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I tip my head. "You said she was from Sicily. I don't know if you said anything else about her."
"I didn't." He turns back to his cooking, stirring the pasta while seasoning more eggplants and tomatoes with expert ease.
Should I ask about her again? Nico clearly isn't offering up anything easily on this topic. It might be a painful topic for him. I'm still debating opening my mouth when the elevator pings. I startle and turn, trying to hide my anxious, mild terror under the guise of curiosity.
Johnny "Big Man" Attolini isn't the scarred, gnarly-faced mobster I had expected. Not that he looks entirely pleasant, either. He steps into the penthouse with a presence every bit as intimidating as his son's, his gaze critical but detached as it sweeps over the beautiful room. He glances at Nico cooking, but his attention quickly settles on me as he shrugs off his coat.
He doesn't smile or say anything, but I still steel myself and walk forward to offer him a handshake. I also put on the mostI'm-not-afraid-of-yousmile that I can manage, which I hope he buys.
"Hello. I'm Sybil."
Nico definitely gets his penetrating eyes from his father. After a moment that feels three times as long as it is, the kingpin finally takes my hand in his large, rough grasp. “È simpatica, figliolo.”
"Più di quanto ne sai,"Nico says directly behind me, making me jump.
Great. Apparently, he also gets his aversion to sticking to English from his father.
Standing between them like this, I can sense that their father-son dynamic is far from average. Johnny Big Man is a towering tribute to mafia heyday long gone, wearing his line-etched poker face and white hair like badges proving he's survived shit most people can't imagine. He looks at his son the way anyone else might look at a house they've just finished building by hand.
Meanwhile, Nico holds his father's gaze, every bit as indomitable and unreadable. He's younger and sleeker but just as tall and unflinching as the older mafioso. Aside from his eyes, he doesn't look much like Big Man. Maybe he takes after his mother—I remind myself to ask about that later, too.
Nico presses his hand against my hip. He doesn't make a show about it, but immediately, I feel a measure of safety I didn't feel a moment ago.
His father finally offers me the faintest semblance of a smile, enough to crease beside his lips. "Sybil. I was sorry to hear about your injury. I hope Dominick has been taking care of you."
"He has."
"I'm glad. My son, at times, he can be something of a…." He squints at Nico.
"Pain in the ass?" I suggest.
His smile deepens slightly with amusement. Hidden behind the harsh older man's gaze, I catch a glimpse of pride sparkling in his eyes as he looks over his son. "That, yes."
Nico gestures behind us at the dining room table that's already set. "Please sit."
I take a seat on one side, next to an end chair that Nico's father chooses. The table is dark stained oak, a chandelier glimmers above us, and the dinnerware is all hand painted and beautiful. I shouldn't be surprised anymore by how nice everything is here, but sometimes I just have to stop and appreciate that the brutal Undertaker has such fine tastes.
"Rivera, hmm? You must have Spanish heritage," Johnny Attolini notes.
"I think so."
"My wife loved Spain. Loved the food, the atmosphere, the people—she wanted to go every year. When she was pregnant with Dominick, she craved paella so much she hopped a plane one day and flew to Valencia to get some without telling me."
My smile relaxes into something more genuine, and I lean forward, intrigued. I didn't expect him to be so sharing where Nico is so tight-lipped. "Yikes. What did you do?"
His ghost smile returns. "I followed her. I was ready to give her hell when I showed up at the hotel, but my pregnant little wife was so glad to see me that I simply couldn't. We stayed the next three days, took in the sights. No one has ever made me as angry as my Sonia could, but she also made me happier than I knew I could be."
My eyes flick to Nico, who is now carrying steaming dishes of food to us. He sets everything down and sits across from me, his tidal eyes going from me to his father. There's a distinct protectiveness in them that makes my heart pound.
"What are we discussing?"
"Your mother," Johnny Attolini says wistfully. He begins plating his food.
I tip my head. "Speaking of which, what happen—"
"Here, Sybil," Nico cuts me off.
He begins piling food onto my plate, but as he does, he catches my eye with a fiercely warning look. I give him a quizzical eyebrow raise. He looks away, back to his father, who finally takes a bite of the pasta and eggplant.
