Chapter 20
NICO
The kitchen light is on at low.
I come down barefoot. Shirt unbuttoned.
The truth is in my mouth. It’s been there for seven nights.
Seven nights I’ve decided to tell her tomorrow.
Tonight is the seventh.
I’m here for water.
Nonna is at the sink.
Robe cinched. Hair wrapped. Drying a plate. She doesn’t turn when I come in.
“Glass on the counter, cher. Water from the pitcher, not the tap. Tap’s been off tonight.”
I take the glass. Pour from the pitcher. Drink.
I set the glass back on the counter.
My hands are shaking.
Guilt.
I press them flat against the marble to make them stop.
She’s still not turning.
“Sit down.”
I sit at the island.
She crosses past the chicory pot on the back burner. Goes to the smaller pot at the front. Pours warm milk into a mug. Sets the mug across the marble toward me.
I look at the milk.
“Nonna.”
“Drink it, cher.”
I drink.
The milk tastes like ash. I drink it anyway.
The woman asleep upstairs is the sister of the woman who died begging me to find her.
I found her.
And I’ve been lying to her for weeks.
“You been keeping a secret long enough to want coffee. You’re going to want milk tonight.”
She pulls the plate she’s drying out of the rack. Wipes it. Sets it down.
She doesn’t turn.
“You’re going to break that girl’s heart, cher.”
I don’t deny it.
She moves on.
“I’m not asking what you’re keeping,” she says. “I’ve watched you carry something for three years. I know what a secret looks like on a Santoro man. I watched your father carry one before telling your mama.”
She turns. She looks at me.
Her face hasn’t changed since I was a boy after Mama’s funeral.
“I’m asking you when you’re going to tell her.”
I look at the milk.
“Soon.”
“Soon when.”
A beat. Another.
“Tomorrow.”
She nods.
“Then tonight is the last night you get with her on a lie.”
She turns back to the sink. Picks up the next plate. Wipes it.
“Drink the milk. Go up. Be careful.”
The phone vibrates in my pocket before I’ve finished the milk.
Marco. He’s at Casa Lucia. He went over an hour ago to set the lockdown himself.
I step away from the island.
“Velikov lieutenant in Moscow received a packet two hours ago. The packet has Mila’s name. He forwarded it up the chain. Izzy’s tracking it through three relays. Alexei has it on his desk by morning Moscow time.”
“How long until he reads it.”
“Four hours. Maybe less.”
“Casa Lucia.”
“Going to lockdown level effective now. I called Cassia. She’s awake. She’s handling it from the office. Drivers off-route. Patient intakes pushed forty-eight hours. The new reception man relieved. The Algiers property full lockdown too.”
“And the compound.”
“Doubled at the gate. Quiet. Cassia didn’t want Mila to feel the difference until you’ve talked to her.”
“Marco.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Niccolò.”
“Yes,” I say.
A pause from his end. Then, quiet, the brother-voice under the Capo:
“When are you telling her.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Don’t wait past noon.”
“I won’t.”
“All right.”
He hangs up.
I put the phone back in my pocket.
Nonna is at the sink with her back to me.
“You going up?”
“Yes.”
“Take the milk.”
I take the milk.
Mila is in my bed.
Awake. Sitting up against the headboard. Wearing one of my shirts she’s taken for nights. Sleeves rolled. Hem at her thighs. The chain at her throat under the cotton. The Pushkin is on the blanket beside her, open, face-down on the page she’s been looking at.
She sees me in the doorway. Sees the mug.
“You were gone long time,” she says.
I close the door.
“Just getting water,” I say.
I cross to the bed. Sit on the edge. Hold out the mug.
“Drink.”
She takes it. Drinks half. Looks at me over the rim.
“What is wrong?”
The truth is in my mouth.
Your sister. I knew your sister. I watched her die. She made me promise to find you. I found you. I’ve been lying to you since the day you got here.
I could say it right now.
I could end this.
My mouth opens.
“Nothing,” I say.
She doesn’t believe me. Her eyes hold mine.
But her mouth stays closed.
She hands the mug back.
I take it. My hand is shaking.
She sees it.
She reaches for my wrist. Wraps her fingers around it. Steadies my hand.
“Niccolò,” she says quietly.
I close my eyes.
If she keeps saying my name like that I’m going to break.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
I set the mug on the nightstand.
She moves the Pushkin off the bed onto the side table.
She reaches for me.
Her hand at the back of my neck.
She pulls me down.
I go.
I shouldn’t.
I go anyway.
I let my mouth find hers. The taste of the milk on her tongue. She kisses me with certainty. She knows the bed is hers now. Her hand goes from the back of my neck to the side of my throat to my chest. She unbuttons my shirt the rest of the way. Pushes it off my shoulders.
I let her.
She kisses me slow. Taking her time.
We know each other’s bodies now.
I undress her with my hands sure for the first time. The shirt comes off in one motion. The chain stays. She’s in nothing under the shirt.
I lower my mouth to her throat.
“Good girl,” I say against her skin. “Mia bella.“
“I want to hear you tonight,” I say against her skin. “Whatever you give me.”
She makes a sound at the back of her throat.
I put my teeth at the hollow of her throat.
Small. Careful. Not enough to break the skin. Enough to leave a mark she’ll see tomorrow in the mirror.
I shouldn’t be doing this.
My teeth on her skin. My hands on her thighs. Weeks of this and the truth still in my mouth.
I should have told her the day I knew.
She makes a different sound.
I stop. Lift my head. Look at her face.
She nods.
“Da.”
I bite again.
Tongue after the bite. Then I bite the place under her jaw where the violin lives. Tongue after the bite. The small place is the place I’ve been kissing for weeks. Tonight I’m marking it.
She arches.
I move down.
Sternum. Ribs. Hipbone. Inside her right thigh.
I bite there. Gentle.
She arches off the bed.
She’s going to be wearing it tomorrow when I tell her about Yelena.
I don’t stop.
I put my mouth on her.
She’s wet. Already wet.
I groan against her.
She tastes like heat and weeks of this.
“Fuck, tesoro. You’re already soaked for me.”
She makes a sound.
I lick her slow. The way I’ve learned she likes it. Flat tongue. Dragging up.
Weeks of this. All of it while she didn’t know.
She arches.
I slide two fingers inside her while my mouth stays on her clit.
Her body clenches around my fingers. She’s wet to the second knuckle.
“That’s it,” I say against her. “Just like that.”
She comes on my tongue with her hand fisted in my hair and her thighs shaking.
I don’t stop until she pulls at my hair.
Then I move up her body.
Kiss her so she can taste herself on my mouth.
She rolls on top of me.
It’s what she wants. I let her have it.
She straddles my hips. Reaches between us. Wraps her hand around my cock.
I groan.
“Christ, Mila.”
She strokes me once. Twice.
Then she lifts up on her knees and lowers herself onto me.
Slow.
I look at her face.
Her mouth opens. Her eyes close.
“Niccolò.”
She’s all the way down.
Her voice when she says it. Christ.
I’m all the way inside her.
I grip her hips.
“Move, bella.”
She does.
She rides me.
Slow at first. Then faster.
She’s wet. The sound carries every time she moves on me.
The grip of her.
“Fuck,” I say through my teeth. “You feel so fucking good.”
She leans forward. The chain swings. Hits my chest.
Her mouth finds mine.
She kisses me while she rides me and I’m not going to last long like this.
Mid-thrust, I roll us.
She makes a sound.
I move slow. Asking with my hands on her hips.
She nods into my mouth.
I roll us onto our sides. My front to her back. My hand under her thigh, lifting. I’m inside her from behind in the half-turned position that lets me see her face.
She makes a sound.
Bigger than the first night. Bigger than the night I put my mouth on her for the first time. Full-throated. The room holds the sound.
I move.
“Take it, tesoro.”
She arches.
I thrust deeper.
“That’s it. Just like that.”
She’s wet around me, gripping me tight, and every thrust forces another sound out of her throat.
I move us again.
On her back. Me above her. My weight braced on my forearms an inch from her face. The chain at her throat at the base of my own throat.
“Tell me you’re mine,” I say.
It comes out before I can stop it. The worst thing I’ve asked anyone for in my life.
She doesn’t answer with a word.
Her body answers. Tightens around me at the question.
I groan.
I move.
She comes.
She comes with her eyes open and her face an inch below mine. Her mouth opens. The sound is full-throated. The room holds it.
Her face holds for a half-second after.
There’s a tomorrow on her face. With me in it. The maybe is all over her.
It kills me.
It fucking kills me.
Because I saw this maybe before. I saw it on Yelena’s face in the safehouse. The morning before the morning she died. She looked at me and said Maybe my sister gets to learn the violin again. Maybe I get to teach her.
Yelena’s maybe died with her in a basement in Moscow.
Mila’s maybe is going to die tomorrow in this house when I tell her the truth.
And I’m the one who’s going to kill it.
I keep fucking her.
I fuck her while she’s still wearing the maybe. While she still thinks she gets to keep me.
I’m going to hell for this.
It builds again under me. Her hand closes on my forearm. Her nails go in.
The sound she makes is raw. Broken. Beautiful.
I come inside her with my teeth on the chain at her throat and her name in my mouth.
“Dio. Mila.”
I don’t say mine.
I hold the word in my teeth.
She’s asleep on my chest.
Her face turned into my shoulder.
Her right hand on my ribs.
The chain at her throat is moving with her breath.
I can’t breathe.
The lie is a hand around my throat.
I’ve lied in interrogations and negotiations and wars.
I’ve never lied to a woman I love.
I love her.
The mug of milk is on the nightstand.
The Pushkin is on the side table.
The file is on Alexei’s desk by morning Moscow time.
I have hours.
I have to tell her.
I can’t tell her tonight.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow I’m going to watch the maybe die on her face.
My hand tightens on her back.
I lie awake.