond but he knows what I’m asking.
A couple of minutes pass.
“Nicolò… What did you mean when you said I’m your problem?”
His body moves in a silent laugh and he shakes his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
That reply pisses me off because it doesn’t answer my question, but something about the way he’s standing makes me think the fight has left him and, in a way, he’s almost as broken as the glass.
The words come out as a plea. “Try me.”
When he lowers his head there’s a looseness to his features, like someone’s pulled at a thread and he’s slowly coming undone.
His gaze drops to my flushed cheeks, and drags over my bottom lip and the teeth I’ve caught it between. Then he begins to slowly shake his head. There’s a shift in the air. A tension lifting, warmth radiating. I wish I knew what he was thinking.
Beneath the glasses, his eyes are burned around the edges, narrowing just slightly as he takes me in. I’m so consumed by how close he is and how raw and honest this moment feels, I jump a little at the touch of his palm slipping around my nape.
His thumb presses lightly beneath my ear, against my pulse, and I flush knowing how fast it is racing. Time stands still as I wait for him to do something.
But he doesn’t. He just lets his eyes roam me. They appear anguished. Desperate, even. There’s no smile, no lightness, and the fizz in the air has quieted to a heavy thrum. Waiting.
His gaze falls and his breath heats my lips. It tastes of red wine and bad company. I’ve never been so close to my brother, and in this moment, he doesn’t feel like my brother at all.
He’s Nicolò Di Santo, a lethal mafia boss who cracks bones with the same bare hand he has wrapped around my neck.
He punctures eyeballs with the fingers he’s pushing up through my hair.
These thoughts should make me feel ill, but as I’m fast discovering, nothing about Nicolò makes me feel ill. It just makes me despicably hot.
The way he’s looking deeply into my eyes is terrifying, because that’s not an ordinary look. That’s the look of madness.
And I realize, with haunting clarity, I want to drive him mad.
My breasts feel heavy, my nipples tight. It wouldn’t take much for him to brush against them, and I wouldn’t be able to stop a moan.
So, God help me.
As if he’s heard my prayer, the air between us grows frigid. Nicolò is standing three paces away and I’m gripping the edge of the island gasping for breath.
We stare at each other for a long moment. He reaches up and wipes a thumb over his lips as if my own had been right there.
“What was that?” I whisper.
He tips his head back and gazes down at me through lowered lids. “Nothing,” he replies, with an air of finality. “That was nothing. I’m just drunk.”
Then he turns around and walks out of the kitchen leaving me with an ache between my legs and a foot wrapped in a very expensive shirt.