Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
SOFIA
I know he’s hurting, and I hate it.
And it’s not just seeing his pain, it’s feeling it—my heart wrenching with every slump of his shoulders and the glimpses of the unhappiness he can’t quite manage to hide.
That’s something you don’t read about in romance novels or see in the movies. How, when you care deeply about someone, their pain becomes your own.
I wish I could take it away from him, but I’m not sure how.
How do you make it better for a man who discovered everything about his father was a lie?
That his father was complicit in dozens of crimes stretching back for decades, all in the interest of money and power?
And on top of that, Nico was the one who turned him in to the police.
He had to stand there, watching his father being read his rights and taken into custody, listening to his father call him a traitor to the family.
Of course, I’m still shaken about the revelations of Elio Parisi’s role in my attacks. Not surprised, but shaken. After all, it’s not every day that someone hires hitmen to kill you not once, or twice, but three times.
It’s kind of ironic when I think about it—Elio paying close to one hundred K to have me killed, and his own son foiling two of the attacks.
And if Nico had been there for the first, I know he would have protected me.
He would have used the martial arts skills I’ve watched him practice in the condo—and whew, is he sexy when he does it—and kicked those two assholes’ asses, no doubt.
When I finally came clean to Brian and my aunt, they were horrified. My aunt wanted me to fly to Arizona that night to come stay with her. Brian cursed and muttered insults about Nico, insisting I’d be better off coming to Florida for a visit than to stay with a man whose father tried to kill me.
“The apple never falls far from the tree,” Brian said when we spoke yesterday. “How do you really know that this Nico won’t pull something similar? How do you know his company is on the up and up?”
“I just know,” I told Brian. “Nico’s nothing like his father.
Nico’s tough on the outside because he had to be.
But inside, he’s the same person I fell in love with.
” Before Brian could debate it, I added, “Nico collected the evidence against his father. He called the cops on him. And Nico turned over all his financials—both personal and for his company—to help prove he wasn’t involved.
He told his employees to speak freely to the police.
He’s done everything he could to prove he had nothing to do with it.
“And,” I concluded, “I know him. Nico would never, ever be a part of something so terrible. Nico’s spent half his life protecting people. He would never hurt them.”
Unless someone tries to hurt someone he cares about. But I didn’t add that part.
Not that Nico said it outright. But as I was falling asleep in his arms two nights ago, after he’d returned from his parents’ house, I heard him murmur against my hair, “I’ll never let anyone hurt you, Soph. I’ll kill them first.”
Is it weird to find that romantic?
Maybe some people would think the Parisi family dynamic would be a deal breaker.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t wondered the same thing in the two days since Elio was arrested.
Will it be too much for us to overcome? Will Nico end up resenting me for the part I played in his family’s destruction?
Will I really be able to separate Elio’s actions from his son’s?
But the alternative—returning to a life without Nico in it—is unthinkable.
And I meant it when I told Nico I wanted another chance with him.
Sighing, I give the kitchen counters a final wipe, then give them a cursory glance to make sure I didn’t miss anything.
They’re still gleaming white, almost blindingly so.
For the dozenth time—at least—I mentally reconfigure the kitchen to my tastes.
The room would be warm, with butcher block counters and a farm-style sink.
Some of the cabinets would be replaced by open shelves to display collections of plates and glasses in an array of blues and greens.
Herbs would be lined along the windowsill—rosemary and basil and mint—with a flowering plant hanging above them.
Is it silly to be thinking about how I’d redecorate when I don’t even know if Nico and I will be together long term? Or is it hopeful optimism at its best?
As I lift the casserole dish from the counter and carry it over to the oven, I debate my approach for the evening.
Nico’s still in his home office—he’s been working from home ever since the sniper took a shot at me outside the F what if I hadn’t gone to Nico’s apartment that day? What if his father never had the opportunity to frame me? What if he ended up framing the housekeeper instead? Would Nico and I have gone off to college together, instead of taking off in opposite directions?
Or did everything happen just as it was supposed to? And this is just where we’re meant to be?
Lightly rapping on the open door, I say, “Nico. I just started dinner.”
His head jerks up and he turns to me. “Shit. What time is it?”
“It’s”—I glance at my watch—“six-ten. And the casserole should take about half an hour. But if you have a lot more work to do, I can always keep it in the oven on warm.”
“Soph.” He shuts his laptop. “You don’t have to cook for me. I told you that. We can order—”
I walk into the room. “I know I don’t have to. I want to. And it’s nothing special. Just broccoli, cheese, and chicken.”
A smile ghosts his lips. “It sounds delicious. Far better than anything I could make.”
“I can show you, if you’d like.”
He stares at me for a moment. “You want to teach me how to cook?”
Insecurity creeps in, cold and clinging. “It was just a thought. But if you’re too busy…” Or if he’s planning to kick me out, despite his protestations that I should stay here because it’s safer.
“Of course not.” Nico pushes up from his chair and comes around his desk to meet me. He catches my hand. “I would love for you—” He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a rush.
His gaze flickers with uncertainty.
“What?” I press.
His jaw works. He glances over his shoulder at his laptop. “I have more news. About my—him.”
Nico hasn’t called Elio Parisi his father since the night he got home. It’s just that man or that asshole or simply him.
“Okay?”
“The charges are piling up,” he replies. “Now that word is out, other people are volunteering to testify against him. Victims, like the woman who hired you. Clients hoping for leniency by turning against him. With all the evidence I found, plus that, he won’t get off. I’m sure of it.”
I don’t doubt what Nico is saying. First, because he’s been calling on all his contacts for assistance—former Army buddies turned law enforcement, government connections, and I know Wraith contacted some of his CIA associates for help, as well.
And second, if there’s information out there, I know Nico will find it.
“That’s good,” I reply. “I mean, that he won’t be able to do those things anymore.”
“No, he won’t.” Nico’s eyes flash with anger. “Not with that man in prison and his company shut down.”
I rub my thumb across the back of his hand. “So… do you want dinner? And maybe to watch a movie after?” Because, apparently, I’m too chicken to push for anything more serious.
Nico sighs again.
If possible, his expression grows even grimmer.
Flutters of nerves explode in my chest. Is this it? Is this when he asks me to leave?
“Soph,” he finally says in a low, heavy tone. “I know I said it’s safer for you to stay here right now. But if you want to go to the Fox & Falcon apartment, or stay with one of my friends—”
“Do you want me to leave?” Pain stabs into me. “I thought you… If you want me to go… If it’s too much…”