Chapter 36 Nicolo
NICOLO
Fausto Mancini’s voice drones through the receiver, slick and practiced, every word calculated.
I stare out the window as he talks, the night bleeding into the horizon like it’s trying to swallow the world whole.
“Your end of the deal looks promising,” he says. “Our shipment comes in by Friday. I want your men there—quietly.”
“Your ‘quiet’ and mine don’t mean the same thing,” I reply, tone even.
A pause. Then a chuckle, the kind that sounds like it’s been rehearsed too many times.
“You’re not easy to please, Esposito.”
“That’s why I’m still alive.”
There’s another pause. I can hear him smirking through the line, the sound like the drag of a match before a fire.
“You’ll get the details in the morning. Don’t be late this time.”
He hangs up before I can respond. Typical Mancini move: pretend he has the upper hand, end the call first, leave you with silence that sounds like victory.
I slip the phone into my pocket, exhale, and start down the hall. The Castello is quiet except for the faint hum of rain against the glass, that soft tap-tap that fills the spaces when no one speaks. The house feels heavy tonight, like it’s holding its breath.
Then, halfway down the staircase, I hear it.
Music. Soft. Classical. Old. Not the kind of thing anyone in this house listens to. Not since before my father died.
I stop on the last step. The sound drifts from the living room: strings, piano, something low and haunting. The kind of piece that belongs to another time when people still believed art could fix anything broken. I follow it.
The room’s bathed in dim lamplight. Shadows stretch long across the marble, the reflections from the rain streaking the windows in fractured ribbons of gold. And then I see her.
Barefoot. Hair loose. Wearing a thin black slip that catches the light every time she moves.
It’s the kind of thing that should be hidden, meant for private eyes.
But she’s there, right in the open, holding Duchess in her arms, swaying slow, bare feet sliding soundlessly against the floor.
The cat doesn’t even fight her; she just watches, purring faintly, tail twitching in rhythm.
Mara’s eyes are closed. Her lips move, soft and soundless, as if she knows the melody by heart. And for a brief second—one I’ll never admit to—she looks untouched by everything that ruins the world.
It hits me in the chest harder than it should. I lean a shoulder against the doorframe and just… watch.
Her movements aren’t graceful in the way trained dancers move. There’s no precision. She moves like she’s chasing the ghost of something she used to be—careless, unguarded, free. The way someone moves when they think no one’s watching.
And maybe that’s why I don’t interrupt.
The song changes. Something slower now, deeper. The kind of piano piece that carries grief between its notes. The rain outside keeps rhythm, soft but steady, and she keeps swaying like she’s part of it.
Then she turns.
Her eyes find me instantly, like she felt me before she saw me. Surprise flashes there for half a second, gone before it can land. Then comes that spark. The one that lives somewhere between defiance and curiosity. The one that always means trouble.
She lowers the cat onto the couch. Duchess meows once, like she’s annoyed to be dismissed.
Mara doesn’t look away from me. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough.”
Her lips curve, not quite a smile. “Enjoying the show?”
I arch a brow. “You call that a show?”
She walks toward me—slow, deliberate, like she’s measuring how close she can get before I tell her to stop. “You tell me.”
“Mara—”
“Dance with me.” The words shouldn’t sound like an order, but they do.
“I don’t dance,” I say flatly.
“Liar.” She stops just in front of me, chin tilted up, eyes bright. “Men like you always say that until someone calls their bluff.”
My mouth twitches. “And you think you’re someone?”
“I know I am.” Her voice doesn’t shake.
Her confidence is maddening. She steps closer until I can smell the faint sweetness of her perfume: something with jasmine, but darker underneath, like smoke. It doesn’t belong in this house any more than she does.
Her fingers brush mine. Light. Testing.
“Mara,” I warn.
“What?” she whispers. “Afraid you’ll like it?”
I should walk away. I should say something to stop this madness before it starts. But I don’t.
Her hand slides up my arm, settling on my shoulder. My breath catches before I force it steady. I place a hand at her waist—bare skin under silk. Too warm. Too alive.
The music fills the space between us. For a moment, I let her lead.
It’s awkward. Her steps are uneven, her rhythm off, but it doesn’t matter.
Her laughter breaks the silence, soft and sudden, like light cutting through fog.
I don’t remember the last time I heard something that honest in this place.
“You’re not terrible,” she says, looking up through her lashes.
“I’m not trying.”
“You’re such a bad liar.”
I pull her a little closer. Her body goes still for half a heartbeat, then her breath brushes my throat. I can feel her pulse: fast, erratic, alive. It shouldn’t affect me. It does.
Her eyes flick between my mouth and my face. I shouldn’t notice. I do.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I say.
“Sure,” she whispers. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
The song ends, but neither of us moves. Another starts. A slower piano piece, quieter, the kind you only hear when you’ve already stayed too long. I realize her heart’s pounding against my chest. Or maybe it’s mine.
I step back first. Always me. Her expression shifts, like she wants to say something but doesn’t trust herself to. There’s color on her cheeks, her lips parted like she’s still trying to breathe.
Before I can say anything, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, not checking the screen.
“What?”
Romiro’s voice comes through. “You sound busy.”
“What do you want?”
“Just thought I’d call with some good news.”
“Define good.”
“She’ll be out of your hair soon.”
The words land like a punch to the ribs. My fingers tighten around the phone.
I glance at Mara. She’s crouched again, scooping Duchess off the couch and stroking her head absently. The cat purrs like she’s the only one not feeling the tension in the room.
“What do you mean?”
“Emiliano called,” Romiro says. “He’s making arrangements. Should be a couple of weeks, maybe less.”
My jaw tightens. “And you’re telling me this because…”
“Because I thought you’d like to know,” he answers easily. “You sound…upset about the news.”
“I’m not.”
He chuckles softly. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that, brother, and you might actually believe it.”
The line goes dead. I stare at the screen for a few seconds longer than I should. Then I slide the phone back into my pocket.
Out of your hair.
The phrase keeps looping in my head like a bad song. When I look up again, Mara’s watching me. There’s something in her face, something small and quiet. Maybe concern…but it feels like a hand pressed against a bruise.
“Everything okay?” she asks, voice softer now.
“Fine,” I lie.
She studies me like she doesn’t believe it. She’s getting too good at that—reading between the cracks.
The music keeps playing, soft and steady, and I realize the room smells like strawberries from her shampoo. Or maybe from the pancakes I made her nights ago.
I hate that I remember. I hate that it’s enough to drag me back to her mouth, to the way she said my name like it was a secret.
“Go to bed, Mara.”
She tilts her head, eyes glinting. “You always tell me that right before you do something stupid.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Not yet,” she murmurs.
And then she walks past me. Her shoulder brushes mine when she passes. It’s a small thing—barely contact—but I feel it long after she’s gone. Her perfume lingers in the air, sharp at the edges, sweet underneath. It sticks in my throat.
I stay there until the last note fades. Then I pour myself a drink. The glass is cold, the vodka colder. It burns on the way down, but not enough. Nothing ever does. I pour another.
The rain’s stopped. The quiet that follows feels wrong, like something missing rather than peace.
As I look at the doorway she disappeared through, my chest feels tight in a way that doesn’t make sense.
Out of your hair.
I say it in my head again, like repetition might make me feel any less. But the image of her swaying barefoot in the dark, hair wild, face soft with laughter…it sticks in my mind.
I tell myself it’s nothing. Just a distraction.
Except it isn’t. It never was.