27. Nicholas
Nicholas
Nicholas left the apartment with a heaviness in his chest that he couldn't locate precisely enough to address.
He was used to leaving. The night, the deal, the woman—he always moved on without looking back. That was the version of himself he understood. But standing on a Tampa sidewalk at nine in the morning, feeling empty inside, was new to him.
Jim and Dan were by the SUV. Nicholas got straight to it.
"Jim, you drive me to the hotel and then the heliport. Dan—stay here. Keep an eye on Olivia. Lie back; I don't want anyone seeing you watching her."
Dan gave a sharp nod.
Nicholas looked up at the third-floor window for a moment. "I'm not sure how long I want you watching her. Let me talk to my uncle when I get back, and I'll let you know."
He got in the car and didn't look back.
The helicopter ride was loud, and usually the steady thump of the blades helped him clear his mind.
Not today. He opened spreadsheets on his iPad and stared at numbers that meant nothing.
All he could picture was her face in the morning light—tired and beautiful, trying to hide how much she was holding back.
He put the iPad away, watched the water below, and said nothing to anyone.
He was the last to arrive at his grandfather's house.
The smell greeted him at the door: roasted garlic, good wine, and years of Sunday dinners soaked into the walls. The Marino family filled every room with their usual Sunday noise.
His mother found him first.
"Finally, my long-lost son appears." Beverly kissed both his cheeks, her hands on his face, her eyes already reading him with the particular precision of a woman who had been doing it for twenty-nine years.
"I haven't talked to you all week. Did someone kidnap you, or did you just forget your mother? "
Nicholas forced a laugh. "Never, Mom."
Michael appeared at his elbow with a glass of Burgundy extended. The same wine that the uncles were already nursing. Nicholas took it and drank.
"I can use it," he muttered.
Michael's eyes were knowing. "I'm sure."
Dinner was loud and overlapping, just as it always was. It was the familiar, loved chaos of people who knew each other well enough to talk over one another without anyone taking offense. Nicholas ate, nodded, and said just enough to stay part of the conversation without really joining in.
Afterward, Vincent caught his eye and tilted his head toward the lanai.
They walked past the infinity pool to a quiet table near the edge of the property. The evening air was warm and heavy.
"How are things going with Devon and Little Frankie?" Vincent asked. No small talk. Never with Vincent.
"I've been waiting to hear from you," Nicholas said.
"Devon is a spoiled brat who thinks he's somebody," Vincent said, leaning back.
"He did a favor for one of the New York families a while back.
They sent Little Frankie down to set up a real estate scam—it didn't work, but Frankie liked it here and stayed.
He and Devon started running together. Devon pays him as an enforcer for whatever he's into.
" He paused. "They've both been warned to stay away from you and your girlfriend.
If they cross that line, there will be consequences. I think they understand."
Nicholas felt something in his chest loosen—just slightly. "Thank you, Uncle. Do you think I still need someone watching Olivia?"
"I don't think so," Vincent said.
Michael pulled up a chair and joined them. "Did you explain it all?"
Vincent nodded.
Nicholas looked at Michael. "Tell Grant to pull his guys. I left Dan watching Olivia in Tampa."
"I'll take care of it," Michael said.
Vincent stood. The meeting concluded. "I think we need more wine."
The afternoon faded into evening. Nicholas tried to stay present. He moved through the rooms, laughed when he should, and refilled his glass. His mother found him near the bar, staring off into space.
"Nicholas, what's wrong?"
He straightened. "Nothing. Why?"
"I can see it in your face." Her voice softened in that specific way that had always made it impossible to deflect her. "You're here with us, but you're somewhere else. Is there someone else?"
The word hit somewhere unguarded. He wasn't ready to put a name to what was happening inside him—wasn't sure he could, even if he tried. "No."
Beverly looked at him the way she always did, as if she could read what he hadn't said yet and was just waiting for him to catch up.
"Maybe when you're ready to share," she said.
She touched his cheek and walked away, and Nicholas stood at the bar with his wine and said nothing.
His Miami penthouse felt cold when he got back.
He changed into shorts and a T-shirt, poured a single malt scotch, and sank onto the leather sofa.
"Alexa—play light jazz."
He stared at the ceiling and told himself he would think about the Dallas project. The upcoming meetings. The numbers that needed his attention.
By 7:30, he picked up his phone and texted Olivia.
Hey, how has your day been? Are you free to chat?
The reply came within minutes.
Lonely without you here. Yes, I can talk.
He called her, set the phone on his chest, put her on speaker, and kept looking at the ceiling.
"How are you, gorgeous?"
"I'm good. It's lonely here after last week."
"I know," he said. The scotch burned going down. "I miss you too."
"Enough to come back next week?"
He went quiet. The room suddenly felt airless.
"I'm sorry, Nicholas—that's not fair." She said it quickly. "I know you have your business. I'm just feeling lonely and scared."
"It's okay. I understand." He meant it. "Once you talk to Alexandra, I think you'll feel better. Before you know it, this will all be behind you."
A long pause on her end.
"Nicholas—I have to ask you something. Was what we shared one-sided?"
He closed his eyes.
"No," he said. "Not even close." He let that settle before he continued. "I just need some time to sort things out. Process everything that happened. I'm not used to dealing with my own emotions."
"Should I give you some time? You don't have to call me every day. I don't want to feel like a burden."
He sat up fast. "Burden? Olivia, you are anything but." The word landed wrong, almost insulting in how far it was from the truth. "I loved every moment we shared. Every single one. I just need to understand what I'm feeling. It's not about you. It's not about anything you did or said."
"Okay," she said quietly. "Then take the time. I'll wait to hear from you."
"Olivia—if you need anything, anything at all, I'm a phone call away."
"I know, Nicholas." A pause. "I love you. But I'm going to go now. Goodnight."
The line went dead.
He didn't move.
The jazz played softly in the background.
I love you. The words hung in the air of the penthouse, heavy and real, like something he'd been given but didn't know how to handle.
Had he pushed her away? He wasn't sure. All he knew was that his chest felt wrong, and the apartment felt huge, and he hadn't planned for either feeling.
He looked at the Miami skyline through the tall windows. The neon, the noise, and the city kept moving, not caring about what he felt. The hollow ache settled in, as if it meant to stay.
He always had something next—a new deal, a new project, a new goal to focus on. Moving forward had always worked for him. Now he just felt empty, and the emptiness had a shape he recognized.
Her shape.
He picked up his phone. It was late Sunday. He scrolled to the florist's cell number and pressed the call button. The man answered on the second ring.
"I'm sorry to call this late on a Sunday," Nicholas said. His voice came out lower than he'd intended. "But I need something arranged."
"Anything," the florist said. No questions. That was one of the perks Nicholas had long since stopped noticing.
"Two dozen white roses. Long-stemmed. The best you can get." He stood up and moved to the window, looking out at the city. "Delivered tomorrow before noon. To an office in Tampa."
He gave the address. In his mind, he could already see her at her desk, surrounded by them, that specific expression on her face when something surprised her.
"And the card?" the florist asked.
Nicholas pressed his forehead against the cool glass and closed his eyes.
"Write this: I appreciate the time. You're always on my mind. Nicholas."
"I have it."
"Thank you."
He hung up. Tossed the phone onto the couch. Let out a long, unsteady breath.
It wasn't enough. He knew that. But it was the most honest thing he could give her right now, the truth of a man who wasn't ready to say everything he felt but couldn't pretend he felt nothing.
He went to bed and stared at the ceiling for a long time.
The week that followed felt like he was burning through it on purpose.
He filled his calendar on purpose, going to meetings he didn't really need, making site visits he could have skipped, and letting calls run long. He kept moving from the moment he woke up until the cleaning crew arrived at the office, because staying busy was the only way to keep the quiet away.
He thought about her all the time. He picked up his phone and put it down again more times than he would ever admit. The only contact he allowed himself with her all week was a brief text exchange after the roses had been delivered. Her reply was warm and careful, saying less than he knew she felt.
By Friday, he felt like a ghost of himself.
Vince appeared in his office doorway, leaning against the frame with the easy energy of someone who hadn't spent a week fighting their own interior weather.
"You look like you could use a friend," Vince said. "How about that drink we talked about?"
Nicholas rubbed his face. "That's a great idea. Give me time to go home and shower. I'll pick you up at seven."