Chapter 2

"I’ve arranged your marriage to the Santoro girl, Nico."

The hypocrisy of it made him ill.

Nico stared at his father, who sat behind the massive oak desk, looking so laid-back like his son had not taken three gunshots to the head inside their own home, by lord knows who, which is simply an inconvenience.

"And Salvatore?" Nico asked, trying to keep his voice level. "Do we just pretend that someone killed him in this house?"

Mr. Moretti helped himself to a drink, unmoved. "What does it matter now?"

Nico laughed, harshly.

That was all?

Not who did this?

Not find them.

Just another dead Moretti to sweep under the rug.

He shouldn't have been surprised. Feelings was something his father had long equated with weakness. He had ruled the family for years with steeliness and utterly without emotions.

Despite that, it infuriated him, that His father had only summoned him home to be bartered off to some Mirella Santoro, a stranger he did not know and had no intention of marrying. 

And his older brother could have been cruel, could have done things Nico couldn't ever forgive him for, but he was still family.

A Moretti.

And someone had shot three bullets into his head.

"I will not marry a stranger," Nico said coldly. "We have to worry about catching Salvatore's killer, not about forming an alliance with the Santoros."

His father did not even look up. "Salvatore is dead. That means you are head of this household now. So act like it."

He drained his glass. "You will marry Mirella, or you will forfeit everything."

Nico stilled.

"What are you talking about?"

"If you don't marry her, the inheritance goes to Lucien."

Nico froze.

Lucien.

Of course.

If his father ever picked who to threaten him with.

Lucien Rylan, their cousin—ambitious, ruthless, and utterly devoid of principle.

His brother used to refer to him as a parasite. Nico had always found that generous. Years earlier, he had been thrown off the estate after being caught diverting money through fictitious accounts.

"He's not loyal," Nico said to him. "He will bring down the family from the inside."

"He's still a Moretti," Mr. Moretti replied. "That makes him valuable."

Nico balled his fists. His father was skilled at identifying the right spot to hit—and hitting it precisely.

"Make me proud son." the man whispered. "I screwed up with Salvatore. I won't do that to you." 

Nico's jaw dropped, then closed again. He had no clue what response he had been looking for—but not that one.

His father moved toward the window, voice lower still. "I never should have let Salvatore marry that woman."

Nico's breath caught.

"She did nothing for this family," Mr. Moretti continued. "No power base, no influence. I let him spoil him, and it cost us."

That was all.

Nico stood back from the desk, jaw tight. He turned and strode for the door, anger drumming against his ribs.

He scarcely sensed the hall outside before colliding with something soft.

His arm went around the shape before they could fall.

Odette.

She froze in his grasp, her breathing frozen as his arm swept over her waist. For a moment—one beat too many—neither of them moved.

It had been five years since he'd ever come this close to her. Close enough to catch the familiar smell of her skin, the soft curve of her breath. Close enough to remember it all.

And too close to forget.

He'd once said he’d marry her—to his nanny, sketching her from the corner of a room. But Salvatore had heard him.

And days later, Odette had been his.

As always, their father had nodded to Salvatore's request to claim her.

His jaw clenched tight.

Her eyelashes were more remarkable than he remembered, curving softly at the edges.

And then she looked up at him—over her shoulder—and he felt something low, hard, in a place no woman had touched in too many years.

He’d taken woman in alleyways, in lodgings, in rooms he never returned to. Women who wanted more and offered even less.

But none of them had ever made him feel this.

This pain.

This perversion.

This… hunger.

"Wh-why are you here, Odette?" he rasped.

Her lips opened. "Nothing—" she says, raising a hand and waving indistinctly in the direction of the hall. "I was heading to my bedroom."

He nodded once.

His hand still resting on her waist.

Her waist fits perfectly into his palm. Soft beneath the wool. She hadn’t stepped away—and he hated how much that mattered.

Their eyes met again.

And for that ghastly, moment, he almost leaned in.

What if he kissed her? There in the front of his father's doorway.

Would she kiss him?

Would she slap him?

He could almost feel the taste of it.

His thumb crept along the material at her waist, slowly moving. Then like a dash, Nico drew in a sharp gasp.

What in God's name was he doing?

He let her go—abruptly, as if her skin had burned him.

"Pleasant night, Odette," he growled, his voice coarse.

He didn't bother waiting for her to respond.

He merely turned and walked away.

He needed air.

He needed a drink.

He needed her out of his head.

But God have mercy on him — she was already jammed into the place in him he couldn't reach.

He found the wine cellar, yanked open the creaky door, and stepped into the cool, dark quiet. His footfalls echoed thinly. 

All of wines still remained just the way he'd had left it—precisely labeled bottles, and glassware buffed to a shine.

He grabbed a Barolo, pulled the cork out with too much force, and poured.

The first swallow stung.

He took a second drink. 

The burn traveled down his throat and still wasn't reaching the fire burning in his chest.

He slumped heavily into the creaky armchair, his elbows on his knees, while the glass dangled from one hand.

He swiped a hand over his face and reclined.

No sooner had the glass found its way to his lips again than Nico halted.

A figure stood in the cellar doorway.

"Giancarlo," Nico said, putting the glass back down onto the table.

He hadn’t seen him in years. Once his close acquaintance, they had been thick too as thieves in their youth—until Nico left the Moretti estate behind.

And yet something in the man’s eyes said this wasn’t just a courtesy call.

"Giancarlo?" Nico's brow was furrowed as he slowly rose to his feet. "What are you doing here? I wasn't expecting you."

Giancarlo stood in the doorway for a moment, his posture mixed before stepping in. The corners of his mouth raised in a housed smile, as he moved to the armchair in front of Nico and collapsed into it.

"It's been some time dear friend," he said, reaching out toward the tumbler on the side table—and drained Nico’s drink in one long gulp. The liquor hit hard, and fast, and he actually enjoyed feeling the heat.

He softly set the tumbler down again.

"And I should have come earlier. I..." He stopped, drawing a hand through his hair;  "Word came to me about Salvatore. I'm sorry for you lost, Nico. I really should have been there, but." he averted his gaze, guilt flashing in his eyes, "The work at the found has been dominating all of my attention. I barely had a moment to even catch wind of it, much less make a trip."

"Convenient, considering he's already in the ground."

Giancarlo whined and nodded, shame fading in and out of his eyes. "I know. And I'm blaming myself for it. Salvatore was like a brother to me too. I should have been right there with you at the funeral." but I was neck-deep in three ongoing cases. I kept thinking I'd head out once things slowed down. But they never did."

Nico leaned back a little.

Giancarlo’s eyes looked downwards for a moment before slowly lifting again to meet those of Nico. 

He leaned forward.

"How’s your father holding up?" The question seemed to be cast away as an afterthought. "I imagine he’s taking it hard... in his own way."

Nico let a short breath. "You know how he is. Cold. He doesn't want Salvatore's name uttered even once since the burial. Makes it seem like he never even existed."

Giancarlo nodded slowly, his jaw working a little. "Sounds like him." 

He stopped, looking away like he was weighing on which words to say next.  "And Odette—his wife?" 

Nico’s eyes blazed briefly at the mention of this name.

Giancarlo looked, and stopped.

Then he exhaled slowly, which seemed to nudge a load deeper into his chest. He leaned back a bit, sliding his thumb along the side of his palm before speaking again.

"Nico. I have not only stopped by to pay my respects, or catch up. Though God knows I owed you both."

Another pause. His hands sought each other, his fingers loosely intertwined.

"There's something I must tell you. And believe me, I've really wondered whether I should or not."

He looked down briefly, as if the ground could offer courage.

"It's not easy, and I wish to God it was not mine to carry. But you're my friend, and more than that—you're Salvatore's brother. You have a right to know the truth no matter how hard it is to hear." 

He finally looked up and met Nico's gaze.

"It's about what might have really happened to Salvatore."

Nico's voice pointed. "Salvatore—What are you talking about Giancarlo?"