7. Valeria
VALERIA
I think I’m in shock.
Stefano, red-faced as a lobster, left in the dust while my new fiancé whips us away in his Ferrari, the biggest engagement ring I’ve ever seen weighing down my finger.
This wasn’t my life yesterday. This wasn’t even my life an hour ago.
Nico is relaxed, one hand draped over the top of the steering wheel as we gently turn and coast to a stop at a red light. The vents blanket me in a warm current, but I’m covered in goosebumps. I shove my cold fingers between my knees.
He reeks of wine.
His jaw is swollen.
His lips are soft.
They were. Soft.
He’s a convicted killer who stole my coat and is driving me to his place to perform an inspection. And tonight, I need to convince him not to marry me, because at this rate, I’ll be pregnant by the end of the year.
Nico tilts his head back, glancing at me with those strange eyes that flash gold in the light of an oncoming car.
My breath catches in my throat. Even with his bruised jaw and split lip, he’s so handsome.
I thought he was good-looking on a dark balcony. In the light, he’s almost unbearably hot.
“What do you do for work?” he asks.
I blink. “I’m a forensic scientist.”
He huffs in amusement. “No shit.”
“More than you’d expect, actually.”
He laughs, the raspy, delighted sound melting my insides like butter on a hot pan.
“What brought you to the field? Besides the glamour of a fresh stool sample.”
“Dad thought it would be useful to have family on the side of the law.” I pause. “Not that it matters to him now.”
Maybe I should tell him thank you for sparing Dad’s life, but I can’t seem to spit out the words when my dad’s been reduced to a walking cadaver.
“So quit,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “You don’t have to work anymore.”
“No.” Panic crashes over me. I swallow, my tongue thick. “I like working.”
Another golden glance in my direction. “But you don’t need to. Your dad doesn’t care anymore.”
“I care. I want to work. I like my job. I like my boss and my coworkers, and I like knowing I’m making a difference.”
“That’s cute.”
I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“Why’s that?”
For one, you’re a murderer, I want to tell him.
I should say it—I need to be a Nico repellent, to be so grating, annoying, or boring that he’ll jump at the chance to marry any other woman who isn’t me.
But a lifetime of carefully guarding my secrets presses a soft finger to my lips.
Better not to show my hand if I can help it.
He doesn’t need to know I’ve been asking about him.
When he figures out I’m not going to answer, he changes tactics and prods at me with a cruel edge to his voice. “You ever come to this part of town?”
A barricade of gunmetal-grey skyscrapers flanks the road we’re driving down, the lake on the other side, though I can’t catch a glimpse of the waters with how low the Ferrari rides.
We’re in the heart of Gold Coast, where mostly rich, old people live, and even a cup of coffee is out of my price range—which Nico knows.
It’s no secret that although my family has money, they’re cheapskates.
He wants to remind me how much wealth and power he has, and how little I have. The ring, the Ferrari, his part of town, could all be mine if I just shut my mouth and be the shameful match he wants to show off to daddy.
“No,” I answer truthfully. I might be broke, but I’m not so starry-eyed that a flash of his black card would blind me to what he’s proposing—a lifetime sentencing to the Family, no chance of parole.
Nico slides his arm over the back of my seat as he takes a left. The Ferrari constricts around us. He smells delicious—alcohol and tobacco and sex. He smells like bad decisions. His fingers weave into my hair, showering a wave of sparks down my spine.
“What do you like to do for fun?” he asks.
“Nothing. I’m boring.”
“Liar,” he teases, and I hate how that tone of voice makes my belly flutter. “Let’s try that again. What do you like to do for fun, besides getting fucked at parties by handsome strangers?”
“Mildly attractive strangers?”
“You came that hard for mildly attractive? I’m flattered.”
It feels like a live wire is sweeping along my scalp.
Nico pulls into a parking garage, the Ferrari slithering inside like a lizard into a cave. I focus on the far-away, dark corners to shove out the memories of his strong hands on my hips.
“I like to read. I watch movies. I make collages.” Or, I used to before I found Mom’s secret note among my magazines and razors.
“Collages?” Nico’s fingers press against my skull like he’s plugging into my brain. “Like in kindergarten?”
“More like middle school, but yeah.”
He parks the car and turns toward me, open interest in his face. “You have any pictures? Let me see.”
“No.” I ransack my thoughts. “You wouldn’t like them. I make feminist pieces. Lots of pads and period blood and pictures of castrated men.”
“What makes you think I wouldn’t like that?” He winks.
Heat explodes up my neck.
He steps out of the Ferrari.
I reach for my jacket.
“No,” he says with an edge of threat. “Leave it.”
He slams the door shut.
I take a shuddering breath, grateful for the reminder—this isn’t a date. I’m not here because I want to be, I’m here because he forced me to come. He’s a bad guy, and I’m not throwing years of hard work down the drain just because he smells good.
I scramble out of the car and reluctantly let him take my hand.
“You get cold, you use my coat,” he says as he leads me to a set of doors.
I’d sooner lose all my toes to frostbite.
I force myself to take steady breaths and fight the creeping tunnel vision as we wait for an elevator.
In the blurry steel doors, I picture my future home. A red door. The smell of cookies in the oven. Squeals of my babies’ laughter and happy yips from my dogs. The kind of peace and calm that comes from security.
And all I have to do is ditch Nico. Simple.
As the elevator lifts us, I slip my hand from his and cross my arms. “When am I meeting your family? I’ve heard good things about your dad.”
Nico pulls a grimace. “You heard wrong. You’ll see them whenever they visit, I guess.”
“Do they know about me?”
“My parents do. Alessia, my sister, probably doesn’t, or else she would’ve already demanded to meet you.”
A scary, overbearing sister to match the brother. Great. “Do you like your sister?”
He meets my eye. “I love my sister. There’s no one I trust more. Don’t worry about her. She’ll love you.”
My heart sinks. “Why?”
“She’d love any woman who can keep me on my toes.”
I taste acid. The elevator doors open. I follow him to his apartment through a silent hallway, looking like an employee in my work uniform next to Nico’s designer jacket.
Annetta’s theory—that Nico is only using me to rebel against his dad—cracks open to reveal a long, deep fissure.
I hadn’t fully accepted how much he might actually like me.
Some men—Lacey and I call them lover boys—are especially drawn to me because I give off vibes that I’m hard to please.
I’m not, unless you count “wanting to be treated with basic decency” as hard to please, and then I’m Queen Cleopatra to these guys.
Not that it matters when I never get that far anyway.
The second I open myself to emotional intimacy, the spell of my cool unavailability is broken, and they run.
Maybe that’s what Nico’s deal is.
Maybe I’ve been playing this wrong.
Nico pushes open his apartment door, and at first, I think we’ve stepped into the wrong place.
It’s small.
The rent is probably triple my monthly salary and sits in one of the richest neighborhoods in the country, but I expected Nico Matassa to be living in the lap of luxury, not a one-bedroom apartment.
It’s empty too, or at least looks that way, with a single armchair in front of a moderately-sized television.
On the ground, several books are stacked next to the armchair.
A broom and mop are propped up in the corner of the living room.
His tiny kitchen looks a little more used, at least. A toaster and electric kettle rest on the counter, and there’s a stainless steel espresso maker on the stove, a single white mug next to it.
Nico strides inside, so I assume no one has come in and robbed the place while he was out. I follow him and wait awkwardly next to his two-person kitchen table with a single chair.
He walks through the living room, calling over his shoulder, “Make yourself at home. There’s liquor in the freezer.” His voice echoes in the emptiness of the place as he lets himself into his bedroom.
Charming.
I kick my shoes off at the entrance and make a slow loop around his place.
There’s no decor on the walls. No rugs.
He has a balcony at least, and from what I can see, it looks big, with a nice view. I drift toward it, and as I do, I pass his bedroom door.
I freeze.
Through the gap, I catch sight of abs flexing as Nico pulls his shirt off with one hand.
He must sense me hovering outside his room like a peeping Tom, because he rolls his head back to meet my gaze.
A single strip of white light bisects his body.
He whips out his belt with cocky assuredness, holding it loosely in one hand like a whip.
“Couldn’t wait to get started?” he asks.
I must look like an idiot, standing there with my jaw halfway to the floor.
Nico peels off his jeans. “Or just came to watch the show?”
I swallow. “What’re you doing?”
“Taking a shower. I smell like wine.” Water hushes from his connected bathroom.
I take a step back.
Nico drops his jeans. Only his boxers are left—dark red with a black waistband. Tattoos cover his body. Some of them are clearly well-thought-out, beautifully done pieces. A few, I can tell even from a distance, are shitty. One on his inner bicep is brand new—still wrapped in plastic.
Another step back bumps me against his armchair. How am I supposed to pretend to be unaffected by him? “I can’t stay long. I have work tomorrow.”
Nico dips his thumbs into his waistband. “Sure.”