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As I approach Papa’s study and prepare to get shouted down, a shadow steps out from the nearby rec room and pauses on my right. I slow and steel myself as Nico shows his perfectly white teeth and crosses his arms over his massive chest. Tattoos snake up his arms and disappear into his crisp white shirt. He’s always wearing suits, even in the oppressive desert heat. It’s like he doesn’t feel the temperature bearing down on him. Like his heart’s made of ice. I can’t remember ever seeing him sweat.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” he asks, his eyes sparkling.
I raise my chin and steel myself. I know that tone: Nico’s in the mood to make me feel like shit once again. Sometimes I wonder why he’s always hanging around—he’s not part of my family, at least not my blood family.
“Papa’s study. As much as I love our conversations, I can’t keep him waiting.”
Nico laughs softly and leans against the walls, studying me. He always does that—stares like I’m a piece of fine art hanging on a gallery wall waiting to be picked apart and analyzed. It’s disconcerting, and I can never seem to get away from his oppressive staring.
“I was just thinking about you, princess,” he says, head tilted, pretty lips pressed tightly together. “Your brother was talking about this little match of yours, and I’m curious how you’re going to weasel your way out of it.”
My jaw twitches but I don’t let the discomfort show. “Whatmatch?” I ask carefully.
His eyebrows raise. “You don’t know?”
“Don’t play games with me right now, Nico.”
“This is no game, princess. This is the word of the Don himself. Your father went and found you a husband.”
I step forward and jab my finger into his chest. I feel nothing but hard muscle, but I’m too angry to stop myself from literally poking the bear and too dizzy with shock to think about how nice it feels to touch him.
“That’s not true.”
He snatches my finger as I try to poke him again. He squeezes hard and I release a surprised yelp. It doesn’t hurt—but it’s right on that edge of pain, and all he needs to do is push a little more to make me groan in agony.
“Don’t touch me, princess.” His eyes blaze into mine and I know I crossed a line. Nico and I might bicker and fight, but we nevertouch, like there’s an invisible barrier holding us back. “If you want to call me a liar, go ahead and do it. But don’t poke at me like I’m some kind of fucking house servant.”
I glare right back. This was a massive mistake—Nico’s not the kind of man I should be messing with, but I lost my temper and couldn’t control myself. Now I get to pay the price like always. I really should get into anger management or something.
“Let me go, dickhead.”
“No. I like watching you squirm. Little spoiled brat like you deserves some punishing every once in a while.”
“Nico.” I glare at him, jaw working. “You want me to scream?”
He leans closer. “I’d love it if you’d scream for me, princess.”
“Asshole.” I rip my finger away. It hurts like hell but at least I’m free. I rub my knuckle as he watches me with an amused smile and I start to shift past him toward my father’s study.
“Fair warning. He’s in a sour mood, so whatever you thought was about to happen is probably going to be worse.”
“How do you know all this anyway?”
He looks away. “Something with the business. I can’t say more.”
“Oath of silence?”
“Something like that. Famiglia shit, you know.”
I roll my eyes. I know what the family business is. “You know, Nico, I can’t wait for the day when my papa assigns you somewhere far, far away and I never have to deal with your crap again.”
“I highly doubt that.” He looks back at me and a smirk graces his pretty mouth. “You love it when I torture you and, princess, you’d better believe I love to torture.”
“What you call fun, I call annoying and borderline harassment, so kindly fuck off,” I flip him off, turn on my heel, and march to my papa’s study.
But his words linger. Nico is a lot of things—asshole, bully, conceited piece of shit, aggressive dickhead, so on and so forth—but he’s not a liar. So I’m more than a little concerned when I reach Papa’s study and knock on the intricately carved wooden door before turning the handle.
It’s cool and quiet. Big, shaded windows line the top of the walls, beneath which bookshelves are packed to overflowing. A big desk sits on the left, and a fireplace that’s never used is on the right. I drift forward and Papa looks up from his laptop, a perpetual frown on his lips. He looks older every day—his thick hair is turning gray and thinning at the edges, and thick bags hang beneath his eyes. It’s all the stress from running the family business, and sometimes I wish my three brothers, Casso, Fynn, and Gavino, would step up sooner rather than later, just so Papa wouldn’t have to work so hard.
