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That only makes me worry about Niccolo even more. He put a great deal of space between himself and his family. What happens now that Fausto is dead? “Do you need help carrying him inside? Will Adalina be upset that he’s here?”
With a charming smile, Dante readjusts his seat back to the way he found it. “I’ll be fine, so will my wife. If you see your uncles in the next few days, don’t mention anything I told you. You understand?”
“I-I didn’t have plans to see them,” I frown. “Well, sort of. Idid,” I correct myself, “but only to discuss the marriage they’re trying to arrange.”
With a devil-may-care attitude, Dante offers, “If you’re up for it, I can add Rocco to our hit list.” His nonchalant tone belies the gravity of his words. “Nic filled me in on what went down last weekend and I’ve been looking into Rocco Castiglione. He’s not someone to be trifled with. He’ll probably kill you within the first year.” The weightlessness of Dante’s voice catches me off guard. I don’t know if he’s joking or if he’s serious. That’s the problem with Dante: you never know where you stand because he’s sweet and kind until he’s not.
“That’s what I’m going to talk to Gio and Marco about. I’m going to see if they’ll change their minds if I offer to give up—” I stop mid-sentence, realizing that I’m about to admit to Dante that I’ve been having a relationship with his brother.
A smile, mischievous and alluring, plays on his lips as he indulges himself by leaning forward. The movement is slow and deliberate as if savoring every moment. His eyes sparkle with a hint of mischief, and his lips curl up in a playful grin. “I know about you and Nicci,” he whispers. “It’s a little scandalous, but I’ve done shadier things than you fucking your stepfather.”
A pink stain spreads across my cheeks. “There’s nothing going on between Nic and me.” Not anymore. That’s what I’m going to promise my uncles in exchange for my freedom.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Dante shrugs. “But if you love him the way he loves you, you’ll give me a few days to figure something out. The Terlizzi family may have lost their head, but we will come back stronger. And I promise, if you give us a few days, we’ll figure out how to protect you from your family’s wishes. Nic insists on it, in fact.”
I haven’t heard from him in five days, but somehow he spent that time juggling his grief and figuring out how to save me from a fate that we inflicted upon ourselves. “I’ll, uh, I’ll leave it alone for now. Thank you, Dante.”
He climbs out of the car and opens the passenger door to haul Niccolo out of the backseat. “Don’t thank me. Thank Nicci. He was willing to trade his life for yours if that’s what it took to keep you safe. Big heart, this one.”
Chapter 32
Niccolo
When I wake up, everything is a disorienting whirl. I’m also not in my room, which is concerning. The only thing I know for sure is the sound of Dante angrily yelling in Italian at someone means I’m in good hands.
As I attempt to sit up, a wave of pain surges through my body, radiating from my skull to the tips of my hair. I groan and quickly lie back down. “I have a hangover.” Which seems fitting, since the last thing I can remember is throwing back shots in a bar that smelled like stale beer.
Dante’s footsteps echo on the marble floor, gradually growing closer. “Nic?” he calls out, his voice tinged with both worry and amusement. “Oh, shit,” he chuckles upon coming into the room. “Your face is messed up.”
With aching fingers, I reach up to touch my throbbing forehead, realizing that the excruciating discomfort is not solely due to the effects of alcohol but also the consequence of the gash above my eyebrow. “Did you do this?” I ask, my voice tinged with accusation.
Dante snorts dismissively as he takes a seat on the couch across from me. “I wish I had, little brother. Alas, it was some biker at the bar who did this. Lucky bastard.”
I vaguely remember going to Leather & Lager. “Didn’t we start drinking in Manhattan?” I frown as more of the night’s events come back to me. “How’d we get to Rosedale?”
“Uber,” Dante replies nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders. “Lucky was trying to get lucky, and Sally tagged along. Meanwhile, you rambled on about calling Christine. Which must have been some kind of bat symbol because she showed up at the bar.”
Christine. Fragments of her image flit through my mind, accompanied by a flash of red, but that could have been blood. “What’d I say to her?”
Dante busies himself with his phone, his fingers rapidly swiping across the screen. The sight makes me dizzy. “I don’t know,” he responds, his voice laced with disinterest. “I don’t even know when you called her. One moment, we were downing shots, and the next, she walked in just as you were taking a swing at some behemoth of a biker.”
That wasn’t smart. I don’t remember why I wanted to fight the bikers, but I vaguely recall getting punched in the stomach. “Where’s Luc and Sal?”
“Home, probably. Unless they went somewhere else after Christine showed up.”
Dante makes a sound of amusement before casually discarding his phone next to him on the couch. “Listen, Nicci, are you sure you want to protect this girl?” He probes, a trace of concern creeping into his voice.
“Where is she?” I ask. I’m afraid to sit up again because the pain from the last time I tried is only just now starting to recede.
Dante repeats his previous statement with a shrug. “Home, probably. I don’t know, Nic. She dropped us off last night and left. Just answer the question.”
The drive home was a blur. Dante threw me into a car, and the rest of the trip was a blur of stoplights. “She saved me.”
Dante sits there quietly, staring at me with a rage that I can feel simmering beneath the surface. “Niccolo, listen to me.” He takes a no-nonsense stance by leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees. “She said she was going to give you up. Is that really the kind of girl you want, Nic?”
My stomach churns, an unpleasant reminder that we skipped dinner last night. It explains why I feel utterly miserable. “Christine’s uncles want her to get married, and—“ I start explaining.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dante interrupts dismissively. “I know all about that. You want to fight for her and blah blah blah. But I’m telling you, she was ready to give you up to secure her freedom. Is that the kind of woman you want to fight for?”
