Page 76 of The Cost of Silence

“You’re very enabling today.”

“I’m accepting my fate,” Rossi replies solemnly.

I grab lights, warm white ones, not the icy corporate kind I know Nico prefers. Then ribbons, tinsel, ornaments, a wreath, a garland thick enough to smother an entire hallway in Christmas cheer. I spot a tiny Santa figurine holding a toy pistol, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and immediately put it in the cart.

Rossi hesitates. “A gun?”

“He’ll love it.”

“It’s Santa with a gun.”

“Exactly.”

Rossi closes his eyes like he’s praying for strength.

I’m reaching for a box of handmade glass ornaments when a familiar voice cuts through the aisle.

“Rossi.”

We both freeze.

Because Nico is standing at the end of the aisle, wearing a black overcoat, hands in his pockets, jaw clenched like he’s fighting the urge to pick me up and march me directly back to the penthouse.

Rossi straightens immediately, all six-foot-something of him going stiff. “Mr. Mancini,” he says without turning.

“Nico,” I try, very casual. Too casual. “Fancy seeing you here.”

His eyes flick over me, head to toe, checking for injuries, threats, or possibly explosives. Then he looks at the overflowing cart. His jaw ticks. “What,” he says slowly, “is all of this?”

“Christmas,” I say brightly.

He stares at me. Then at Rossi. Then at the cart. Then back at me.

Rossi starts talking fast. “She insisted. You were in a meeting. She made a compelling argument, and I assessed the risk as acceptable…”

Nico lifts a hand, cutting him off. “We’ll discuss it later.”

Rossi looks like a man who just received an early death sentence.

I bite the inside of my cheek. “You’re not mad?”

“I didn’t say that. But I’m here now.” Nico steps closer. Very close. Close enough that I feel the heat of him seep through the air. “You feeling okay?” he murmurs.

“Yes.”

“Your ribs?”

“Fine.”

His eyes soften. Barely. Then he glances pointedly at the Santa-with-a-gun figurine. “Explain.”

“It’s festive mob energy.”

A beat of silence. Then, God help me, he huffs a small laugh through his nose and drops his gaze to the cart like he’s trying to hide it. “It won’t fit on my door,” he says, holding up the wreath I added.

“It will.”

“It won’t.”