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JEWEL
Iwaited in the living room with Cat long enough for Luca and Nicu to come out. We’d cleaned up the mess of food from the fight while Cristo went to patch himself up in the bathroom.
To say I was mad would be an understatement.
I was furious.
Cat shot me worried looks while I waited, my fingers clenching the arms of the armchair I was sitting in. She knew exactly how pissed off I was by my silence. My throat was scratchy from the desire to screech at the top of my lungs. What the hell was he thinking?
It took me a good, long moment after the men were separated to comprehend the extent of what Nicu had done. He’d followed me to Cat’s house, which meant he had a tracking device on me, because I’d told him I was eating dinner out with Cat. Then he’d spied on me, which should not have surprised me. I was sure I knew the instant he lost his temper. It was when Cristo had played with my hair.
For a man like Nicu, that was like waving a red flag at a bull.
I could understand his distress. I would’ve been enraged if I’d caught a woman touching him, but there were a few crucial differences. First, I would’ve trusted him. He clearly did not trust me, which was outright insulting. It’s like he didn’t know me at all if he thought I was stupid enough to get seduced by another man. Cristo and I flirted, and granted, he’d never gone quite so far before, but I could’ve handled Cristo just fine on my own. Saving me from a frat party full of strange men when I was drunk was one thing. Barging into my friend’s home during a relaxing dinner was an altogether different thing. I was sick to my stomach at his behavior. I glanced over at the busted-in front door, which still hung from its hinges. There were stubborn stains on the rug, despite all the scrubbing Cat and I had done. Should I offer to get the rug cleaned? Ugh. Violent, criminal men were a drag. Just, ugh.
Sick of waiting, I’d asked Cat for a bowl of warm water and a first-aid kit as a pretense to give Nicu a piece of my mind and marched over to the bedroom door. Taking a deep breath to calm myself before I gave in to the urge to kick in the door, I knocked firmly.
The door swung open, and there was Nicu, his face bruised and bloodied, sitting on the bed. Oh my God. My stomach twisted with worry. I thought he’d won the fight, but Cristo had gotten in a few good shots. Luca was standing sternly by, probably giving his little brother the lecture of his life. My anger was tempered by Nicu’s bruises and imagining the things Luca had said to Nicu, things like how could he possibly consider being with someone like me. His family probably considered me a whore for having a sex life. I hadn’t had a lot of partners, but I sure as hell wasn’t a virgin, either.
I entered the bedroom cautiously.
Nicu’s eyes zeroed in on me, his gaze blazing with a sense of ownership. That, at least, told me that whatever his brother told him hadn’t chastened him in the least.
“Hey, baby doll,” he murmured.
Luca’s head snapped toward Nicu upon hearing the nickname. I groaned internally. As if fighting Cristo wasn’t enough, he just had to keep claiming me in public.
“I brought something to help you clean up,” I said, holding up the stuff I was carrying.
“Come here,” he ordered, patting the narrow bed beside him.
As I approached him, I stumbled in my step as I got a better look at his face. Yikes, it was worse close up.
“I should get ice,” I said, fear fluttering through my chest. “You need something for the swelling.”
Nicu gave his brother a meaningful look. “Luca will get it.”
With a beleaguered sigh, Luca stomped away wordlessly, although he made sure to push the door wide open on his way out.
“Close the door,” he demanded.
I placed the bowl and the kit on the night table and did as he asked. He was going to need a closed door for the chewing out I was about to give him after I dealt with his wounds.
As I moved toward him, he snagged me around the waist and put me on his lap.
I shoved at his chest, torn between worry and anger. “Nicu, I’m angry with you. Let me take care of your face, and then I’m going to rip into you so hard you’ll know better than to ever pull something like that again.”
“Sorry, baby,” he rumbled.
That caught me off guard. No one in my family ever apologized. Not once. My father never apologized for the turmoil he threw our family into. He never admitted to guilt, preferring to go through a lengthy, drawn-out trial than to admit he’d done something wrong. Then he’d tampered with witnesses, which led to a hung jury. Again, he made a conscious choice not to spare us another trial.
Saying sorry was a good beginning, and I respected that, but I needed more.
“What are you sorry about, exactly?” I queried, as I opened the first-aid kit. Snagging an antiseptic wipe, I dabbed at the cut by his temple. He flinched, but he stayed painstakingly still for my ministrations.
He frowned. “For almost hurting you, of course. It couldn’t be avoided, but I didn’t want you to get caught in the middle of our fight. Thankfully, Cat kept you out of the way.”
I let out an irritated huff. That was not nearly enough. He was going to have to do better. Much better. What about disrespecting Cat’s space, ruining her living room, embarrassing me, or how about not trusting me in the first place?
