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"Hard pass. I'm not hungry," I lie.
He ignores me, taking a seat and watching me calmly until I grumble and take a seat, too. Maybe he just doesn't want to kill me on an empty stomach. I'll take what I can get I guess because my stomach is rumbling ferociously.
I nearly take a bite and then hesitate, noticing his eyes on me. I set the fork down quickly, glaring. "You first."
Nico arches a brow. For a long moment, we have a standoff. I refuse to look away first, but I'm quickly losing the battle with how even and penetrating his gaze is.
"The longer you stall, the colder it gets."
I scoff. "The fact that you're refusing to touch your own food makes me think you're either a horrible cook or it's poisoned. If it's the first, I'm not surprised. If it's the latter, there are better ways of killing me."
"Yes, there are," Nico deadpan agrees, leaning across the table a little to make sure I can't mistake him. "Poison is for cowards. I wouldn't waste my time cooking for a mark. If I'd decided to kill you, Sybil, you'd be dead. Eat the damn food."
I fight the shiver at his words and finally look at my plate. I admit it: the food smells divine. Oddly enough, his words are a tiny bit comforting. "Fine. But don't expect me to compliment the chef."
He mutters something in Italian as I finally dig in. He eats, too, and in the silence, I listen for any sign that his henchmen are still in the hallway. I hear nothing. Since they're not the quietest bunch, I frown.
"Did you send Percy home like you did Ace?"
His lips tighten. "I see you learned their names."
"Unlike you, I haven't spent the last four years becoming surly and horrible, so I happened to care about learning their names. Ace seems too young for this kind of life."
He leans back, apparently done eating. "He's well past the recruitment age."
I stiffen. "What, are you recruiting children or something?"
"He's no child. He's twenty."
"He has a whole life ahead of him. He shouldn't throw it away trying to earn your approval."
Nico's eyes flash, and I can see a sharp response on the tip of his tongue. But to my surprise, he holds it back and looks pointedly at my plate. "Done?"
I wrinkle my nose, suspicious. "It's hard to have an appetite when we're in the same room."
"I couldn't agree less. It gets worse every time."
Before I can demand what he means by that, Nico takes the dishes to the sink. It's such an odd sight, this man in the high-end suit cooking and tidying with crisp, calculated movements. Maybe he's a neat freak on top of being a mafioso. Must be challenging, with all the bloody messes he apparently makes.
He sits back down and regards me. There's a tense thoughtfulness to him tonight, and his presence is less overwhelmingly terrifying than it was earlier. Again, I wonder what his meeting was about. Whatever it was, it's clearly changed something.
Not my business. I don't care what Nico does at meetings. I just want to go.
I clear my throat. "So, if you're not going to kill me—which is great, by the way—then…when can I go home?"
He doesn't respond for a long moment. Finally, he folds his arms. "Your home isn't safe."
I grit my teeth. "I'm aware. That's why I need to get back."
"To volunteer yourself as your family's human shield again? I think not."
"Again?I don't know what you're talking about."
Nico's eyes narrow. "Maybe you don't. How close are you to the Gatto family?"
The question takes me aback, and I gape at him. "Close? Are you insane? Do you think I've joined them or something?"
"The idea crossed my mind. Why else would you get involved with them four years after your last run-in?"
