Chapter 30 Nicolo
NICOLO
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound of my thumb against the desk fills the room, quiet and rhythmic.
From the window, I watch her. She’s in the garden, pretending to read Jane Eyre like she’s got the patience for classics.
The sunlight catches her hair, the curve of her neck, the hem of the dress she probably chose to torment my men. Or to torment me.
Most would dismiss her as harmless, but harmless things don’t walk straight into a lion’s den and make themselves at home.
She turns a page. Her lips move a little—muttering, maybe. Or talking to that damn kitten. I can’t hear her, but I can imagine the sound. Soft, defiant. Always a little too alive.
My reflection stares back at me in the glass, all hard lines and exhaustion. She looks likes temptation; I look like a man who knows better. Because I do.
The phone vibrates. Then again. I pick it up after the third ring.
“What?”
Theo’s voice. “Boss, there’s a man at the gate. Says he’s a friend of yours.”
I don’t have friends.
“Name?”
“Nestor.”
Silence. I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking.
Of course it’s him. Can’t call like a civilized human being—no, he has to show up uninvited, like a perpetual toddler who wants attention.
“Keep him there,” I say. “I’ll handle it.”
“Yes, boss.”
The line goes dead. Nestor showing up here means one of two things: he wants something or he’s about to set fire to something I own. Either way, he won’t leave without trying to crawl under my skin.
I push up from the desk. The chair spins once behind me, slow and quiet. I straighten my jacket, slide the phone into my pocket, and head out.
The corridor is empty, but the air feels heavy—like the Castello knows trouble when it smells it. The sound of my steps echoes against the stone, measured, deliberate. I pass the study, the hall, the library. Halfway to the front doors, I see her.
Mara steps into the kitchen from the other side of the corridor. Sunlight filters through the window behind her, turning her hair gold. The sight hits harder than I’m willing to admit.
She freezes when she sees me. “Morning.”
My jaw tics. I can still feel the way her curves fit into my hands.
“Don’t go outside,” I tell her.
Her brows knit. “Why—”
“Just don’t.” My voice comes out low, final.
She opens her mouth, that little spark of rebellion flickering like it always does, but I’m already moving again.
The front doors groan when I push them open. Heat rushes in first…then the sound. Engines idling. Men murmuring. The distinct click of safeties sliding off. I step outside.
Nestor is leaning against the hood of a matte-black car, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s at a damn picnic. He’s smiling—of course he is. My men have three rifles trained on him, and he looks like he’s posing for a photo.
“Is this how you greet your best friend now?” he drawls, sunglasses sliding down his nose.
I slowly walk closer. “I don’t have best friends, and I don’t appreciate anyone showing up uninvited. You could be the fucking queen for all I care.”
He chuckles low in his throat, tapping ash off a cigarette that’s been burning between his fingers. “You wound me, Esposito. I thought we had history.”
“We do.” I stop a few feet away, motioning for my men to put their rifles down. The rifles dip in unison. “That’s why they haven’t shot you yet.”
His grin widens. “Still charming.”
“Back to your posts.”
I don’t look at my men. There’s no need. They will obey or they will die. That’s how each and every one of them was trained. I accept no mistakes, no hesitation to my orders. Boots scuff against gravel as they melt back toward the perimeter.
Nestor flicks his cigarette away. “Touching. They still jump when you growl.”
“Get to the point,” I say, patience running thin.
He smirks, spreading his arms like he’s about to perform. “Maybe I missed you.”
“I doubt that, and it’s only been three weeks. Three centuries isn’t enough time for me to even consider missing you.”
“Fine.” His gaze slides past me toward the house. “Maybe I was curious. Rumor travels fast, you know. And they say Folonari’s younger sister is a knockout.”
The muscle in my jaw tightens. “Careful.”
He grins wider, like he’s found the nerve he came to prod. “You always did have interesting taste.”
The sound of footsteps cuts him off. I don’t need to turn to know it’s her. Mara’s voice is a whisper first…then louder.
“Nicolo?”
She steps closer, her gaze drifting from me to that fucker Nestor. Her hair’s still loose, dress soft enough to catch the breeze.
Nestor’s grin shifts, sharper now. “And there she is.”
Mara’s eyes narrow, scanning him like she’s measuring the threat. “And you are?”
“Nestor Vasilios. And the pleasure is all mine.” He inclines his head slightly.
Her chin tips up. “I didn’t say it was a pleasure to meet you. I doubt it’ll ever be a pleasure meeting a Russian.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
Nestor whistles low. “Feisty.” He looks at me, amusement glinting behind the lenses of his sunglasses. “You really know how to pick them.”
“Watch your mouth,” I warn.
“Relax,” he says, holding up his hands. “Just pointing it out.” His gaze returns to Mara, studying her like a man cataloging a weakness. “Word of advice, signorina. Nicolo doesn’t like talkers.”
She crosses her arms. “Then he must really hate you.”
He laughs, sharp and deliberate.
I step forward, close enough that the laughter dies on his tongue. “He’s right. I don’t like talkers.” Then, lower, so he only hears me, “I don’t like people, period.”
A glint of mischief enters his eyes, but I just shake my head at him. Mara’s eyes flick between us, trying to read what’s unsaid.
She shouldn’t be here. Not for this.
“Go inside, Mara,” I tell her, still looking at him.
She hesitates. “Nicolo—”
“Inside.”
Something in my tone makes her move, door closing behind her. Silence folds over the courtyard.
Nestor exhales, a lazy smile crawling back into place. “Always the gentleman.”
This sleazy motherfucker always knows how to piss me off.
I step closer. “Say what you came to say before I shoot you myself.”
His grin doesn’t falter. “Careful. I might think you want to kiss me, Nicolo.”
He tosses his head like it’s a joke. But his eyes are hunting. Always hunting.
“Not funny.” My hand finds the grip of the Glock beneath my jacket. It’s habit. “Get to the point.”
He holds up both hands in mock surrender. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” His smile drops, all business, the charade sliding off him. “The Pakhan wants to meet you. Face-to-face. He says there’s money on the table and opportunities worth your time.”
My jaw tightens. “I don’t make deals with men who show up unannounced.”
“He’s not asking for a favor. He wants to discuss business. Nothing…” He waves the word like he’s dusting crumbs from his suit. “Nothing that’d compromise you.”
“Set up a call,” I say, slow and controlled. “If it’s important, we’ll talk on a secure line. If it’s worth me hearing in person, I’ll send a formal invite. Otherwise, tell him to take his opportunities and find someone with less… standards.”
Nestor studies me, like he’s trying to figure out if he can push his luck. “You always did hate the phone.”
“I’m tactile. And I prefer my problems to arrive with a plan and goddamn head attached.”
He laughs—short, thin. “You’re impossible.”
“Only when someone’s worth the trouble.”
The barb lands where it should. He shrugs like it’s nothing, but his eyes flick to the Castello as if cataloguing exits, guards, angles.
“Look,” he says, all humor vanishing from his voice. “The Pakhan asked me to reach out. He likes opportunities in new markets. He thinks the Folonaris’ connection might—”
“Don’t. I’m not involving myself with that family.” The warning is flat, cold. “You want to talk business, talk business. But don’t ask me to mediate between your Pakhan and the Folonaris. That family is nothing but trouble.”
He nods. “Fine. I’ll set up the call.”
“Tell your Pakhan I’ll listen when I’m good and ready. Until then…” I tap my hand over where my Glock rests. “Don’t show up on my territory without asking.”
Nestor tilts his chin. “You ever miss the old days? The way we used fight our way to the money? The simplicity?”
“No. The old days were ugly. At least now I have better wine.”
Nestor laughs, slips his hands in his pockets, and straightens. He gives me a last look—one part appraisal, one part provocation—and then turns to his vehicle. His truck door slams. Engines cough to life. The tailpipe hums a low warning as he peels out, black smoke blending into the morning haze.
Men like Nestor are predictable. Men like his Pakhan are not.
And men like me? Well, I don’t let surprises sit for long.