Chapter 16
Nicole
"Can't we just have a bit of space to walk?" I plead quietly, turning to Raffaele, who walks just a few steps behind us. His presence is a constant reminder of the life we've been thrust into.
Raffaele's eyes narrow slightly, his expression stern but not unkind. "You can walk a few feet ahead, but don't go too fast, and don't stare at anyone for too long. Understand?"
"Okay," I respond softly, trying to keep my voice steady. I don't want Gio to hear the desperation in my tone; he's scared enough as is. I squeeze his hand gently and take a few steps forward, separating us from Raffaele.
"Isn't that better, buddy? Just the two of us," I say, smiling as I look down at Gio.
He nods, a small smile spreading across his face. "Yeah, I like it better," he says, his voice still hinting at the childlike innocence I'm so desperate to protect.
It's been two weeks since our parents died, and in that time, Gio has barely spoken a word on his own. I know he misses them—our home, his school, his friends. But what we both miss most is our freedom. Raffaele and his men monitor every step we take and scrutinize every move. I can't help but wonder how much of this is truly for our safety and how much is about keeping me under control.
Today is a rare break from our enforced solitude. We've ventured outside the compound to a nearby town. The sun is shining, and the people around us seem friendly and uninterested in who we are or why we're here. Gio is smiling for the first time in what feels like forever. It should be a moment of relief, but the weight of Raffaele's gaze from behind keeps me anchored to reality. One of his men trails just a few feet behind him, while another waits in the driver's seat of an SUV parked nearby, ready to whisk us away at a moment's notice.
The city is small and picturesque, with the market square at its heart, bustling with vendors selling fruits, dresses, and trinkets. Locals walk together, chatting and laughing, eating cannoli, and enjoying the summer weather. It's the kind of place people come to for a vacation, to escape the worries of their everyday lives.
The market square is alive with the scents of ripe fruit, warm bread, and the salty sea. Walking with Giovanni, I bask in the gentle warmth of the sun as we navigate the cobblestone streets. We pass by a grape vendor with a wrinkled face and a friendly smile who hands us two large purple grapes.
"Thank you," I say, returning his smile, trying to seem as natural as possible. I hand one to Gio and watch as he pops it into his mouth. "What do you think?" I ask him.
"It's so fresh and sweet," he replies, and I see his eyes light up. These are the moments I work so hard to make for him. I only hope they bring him some joy to the darkness our family has left us in.
The surrounding crowds are dense, the chatter providing a comforting background noise, helping to distract me from the anxiety gnawing at my insides. I scan the faces in the crowd, searching for anyone who might be looking at us too intently, anyone who could pose a threat. I make sure Raffaele is still visible, trailing behind us like a shadow.
I make an effort to appear like an ordinary sister taking my little brother to the market on a sunny Sunday afternoon. However, I can't shake the feeling of unease, and my heart races whenever someone approaches us or stares for too long.
We make our way through the market square, the cobblestones worn smooth. The backdrop is a row of two-story villa houses, their faded pastel facades bathed in sunlight. Farther down the hill, the road curves gently toward the sea, where more houses are nestled along the coastline. The clear blue shimmering water of the beach is visible in the distance, beckoning to us like a far-off dream.
"Do you think we could go to the beach later?" Gio asks, his voice filled with hopefulness.
"I don't know, G. I'll ask Raffaele, but don't get your hopes up, okay?" I keep my tone gentle, not wanting to dampen his spirits.
We cross a road to another line of vendors when I suddenly feel a hand grip my arm. Instinctively, I push Gio away, my heart pounding. But when I look, I see Raffaele; his expression is tense and severe.
"We need to go. Now," he says, his voice low and full of urgency. He starts walking faster, pulling me along with him, and I drag Gio with us, quickening my pace.
I glance over my shoulder and spot an older man with a beard, dressed in all black, hurrying toward us. Gio squeezes my arm tighter.
"Don't look back," Raffaele orders, his voice steely. He lightly shoves us off the main street and into a narrow alley, his pace increasing to a light jog. The footsteps behind us grow louder, and I know the man is still in pursuit. Raffaele pulls out his pistol and cocks it, his movements swift and practiced.
We reach a corner, and Raffaele pushes us to the side, out of view. He turns and fires a shot down the alley. I hear other gunshots echoing farther back, and I wonder if they're from our pursuer or one of Raffaele's men who might have gotten the drop on him.
We wait in tense silence until the SUV comes speeding around the corner. It screeches to a halt in front of us, and Raffaele shoves us into the backseat, climbing in behind us. As we pull away, I catch a glimpse of the alley, where the man who was following us now lies still and lifeless between the narrow walls.
The drive back is silent, the weight of what just happened pressing down on all of us. Raffaele doesn't even bother to look at us. After what he's just done or seen, his cold, emotionless expression is truly the scariest thing I've ever seen. Gio clings to my side, his earlier smile completely gone, replaced by the hollow look he's worn since our parents died. I wrap my arms around him, trying to offer comfort, but I'm just as shaken.
The brief taste of freedom we had in the market square is gone, replaced once again by the cold reality of our situation. And as much as I want to protect Gio and give him some semblance of a normal life, I know that as long as Raffaele is in control, normalcy is a luxury we can't afford.
All these years later, the memory is still as vivid as ever—the smell of the ocean air, the terror on Giovanni's face, the echo of bullets ringing through the alleyway. It still gets my heart racing and my hands trembling. I can only imagine what Giovanni has endured all these years without me. What have they done to him? Is he still the sweet, innocent boy I left behind with promises of a home far away from all of it? Does he resent me for not coming back sooner? Would I even recognize him now?
I can't reach my contacts anymore. If I offer them cash, they might answer the phone. It's driven me to Shane's office. I stand outside his door, hesitant. I can hear his voice as he makes his usual morning calls. He's busy, working even on his day off, and here I am, about to interrupt him. My hand hovers over the doorknob, ready to turn and walk away. But then Gio's face flashes in my mind—the man with the beard lying dead in the alley.
No , I tell myself firmly. He needs me.
I turn back and knock on the door three times.
"Come in," Shane calls out. He gives me a warm smile as I enter, then holds up a single index finger, mouthing the words, "One sec."
I nod and stand, waiting.
"I'll call you back. Thanks again, Oliver." He hangs up the phone and turns his attention to me, a welcoming grin on his face. "Hey," he says. "What's up?"
"I..." I hesitate, but before I can continue, he speaks.
"You look gorgeous, by the way," he adds, his voice softening.
I blush and smile. "Thank you, Shane. I hate to ask, but I really need another advance. I know it's only been a few weeks since the last one..."
"Done. Just tell me how much you need, Nicole. It's done."
"Really? Thank you, Shane. Two months should do. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. You're more than I could ever ask for," I say, my voice thick with genuine gratitude.
"You're more than Jaime and I could ever ask for. You're a part of this household now, a part of our lives. Don't hesitate to tell us if you need anything or have any problems. I want you to feel safe and confident in that," Shane says, his words sincere.
I can sense his desire for me to trust him and to open up about everything. He's too intelligent not to be curious, and I know he's holding back from asking why I need the money. But I can't tell him—not yet. I need to keep them safe.
"Is there anything else?" Shane asks.
"No," I shake my head. "I need to make Jaime's lunch. Sorry to disturb you. Thank you again, Shane." I walk over and kiss him on the cheek, then turn to leave.
"Nicole," he calls out as I grasp the doorknob.
My heart skips a beat. I knew it was too easy. He wants to know why, and if I'm going to get the money, I'll need to give him some explanation.
"Yes?" I say, turning around, already searching for a plausible excuse.
"I think I'll join you for lunch. Is that okay?" he asks, his voice light with no trace of suspicion.
"Of course, Shane. You're always more than welcome," I reply, relieved.
"Great," he says, standing up and walking toward the door with me. I open it, and he follows me downstairs to the kitchen.
Jaime is right where I left him, playing with his iPad at the dining table.
"Uncle Shane's joining us for lunch, bud," I say excitedly.
"Yay!" Jaime exclaims, his face lighting up as he looks up from his game just long enough to smile at us. Then he's back to the screen, his fingers moving deftly over the device.
As I start pulling out ingredients for lunch, Shane leans against the counter, his eyes still on Jaime. "How do you think I'm doing? You know, as a parent? As his guardian?" Shane asks, his voice holding a hint of uncertainty.
"Aww, Shane. Are you concerned you're not doing well?" I reply, surprised by the vulnerability in his tone.
"Sometimes, yeah. It's just... a lot different than I thought it would be. I wonder if I'm doing enough... or too much."
I glance over at him, taken aback by his openness. Shane isn't the type to doubt himself often, especially when it comes to Jaime. But there's a sincerity in his voice that makes me pause.
"Shane," I say, choosing my words carefully, "you've done an amazing job with him. He's a happy, well-adjusted kid, and that's a reflection of you. You're not just his uncle; you're his rock. And... well, any future girlfriend of yours will feel like a queen with how much care you put into everything you do."
Shane looks at me, a flicker of something I can't quite place passing over his face. "Future girlfriend?" he repeats, as if testing the words on his tongue.
"Yeah..." I reply, suddenly feeling self-conscious.
He hesitates, then asks, "Well, what about you? What do you think you are to me?"
I feel a lump in my throat. "I don't know... I've never thought about it."
"Wait, so where did this 'future girlfriend' thing come from?" he asks, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.
"I don't know. I guess I'm just giving you a woman's perspective, as someone who is... intimate with you," I stammer, cringing inwardly at my awkwardness.
"So, would you consider yourself my girlfriend? Or maybe my potential future girlfriend?" he presses, his tone more serious now.
I freeze, the knife in my hand hovering over a tomato. The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with unspoken feelings. My heart skips a beat as I meet his gaze, searching for the right words, the right way to navigate this delicate moment.
"I..." I start, but my voice falters. How do I answer that? Our relationship has been such a whirlwind—a mix of emotions, secrets, and stolen moments. I know what I feel for Shane, but putting a label on it feels... complicated. "Shane, I don't think we need to put labels on this. Not right now, at least. What we have... it's special. And I think that's enough for me."
He nods slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. There's a brief flicker of disappointment in his gaze, but it's quickly replaced by understanding. "Yeah," he says quietly. "I guess you're right."
A heavy silence lingers between us for a moment, but then Shane reaches for a slice of tomato I've just cut, popping it into his mouth with a grin. "I guess that means I get to help with lunch," he says, trying to lighten the mood.
I chuckle, handing him the knife. "Only if you promise not to cut yourself."