Chapter 9 Nico #2
“All my stuff is in there,” she whispers. “My notes, my computer backups, my father’s photo, his watch, the blanket my mom crocheted when I went to college… everything.”
There it is. The crack in the armor.
Guilt tastes like metal on my tongue. I think of the call I sent out last night, the orders given, and the man dragged to the warehouse. If I had pushed harder earlier, if I hadn’t used her as bait for even half a second, would this have happened?
Probably. Maybe. I hate both answers equally.
“Things can be replaced,” I say, knowing as I say it that it’s the wrong thing.
Her head snaps toward me, eyes bright, furious.
“No, they can’t. You can buy new furniture, but you can’t replace the way a couch smells like your life.
You can’t reprint the pages of a notebook you filled with thoughts at two in the morning.
You can’t buy back a watch your dad wore every day for ten years. ”
The lump in her throat finally wins. Her voice cracks on the last word.
Fuck.
Without thinking, I reach for her. My hand closes around her forearm first, warm through the wool. Then I tug, gentle but firm, and she steps into me because there’s nowhere else to go.
She stiffens at first, like she doesn’t know what to do with the contact. Neither do I, if I’m honest. It’s been years since I’ve held anyone like this without expecting sex or a favor in return.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear. My hand slides to the back of her head, fingers threading lightly into her hair, palm cradling her skull so she doesn’t have to hold her own weight for a second. “You’re allowed to be pissed. You’re allowed to be wrecked.”
She exhales, a shudder that shakes both of us. Her hands bunch in the front of my coat, clutching rather than pushing away. The top of her head fits under my chin a little too well.
“I didn’t expect you to care.”
“I didn’t expect you to matter,” I answer so quietly I know she doesn’t catch it.
For a moment, we just stand there, two people on a smoke-stained sidewalk, holding on against a world that keeps taking.
Anyone walking past would think this is normal, a boyfriend comforting his girlfriend after a fire. They wouldn’t see the way every muscle in my body is coiled, ready to snap at the first sign of threat. They wouldn’t know I’m cataloguing exits, faces, insignias on uniforms, even as I hold her.
She probably thinks I’d do this for anyone.
Maybe I would.
Maybe I wouldn’t.
I don’t look too closely at that.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles against my chest after a minute, pulling back. Her hand makes a vague gesture toward the building, the chaos, her bruised “You didn’t sign up for… this.” face.
“Technically, you didn’t either,” I point out.
Her mouth twists. “I wrote a story. I didn’t ask for… arson and attempted murder as a reply.”
I file that away. Arson. Attempted murder. Words the police will use eventually, if they aren’t already. Words my enemies understand far too well.
“I’ll get my people on it,” I say. “Find out where the fire started exactly, who was in the building, who benefits. We’ll make sure you have what you need for insurance.”
“I have renter’s insurance,” she says automatically, as if that matters in the face of charred memories.
“Good. I’ll make sure they pay out fast.”
She gives me a look. “You’re really going to bully an insurance company for me?”
“Yes.” I don’t even hesitate.
Her brows lift. “Why?”
Because your fear feels like a fist around my throat. Because I should have anticipated this. Because my father would haunt me if I let collateral damage pile up around my name. “Because it was my world you poked,” I say instead. “My enemies. That makes this my mess.”
She studies me like she wants to argue, but the fight seems to drain out of her. What’s left is bone-deep exhaustion.
A gust of wind cuts down the street, carrying more smoke with it. She coughs once, winces, hand flying to her ribs. That pulls me out of the quiet moment fast.
“We’re done here,” I say. “You’ve seen it. Now we go.”
“I should… talk to the building manager,” she protests weakly. “Find out what happens next.”
“I’ll talk to them.” I jerk my chin toward the cop still watching us with half an eye. “You’re going back to the car before your lungs decide they don’t like the smoke.”
Her mouth opens, then closes, then opens again on something else.
“I don’t have anywhere to go,” she says, the words almost swallowed by the noise around us.
“I mean, my mom would take me in, obviously, but she’d worry herself sick, and she doesn’t have the space, and I still need to work, and all my backups are in there, and—”
“You’re staying with me,” I cut in.
She blinks. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Nico, I can’t just move into your place like some—”
“Temporary arrangement,” I say. “Until we know who’s behind this and how far they’re willing to go. My building is secure. Yours is currently on fire.”
She flinches at that, then glares. “You can’t keep me there like a… like a hostage.”
“I’m not tying you to the bed,” I say dryly. “Unless you insist on doing more stupid things. In which case, we can revisit.”
Her cheeks flush, eyes flashing. Good. Anger looks better on her than fear.
“I’m not helpless,” she says quietly. “I’ve taken care of myself for a long time.”
“I know.” I soften my tone, just a notch. “This isn’t about you being helpless. It’s about people using you to get to me. I won’t give them an easy shot.”
For a second, something like understanding flickers in her expression. Or maybe it’s recognition. We both know what it is to have our lives dictated by other people’s actions.
“Fine,” she says reluctantly. “For now.”
I nod once. “For now.”
I steer her back toward the car, my hand hovering near her lower back again. Not touching, but close enough that I could if she stumbled. She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.
As I open the passenger door for her, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I check the screen.
Rossi.
I answer with a clipped, “Talk.” As I walk towards the cops near the perimeter of the building.
“We got what we needed from our friend last night,” he says. “Name he dropped you’re not going to like.”
“I rarely do.” I glance back at my car, happy to see Isabella listening for a change.
He hesitates, then continues. “He said he was hired by someone in your own backyard. Mancini money. Old money.”
Cold slides into my veins, sharper than the wind, sharper than the smell of smoke. “Family,” I say.
“Extended,” Rossi confirms. “He gave us a name. I’ll text it. But, boss… this feels personal.”
Of course it does. Papà told me once that the biggest threats never come from the street; they come from the table you think is yours. “Keep him breathing,” I say. “For now.”
“Understood.”
I have a brief chat with the cop at the scene, who is about as useful as a chocolate microwave, and head back to the car.
She’s watching me with narrowed eyes, that journalist brain clicking away. “Bad news?” she asks quietly.
“Still breathing, aren’t we? The cops don’t know anything yet. They’ll keep you informed.” I answer, sidestepping.
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t push. Not yet.
As I grip the wheel, the name Rossi sent flashes across my screen.
A name I recognize.
Blood.
My hands tighten around the steering wheel until the leather bites into my palms.
Fire, Russians, family betrayal. A woman with bruises on her ribs because she wrote a veiled truth.
I glance at Isabella as she stares up at the damaged building, eyes shining with a mix of grief and stubborn determination. I’m supposed to keep my world clean. That was my father’s last demand, his dying wish.
But looking at her now, at what they’ve already done, I know something else with a bone-deep certainty.
If they come for her again, clean won’t be an option.
I start the engine. “We’ll get your things back,” I lie, because it’s what she needs to hear.
Her mouth lifts in a humorless half-smile. “You can’t promise that.”
“No,” I agree. “But I can promise this.”
She turns her head, waiting.
“They won’t touch you again,” I say quietly. “Not while you’re under my roof.”
And I don’t say it out loud, but the rest of the vow settles in my chest like a brand.
Not while you’re mine to protect.
Then I do what my father would want, I text my brothers, because us three against the world is the only thing I can trust right now.