5. Nico
5
NICO
T he sight of Pearl doing Pilates was definitely not in the mission briefing.
I stood in the doorway of her suite at Giuliano's compound, trying to keep my eyes anywhere but on her perfect form as she gracefully moved through another pose. The tank top and leggings left little to the imagination, and I felt like a dirty old man for even noticing.
This was Marco's daughter—the same little girl who used to beg me to push her higher on the playground swings. Every damn time I saw her, that thought hit me first. Like maybe if I reminded myself enough times, I'd stop noticing the way she moved.
But she wasn't that little girl anymore. The young woman before me was all gentle curves and quiet strength, her long blonde hair spilling around her flushed face as she held another impossible position. I cleared my throat, announcing my presence before my thoughts could wander any further down that dangerous path.
Pearl gasped and scrambled to her feet, gathering her hair back as a blush crept across her cheeks. The motion only emphasized her figure, and I had to forcefully remind myself of my purpose here.
Three days had passed since we'd moved her here after the interrogation. She'd handled it better than any of us expected—no screaming, no threats, just walked into the suite like she was taking everything in.
"Does this place have Wi-Fi?" she'd asked that first day, glancing around with those thoughtful eyes of hers. "Being kidnapped is no excuse for living in the dark ages." The comment caught me off guard.
For a second, I saw that same kid who used to watch everything so carefully from the sidelines, but now... Christ, now she was all grown up, curves in all the right places, and that quiet way she had about her was making it real hard to remember all the reasons I needed to keep my eyes to myself.
She'd spent that first day exploring the place, running her fingers over everything like she was trying to make sense of her new reality. Now, watching her settle in, I was starting to think maybe she didn't mind the change of scenery as much as we'd expected.
"Pilates," she explained, slightly breathless, catching me watching her. "Helps me strengthen my core." She paused, a ghost of a smile playing at her lips. "And of course... think." Then she glanced at the door I was blocking. "Though I guess it's not like I have much else to do in here." The guilt hit me hard, even though I knew why we had to keep her confined.
She grabbed a towel from the bed, dabbing at her neck. I tracked the movement before I could stop myself.
"Your core looks...strong," I managed, immediately wanting to kick myself for the lame comment. Next thing, I'd be asking about her workout routine like some meathead at the gym.
But she took the compliment with a small smile that did strange things to my chest. "Thanks." She studied me for a moment, head tilted. "I've seen you these past few days. You look familiar, but I can't quite..." She trailed off, something flickering in her eyes.
I moved to her kitchen, desperate for something to do with my hands. The refrigerator provided a convenient excuse as I grabbed a Coke.
"Nico. Nico Conti. I worked for your father, years ago. You were just a little girl." I cracked open the can, watching her face carefully for any reaction.
Her perfect brow furrowed. "You mean..."
"Your real father," I confirmed, taking a long drink to steady myself.
The silence stretched between us. I could hear the ice maker humming, the soft sound of her breathing. When I finally looked up, she was watching me with those impossibly blue eyes.
"You really knew him?" Her voice was soft but steady. She moved closer, and I caught a hint of defiance in her stance.
"Yeah, I knew him," I said quietly. The memory of Marco twisted in my gut like an old knife wound. I'd failed him that night, failed to protect him when everything went down. The guilt never really went away—it just got easier to carry with time.
She moved past me to get her own drink, the subtle brush of her body against mine sending electricity through my veins. When she turned back, her eyes caught on something—my sleeve had ridden up, revealing the edge of my tattoo.
"What's that?" she said, head tilted slightly.
I rolled up my sleeve the rest of the way, revealing the Latin script. "Your father's mark. All his trusted men had one." I watched her face carefully. "'Toward Better Things.'"
She reached out, fingers trailing along the letters. The gentle touch sent a shiver through me.
"I remember this. The way the capital A curved..." Her voice softened with memory. "Daddy had one too." She withdrew her hand, wrapping her arms around herself. "Look, I know things aren't... perfect with Vittorio. But he's the only father I've known for so long. He might be strict, but he's always protected me."
"Protected you from what, exactly?" I couldn't keep the edge from my voice. "The business he's running now—it's not like it was under your father. Marco had lines he wouldn't cross."
"What are you talking about?" Her voice sharpened, but I caught the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.
"The opioids, Pearl. The fentanyl. Your father would never have touched that stuff. No respectable family does."
She shook her head, but I could see the doubt creeping in. "That's not... Vittorio wouldn't..." She set her drink down hard enough that some of it sloshed over the rim. "He's always taken care of me. Private tutors, the best education money could buy. My room at home is practically a library—he never said no when I asked for books."
"With money from where?" I pressed gently. "Have you ever asked yourself where it all comes from?"
She stood abruptly, pacing the length of the suite. "He says keeping me in the tower is for my protection. That there are people who want to hurt him through me." Her voice wavered slightly. "But being locked up in that tower... I mean, sure, it's a nice prison, but it's still a prison."
"And you believe that's all this is? Protection?"
She settled on the edge of her bed, legs tucked under her. The TV played quietly in the background as she studied me over her drink. "I don't know what to believe anymore. Everything's changed so fast." She gestured around the suite. "At least at home I had my books, my routine. Here..." She trailed off, then added quietly, "Well, the ocean view is pretty, but it's not like I can actually go down to the beach."
"Some things have changed," I chose my words carefully. "Your father had principles about what we dealt in, who we worked with." I met her eyes. "Some things happening now... they wouldn't have flown under his watch."
Something flickered across her face - not surprise exactly, more like confirmation. She took another sip of her drink, and I found myself tracking the movement of her throat. "It's funny," she said finally. "Being here, talking about him... it's making me remember things I thought I'd forgotten."
"Like what?"
"Like how nothing was ever just black and white with him. Vittorio... he always says everything is for my own good. The security details, the restricted phone access, that tower he keeps me in." She gestured vaguely. "He says it's all to keep me safe, and maybe part of me wants to believe that. He's been the only father I've known for so long..." She trailed off, running a finger along the rim of her glass. "But sometimes I wonder if he's really protecting me, or just keeping me under his control."
"No," I agreed softly. "Guess it's not that simple."
"I should probably be more upset about all this," she said softly, more to herself than to me. "Being locked up here. Everything that's happened." She took a slow sip of her drink, those blue eyes finding mine again. "But it feels... different somehow. Like maybe I needed to see things from another angle, even if I didn't choose this one."
"Different how?" I shouldn't have asked. Shouldn't have cared about the way she was looking at me, like she was trying to figure something out.
She just shook her head, that ghost of a smile returning.
"You wouldn't happen to know any good pizza places that deliver out here, would you?" She tucked her hair behind her ear, looking almost sheepish.
"I mean, don't get me wrong, I like eating healthy and everything, but... sometimes I just really miss pizza, you know?" She shrugged. "My dad used to take me to this little place near the park on Sundays. Just the two of us, splitting a pepperoni pizza."
Something flickered across her face—a mix of memory and loss. "Now Vittorio's always so intense about this diet stuff—like my whole life needs to revolve around staying in shape."
I couldn't help but grin. "As a matter of fact, I do. Pepperoni?"
"Please." She stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling. "And Nico? Thanks."
"For what? The pizza hasn't even gotten here yet."
"For not treating me like I'm going to fall apart. Or try to run. Or whatever it is you guys were expecting. For... telling me the truth, even if I'm not sure I want to hear it."
I pulled out my phone, trying not to watch the way she'd relaxed into the mattress. "What makes you think we were expecting anything?"
"Everyone always does." Her voice was soft but clear. "It's kind of nice to just... be."
She rolled to face the wall, but not before I caught that hint of a smile again. I watched her for a moment longer than necessary, trying to ignore the way her touch still burned on my skin. I was too old, too jaded, and too deep in this life for those kinds of thoughts.
But as I heard her soft sigh, I wondered if maybe some things were worth the risk after all.