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Nino sat at the piano, eyes closed, head tilted to the side, as his fingers flew over the keys. He was a sight to behold with his gruesome tattoos, countless scars, and that perfectly sculpted, emotionless face. I was sure no matter how long I’d live, I would never see anything more breathtaking than Nino forcing wondrous notes out of my piano.
The perfect composition battled with the unhinged notes, and then suddenly, inexplicably, they were no longer fighting for dominance. They wound around each other and it was more perfect together than any calculated symphony could ever be because it carried longing and hope, fear and resignation, love and hate. It carried it all, and I couldn’t protect myself from it.
The tears I’d been holding back slipped out, and I wrapped my arms around my chest as if that could stop my heart from jumping out of my ribcage. When the last note died off, I stood there shaking.
Nino opened his eyes and looked at me. And I knew then that if what I saw in Nino’s eyes, what I saw on his face, was simulated, then I could live with it because it filled my heart with so much warmth it burned me from the inside out.
“What is this?” he asked in a raw voice.
I took a step toward him. “What is what?”
“Tell me,” he said as he rose. “What is this if not emotion?”
I stared, not able to comprehend what he was saying, not daring to hope. “The song … that’s what you feel?”
Nino walked toward me slowly and regarded me as if I had shattered everything he believed. He stopped right in front of me, standing two steps below me so we were on eyelevel, and I could barely breathe. “Before you, there was calm. There was order and logic.”
I remembered the beginning of his song, that perfect composition. “And now?” I let out a hoarse exhale.
“Now,” he growled and his expression twisted, “now there’s chaos.”
I swallowed. What was I supposed to do with that kind of revelation? He startled me by cupping my cheeks, bringing our faces close, breathing harshly against my mouth, his eyes almost desperate.
“And you want the calm back,” I whispered.
His brows drew together as he regarded me. He dipped his head and kissed me, soft and slow, nothing like what I’d expected from the look in his eyes. “Yes and no. Perhaps. I don’t know,” he said quietly. “It takes some getting used to.”
And it lodged itself in my heart again, that stupid hope that perhaps one day Nino could … Nino would love me.
NINO
Remo watched me warily as he put a few more guns into the trunk of his car. He’d be leaving for Chicago in a few hours with Fabiano. We were meeting in the Sugar Trap in thirty minutes for a few last-minute preparations. “I still think I should come with you,” I said firmly. “You and Fabiano are a volatile combination in Chicago.”
“Fabiano knows more about the Outfit than any of us, and you need to make sure nothing happens here. You can keep things in order if Fabiano and I don’t return.”
“Your chances of returning would increase if I came with you.”
“These last couple of weeks, you have been erratic, Nino. I think it’s best if you stay here.”
I frowned. I had a better handle on myself, and the nightmares had stopped. But I wasn’t the same as I had been before. There was no denying it.
Remo touched my shoulder. “What is going on? Do I need to worry?”
“I’m not how I used to be,” I began, not sure how I could describe to him what I could hardly understand myself. “I feel things. It’s still a struggle, still not how normal people feel, I’m sure of it, but it is there.”
Remo had become very still. “It is because of Kiara?”
I nodded. “Because of her. She fought the demons of her past and made me realize that I, too, was shackled by memories, controlled by something I thought I had put past me.”
Remo looked away, fury contorting his expression. “Our mother should be dead. Father should have killed her after cutting Adamo out of her. I should have killed her when I took over, but she is still there. Still fucking alive.”
I touched Remo’s shoulder. “She’s as good as dead. A shadow of a person. She is the past.”
Remo gave a jerky nod and met my gaze, something dark and dangerous in his eyes. I knew that look and had seen it many times before. “Are you still at my side now that you have gone all soft because of Kiara?”
I gripped his forearm over the Camorra tattoo, and he mirrored the gesture. “We are brothers. Not just by birth, but by choice, and I will stand by your side until I take my last breath. Nothing will change that. Kiara knows it, and she accepts it. I have your back.” I paused. “And I’m not going soft, don’t worry. These new sensations … I worried they would weaken me, that I couldn’t be what you needed anymore, but they don’t and they won’t. I still don’t feel a flicker of pity or guilt when I kill and torture for our cause, and that won’t change.”
