Chapter Fifty-One
Max
I finally shook off Gio and Rudi right before graduation, telling them this morning their duty was done, and they had to accept me breaking up with them.
They, to my complete and utter shock, agreed with quite literally no argument.
They congratulated me on my graduation, they both hugged me, and got in their black SUV and left me.
And I felt what it was like to be alone for the first time in months—truly and actually alone. Not being watched over like something that might break. For a second, I got worried, but then I took a deep breath and reminded myself what Gio told me last week.
Nico had let him know he could share with me that the Volkovs had been taken care of; they wouldn’t be coming near me because they were gone, every last one of them.
Gio said there was no more territory dispute because there was no longer another family to have a dispute with.
I didn’t ask for details, but it was a relief.
Now, the car service Nico sent for me stops at the entrance to the penthouse building.
We’ve been sitting out here for ten minutes while I build up the courage to get out. I’ve apologized at least six times to the driver who kindly told me to take my time, and reassured me after the sixth time that he was paid for the night.
It’s now fifteen minutes past eleven, making me fifteen minutes late.
The keycard rests between my fingers, nervously twirling every couple seconds. I left the small box at the apartment, along with my graduation dress, opting for jeans and a sweater given the low spring temperatures tonight.
In and out.
That’s what I told myself in the mirror. I can just go in, thank Nico profusely for the offer, and leave.
I can’t accept this, regardless of the explanation.
I can’t walk into this place every day after work, sleep in a room that holds the memories of us together, alive.
So alive and so in love.
“In and out,” I whisper to myself and push open the car door to breathe in the cool night air. I stare up at the expansive building, stretching up to the stars, then focus back on my feet, willing them to move, my hair falling softly into my vision.
I pull open the heavy glass door reminding myself to breathe.
The dim lights of the lobby are shining through the second pair of double doors. A doorman, who looks suspiciously and unsurprisingly like a Renzetti by the look of his dark features and large stature, nods at me from his seat by the door.
Before I can scan the card against the keypad, Nico’s earlier companion is holding open the elevator door for me.
“Ms. Sims.” He nods.
Sims?
My feet stop halfway through the door, and I stare at him.
My body goes cold and rigid.
The last time someone called me Sims it was a beautiful man asking for my coffee order with brown curly hair and golden-green eyes.
They weren’t allowed to know my name.
The guy’s eyebrows raise, and with a frown, I shake my head. He probably is new and just didn’t listen to Nico tell him my full name so he knew when I arrived, which they can know, because I’m not in the family anymore.
The penthouse is in my name, that’s what Nico said.
I guess this means Nico is already here, which shouldn’t surprise me, because I am very late.
“Hi, thanks, you didn’t have to wait for me,” the embarrassment in my voice is clear after he probably watched me sit outside for the past fifteen minutes.
His dark hair is curly, but buzzed short, and his dark eyes are kind, offering me a small smile but no response. He gestures to the elevator and we enter.
A shiver runs through me being inside this elevator again as images of Cal twisting his fingers in mine while we rode to the top flash across my mind.
He scans a silver keycard and presses the button labeled PH.
I swallow and choke on nothing, letting out a small cough noise. But my elevator companion doesn’t look my way, just stares at the doors, allowing me my silent grief that is morphing into mortification.
The elevator ride is longer than it ever was somehow, but it finally dings and the doors slide open, revealing hardwood floors that are not the same as the white marble that I’ve seen in my dreams.
I frown before remembering the renovations; Nico mentioned that.
Something inside of me cracks imagining all the corners of this home that we filled with laughter and love that were torn up and replaced.
My new friend places his arm in an effort to hold the elevator door open, but does not make a move to enter.
My feet seem to stay planted right next to his, and this time he does look over, or at least I think he does.
I look up at him, but his eyes remain fixed on his own shoes, his chin tucked to his chest. His apparent aversion to even looking into the penthouse makes me feel uneasy.
He clears his throat as the elevator doors start to close, pushing them back to their open position with his outstretched arm.
Point taken.
I take two big steps and glance over my shoulder at the elevator. The bodyguard’s arm is already back inside, his eyes down and unwavering as the doors close silently and the hum of the elevator signals its departure.
In and out. I can do this.
I force a long exhale and take a step further into the expansive space.
The soft echo of my sneakers is the only sound in the dark apartment.
“Hello?” My voice is barely above a whisper, strangled by feeling like I’m walking into a dream and a nightmare, as I make my way into the living room, turning towards the kitchen.
The city lights sparkle, offering a dim light in the otherwise dark space through the floor-to-ceiling wall of windows across the living room. I notice the room is full of new, soft-looking furniture that contrasts the sharp edges of the architecture.
I smile slightly, remembering my lecture to Cal on my first night here about the uncomfortable couch and unwelcoming decor.
My comfy reading chair still sits in the corner, with my white knit blanket thrown over the back, framed by a new antique gold reading lamp.
It looks exactly the same—like no one has touched it since I left.
Plants with pearly, hanging green buds and other plants with soft leaves scatter across a mantel and a big fireplace that wasn’t there before.
It doesn’t look like the fake insert kind, and I step deeper into the space, frowning at what looks like real logs sitting inside past the natural stone hearth.
“Nico?” I raise my voice to carry slightly through the apartment, walking in to find the kitchen empty in the hush of the night.
But it’s not the same kitchen.
Not the white kitchen that had a coffee stain under the sink on the white tile from my first morning here.
Not the white cabinets with the hidden coffee syrups.
The kitchen glows with the soft amber hue of a single light from the adjoining eating nook beyond it, casting long, gentle shadows over the cool marble counters and polished natural wood floors.
And that’s when I really notice all the floors: they’re all light, natural wood, and the kitchen—my fingers shake as they touch my lips.
It’s like Nico ripped the picture I had in my head and made it reality—like the blueprints that must have been from Cal had been produced from a perfect memory of every word I said on that first night.
The faint hum of the refrigerator set behind dark blue cabinets is the only sound, a quiet heartbeat in the stillness, melting with the sounds of the city wafting in from the open doors of the balcony across from the island.
The white cabinets that used to be here are gone, replaced by dark blue ones with gold handles and tiny beaded edges.
The stark white counters are gone; in their place, white marble with a substantial vein of gold running through the center of the island, reflecting three massive gold lanterns that hang above it.
I trace the knuckles of my hand holding the keycard across the thick edge of the cold, beautiful stone.
With the kitchen in front of me, I glance to the right, knowing the bedroom full of memories is still tucked back down that long hallway.
And if I take a few more steps past the bedroom, I’ll run into the staircase.
And with a few more paces, I’ll be in his study. Enveloped in the smells—leather and cedar and gunpowder.
And the door—my door—will lead to the most stunning sanctuary of an office. With a desk carved with the moon phases.
My hand leaves my lips and drops to the moon phase necklace that I put on for the first time before coming here, thinking it was the first and last time it’d be okay to wear it. The metal is cold and soft.
I take a big breath, closing my eyes briefly while I center myself, pushing down the bubbling grief under the surface.
I take a few steps forward, turning my head to the balcony doors. With the kitchen behind me, there are no more lights except the ones coming from the moon high in the sky streaming in from the tall balcony doors.
My breath catches in my throat.
Nico is standing with his back to me on the balcony some twenty feet away, leaning forward along the stone railing.
The same railing where Cal kissed me for the first time.
The sparkling city lights frame Nico, and I’m instantly caught between a memory and a dream.
Between reality and what should have been.
I feel tears pricking the edges of my vision.
The metal keycard suddenly feels even heavier than before in my hand.
The lost moments that should have been—because he should be here.
I take half a step forward, letting my mind blur the shadows, blur the reality—just for one second more than in the graduation hallway.
And for that one second, I let myself pretend—really pretend.
Pretend that it never happened.
Pretend he isn’t gone.
Pretend that man on the balcony is the love of my life waiting for me after a long day.
Like I could walk out there right now, and Cal will just turn around, tell me about his day, and we will be us; together, alive.
The living room is shrouded in darkness, and the bottom of my vision is blurred by tears. I sniff and blink them away, squeezing my eyes shut briefly.
I suck in oxygen, realizing I had been holding my breath and then shakily push it back out. I only take two steps towards Nico’s shadowy figure on the balcony before I hear footsteps behind me.
Adrenaline rushes through my body, my mind jumping to the worst-case scenario.
The Volkovs.
Spinning, a hand flying up to my chest as my feet jump back, and my gaze finds the figure emerging from the hallway leading to the bedroom.
“Nico?” I manage to squeak his name out as he steps into the dim light from the hallway, hands raised, palms out to me and he is already talking before my mind can race.
“You promised to accept an explanation,” he says slowly, but fast at the same time.
He approaches me slowly, like a caged animal and I frown, leaning back. His hair is still perfectly in place, but his suit jacket is gone, his shirt untucked and unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up.
My head is jerking towards the balcony, then back to Nico as he steps closer to me, palms still raised.
Confusion floods my veins, and the ringing from the explosion starts to invade my ears.
“Please. Max.” He reaches out, his hands soft on my arms. “Please stay.”
His eyes are begging. His expression is dire and serious, pleading.
Suddenly I am terrified and need to tell him, “Get off me, Nico, there’s someone on the balcony, Nico there’s—”
I hear footsteps on the light wood floors behind me, but Nico doesn’t move as he glances over my shoulder.
If he doesn’t move, doesn’t reach for the gun I am absolutely sure he has tucked into the back of his pants, then he already knows there is another person here.
A Renzetti would never not be aware of who is in an otherwise empty house.
The room feels darker somehow, the air feels thicker, it’s harder to breathe.
I feel set up and scared.
“It’s okay, please, Max, please just, God—fuck—please,” he sighs, his expression is pained with his eyebrows pulled together as he moves his hands and places one in the middle of my back, gently turning me around.
The man from the balcony is walking slowly into the living room and looking straight ahead, but the shadows aren’t showing me anything but a white t-shirt.
All at once, all the oxygen is sucked from the room.
Nico’s hand tenses against my shoulders, holding me in place as my body stiffens and pushes back against him. He holds me in place, or holds me up, or—
“Max…”
The voice of a ghost.
“No.”
My voice is loud. It’s not a whisper. There’s no hesitation. It’s not a question. It doesn’t sound like my voice at all but it comes out again—
“NO!” I’m yelling at the still-shadowed figure now; I throw the word across the room like it’ll make it make sense.
Hands are raised, palms out towards me and the ceiling, like the last time I saw him, but this time he’s looking at me and not at three men with guns.
“Please. Let me expla—”
“NO.”
I take a step back into Nico’s chest, vaguely registering I step on his foot, and he stumbles to the side, and I whirl around, focusing all of my attention on him instead of the ghost behind us.
“You—NO. I—” My head spins, but my eyes bore into Nico’s. “I held your mom’s hand while she s-sobbed. I watched you lower him into the ground. I hugged your sisters.”
My voice is cracking, my breaths are wheezing, but I don’t stop. “You picked me up when the building exploded—when the building exploded with him in it, Nico.”
“Yes.”
The voice comes again from behind me while Nico nods slowly, his palms raised up mirroring the shadow behind me as I turn again.
No. No. No.
The waves of every possible emotion hit me in the dark.
Confusion.
Sadness.
Relief.
Betrayal.
Terror.
Confusion, again.
Anger.
I’m hyperventilating.
My breaths are uneven and fast and my body doesn’t feel like my own.
I think I’m floating above myself.
“No.” I push myself backwards before I can manage to look up, demanding my feet move.
I turn again, the floor threatening to rush up to meet me as the room tilts, but I run down the familiar hallway. I run like he told me to run the day of the explosion.
The ringing in my ears is worse now, and the only sound I hear is muffled words and the metal keycard that slips from my fingertips, letting out dull metal thuds as it hits the floor.
My feet carry me straight into the familiar bedroom—our bedroom—and my hands are scratching at the door lock after it slams behind me.
My palms and my forehead are flat against the cold wood of the door.
My breath is shallow and, feeling fully hysterical, I push against the door with my hands, squeezing my eyes shut as tight as they can get.
My heart is pounding in my ears and the space around my head feels like it’s spinning.
My legs feel like they are tangled around me.
But I’m standing. I can feel the wood of the door.
“You. Are. Dead. You. Died.” I force the words out, but I’m suffocating on each one.
“I didn’t.” A voice I haven’t heard in exactly seventy-one days is right on the other side of the door, low but steady. “Please.” The voice cracks. “Please let me explain, Sims.”