Chapter 13 IZZY
IZZY
Idon’t go back to sleep after Nico leaves.
I lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling, the sheets still warm from his body.
My skin still remembers his hands. My thighs still ache the good way.
If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend he’s still here.
That he only stepped out for a minute and will come back, slide under the sheets again, pull me against his chest like he did in the middle of the night.
But the apartment is quiet.
Too quiet.
And the truth sits heavy in my chest.
Last night was amazing. Seven years ago had been amazing too. The same man, the same pull between us, the same feeling like the world had narrowed down to just the two of us and nothing else mattered.
But mornings always tells the truth.
Men like Nico don’t stay. They have more money than they know what to do with and bloodlines to preserve by marrying well.
He has his life. And Noah and I, we have ours.
The thought makes something twist inside my chest, but I push it down. I’ve been pushing things down for years. I can do it again.
Because the one person who matters in all this, is Noah. I can’t keep lying to him anymore.
He’s sitting at the kitchen table when I come out, swinging his legs under the chair while he pokes at a bowl of cereal.
He looks up immediately.
I know this conversation can’t wait any longer.
“Noah,” I say gently.
He looks up again.
“Yeah?”
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
His eyebrows lift a little. “Am I in trouble?”
“No.” I force a small smile. “Nothing like that.”
He relaxes slightly. I take a breath.
“The man you met last night… Nico.”
“Yeah?”
“He’s your father.”
The words sit between us.
Noah blinks.
“That makes sense,” he says after a moment.
I stare at him.
“It does?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “We kinda look alike.”
I laugh weakly, because he’s not wrong.
“But,” I say carefully, “there’s something else you should understand.”
He waits.
“There’s a difference between a father and a dad.”
His spoon pauses halfway to his mouth.
“What’s the difference?”
“A father is the man who helped make you,” I say. “A dad is the man who stays. The one who takes care of you. The one who’s there every day.”
He absorbs that quietly.
“Nico is your father,” I continue. “But he’s not your dad.”
The words taste bitter coming out.
Noah looks down at his cereal for a long moment.
Then he nods.
“Okay.”
My chest tightens.
“You understand?”
“Yeah.”
His voice is calm, but he’s thinking. I can see the wheels turning in his head.
Then he says something that makes my throat burn.
“Maybe, one day, he’ll want to be.”
I look at him. “What?”
“A dad,” Noah says simply. “Maybe, one day, he’ll want to be my dad.”
Hope is a dangerous thing. But it slips into my chest anyway before I can stop it.
“Maybe,” I say quietly.
Then I ruffle his hair and stand up.
“Finish your cereal. We’re going to be late.”
The school lobby smells like disinfectant and crayons.
I hold Noah’s hand while we wait at the front desk like we do every morning. The receptionist recognizes us immediately, but today there’s a strange hesitation in the way she looks at him.
“Good morning,” she says.
“Morning,” I reply.
She glances down at the sign-out sheet, then back up.
“There was… someone asking about him earlier.”
My stomach drops.
“What do you mean?”
“A man stopped by this morning,” she explains. “He said he might be picking Noah up sometimes and wanted to understand the pickup policy.”
My grip on Noah’s hand tightens.
“What man?”
She frowns slightly, trying to remember.
“I’m not sure. Tall. Dark coat. Maybe European?”
Fury claws its way up my throat. Is this what Nico was doing while I explained to his son that he didn’t want to be his dad? Trying to figure out if he could come pick him up sometime in the next decade?
The receptionist notices my expression and quickly adds, “Don’t worry, we didn’t release any information. We told him only parents or approved guardians could pick a child up.”
I nod slowly and breathe. “Good.”
Noah is already halfway toward the classroom when I finally let go of his hand.
I watch him disappear down the hallway.
Then I walk back out into the cold morning air with a knot in my stomach that won’t go away.
Notte Bianca is a mess.
That’s the only way to describe it.
Donald is pacing like a stressed-out chicken the moment I walk in. The kitchen is already behind schedule and the lunch rush hasn’t even started yet.
“Where the hell have you been?” Donald snaps the second he sees me.
“It’s fifteen minutes before my shift.”
“Then you’re too late. Don’t you know we’re short-staffed?”
Yeah? And whose fault is that?
I bite my tongue. Arguing with Donald is like wrestling a pig. The pig enjoys it and you end up covered in mud.
Instead, I slip into my uniform and get to work.
The restaurant fills quickly. Too quickly.
We’re more than short-staffed. Amber called in sick.
Savannah hasn’t been in all week, and according to the rumors, Gerard has left the country after being threatened in the same alley he got his nose broken in.
Half the usual crew has disappeared, and the replacements Donald hired are teenagers who look like they wandered in from a mall food court.
I spend half the day doing my job and the other half doing theirs.
And even with all that, something feels off.
I notice it around the middle of the dinner shift.
Two men are sitting at a table near the bar. They aren’t eating much. They aren’t drinking much either. They’re just watching.
Every now and then one of them glances toward me.
I tell myself I’m imagining things, but the feeling doesn’t go away.
By the time I finally get a break, I’m exhausted. Ready to collapse face-first into concrete and call it a bed.
I push open the staff room door and head straight for my locker.
Then, I stop.
The door is slightly open.
I know I locked it, though.
My stomach tightens. I pull it open slowly.
Everything is still inside. My purse. My spare shoes. My jacket.
But the contents are disturbed.
My bag is sitting at a different angle. The zipper is half open.
Someone has been inside.
I close the locker again, my hands suddenly cold.
Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe someone was looking for supplies. Maybe Dickhead Donald wanted to steal back some of the cash Nico threatened him into giving me.
Maybe I’m just tired.
But the feeling of being watched doesn’t go away.
A week passes like that.
Every night feels worse than the last.
Donald refuses to close the restaurant even though we clearly don’t have the staff to keep up. Customers start complaining. Orders take longer. The new hires make mistakes constantly.
I corner Donald near the kitchen one evening.
“We should close for a few days,” I tell him. “Until we get a full staff again.”
His face turns red.
“Close?” He scoffs. “And lose money?”
“Or lose customers permanently.”
“I’ll take my chances,” he spits. Not seeing Nico around as much anymore has emboldened him into treating me like shit again. Whatever threat he’d gotten shoved down his throat, he clearly needs a repeat performance.
But he hasn’t fucked with my pay again, so that’s something.
He leaves early that night, like he always does, leaving me to handle closing again.
I pull out my phone and call Gabby.
She answers on the third ring.
“What?”
“You’re picking up Noah from daycare,” I tell her. “And staying as late as I need.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I told you I’m sick.”
“You called in sick,” I correct. “But you weren’t.”
“Yes I was! You can’t—”
“If anything had happened to him,” I cut her off calmly, “that would be child endangerment. I would have made sure you got dragged out of whatever warehouse you were letting people snort coke off your ass in—”
“Snort coke? Wha—”
“—in handcuffs.” I smile to myself and make sure she can hear it. “So I’ll ask you again. Are you free today or do I have to call the cops?”
Her tone changes instantly.
“Okay, okay. I’ll stay. No need to freak out.”
“Good.”
“Jesus. You’re crazy, lady.”
I laugh. “You don’t even know the half of it.”
I hang up feeling slightly better. One small victory in a week that feels like hell.
When I finally lock up the restaurant, the place is almost empty. Chairs stacked, lights dimmed, the last of the dishes drying behind the bar. I’m just about ready to heave a sigh of relief and call it a night.
Then I realize one of the men from earlier is still here.
“Sir,” I say as I wipe down the counter. “We’re closing for the night. Can I get you anything for the road?”
He looks up at me. He seems calm, unhurried. Not at all like someone who just realized they were overstaying their welcome at a classy uptown joint.
Then again, he isn’t exactly dressed for it either. His suit is two sizes too big and his shirt looks like it was just yanked out of a department store box.
“No,” he says with a faint Russian accent. “Long night?”
Getting longer every second you’re here. “Something like that.” I keep wiping the bar, hoping he’ll take the hint.
“Got a kid to tuck in?”
My hand pauses on the rag. “What did you just say?”
He shrugs. “Just making conversation. How old?”
“Who?”
“The kid.”
“Don’t have one.” I move down the bar, putting some space between us. “Sir, we really should be closing soo—”
“You ever work at clubs downtown?”
My back stiffens.
For a second, I’m not in this restaurant anymore. I’m seven years younger, music thundering through a hallway, Nico’s hands on my hips.
I shove the memory down. “No.”
“Really.”
Something about the way he says it makes my skin prickle.
I turn back slowly.
“I don’t mean to be rude, sir, but I really have to close.”
He studies me for a moment longer, then smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Good night.”
“Good night,” I croak out.
He leaves.
Only when the door shuts do I slump against the wall.
I finish closing quickly. By the time I step outside, a black sedan is idling at the curb. The guy from the bar throws me one last look, then gets in.
The car pulls away.
I realize my hands are shaking.
I tell myself it’s nothing. Just a weird customer and a long night.
Then I turn the corner and almost walk straight into a wall of black suit and broad shoulders.
I look up—
“Oh.”
—and my eyes meet Nico’s.