Beautiful Things Don't Survive Here.

Nico

The girl, Ava, is young. So fucking young. Not in age, not exactly. She's legal, she's mine by law and blood and vow. But there’s a softness to her, naïve, wide-eyed, untarnished by the world I clawed my way through. She still looks at me like I could be a good man. And that? That’s the part that fucking kills me. Yes, I’m only seven years older, but I might as well be a lifetime ahead of her. At eighteen, I’d already had blood on my hands and betrayal etched into my bones. I had learned that kindness was a currency too easily spent, and weakness? Weakness got you buried. She hasn’t learned that yet. She looks at this house like it’s a fresh start, not a gilded cage. She smiles at me like I’m the prize, not the punishment. She doesn’t flinch when I come near her. Not yet. Ava acts like she has no idea who she’s really married to. What I really do. What kind of life she’s just stepped into with that pretty white dress and soft promises at the altar. She doesn’t know that the wedding ring on her finger is as much a shackle as it is a symbol. She doesn’t see the blood behind the diamonds. But she will. I’ll have to teach her. The way my father taught me. In this life, love isn’t enough. Dreams aren’t enough. If you want to survive, no, if you want to win, you need to be hard. Cold. Calculated. Emotion is a luxury. And softness? A death sentence.

Yet here I sit, in the quiet of my kitchen, staring at a plate of eggs and toast and bacon, simple, homemade. It smells like a Sunday morning. It smells like a life I haven't tasted since I was a boy, before everything went black. She made it for me. She even left me a note when I didn't come downstairs, like this is normal. Like we’re a normal couple in a normal fucking world. And it makes something dangerous stir in my chest. What happens if I teach her too well? What happens if I snuff out that fire behind her eyes? If I cut her open to show her the monsters beneath the bed and she realizes she’s married to one? To the monster. Will she run? Will she shatter? Or worse... will she become like me? I know what I’m supposed to do. I’m supposed to mold her, bend her into the perfect wife for a man like me. Quiet. Loyal. Obedient. Cold. But as I stare down at this breakfast, something I haven’t had since my mother died, I find myself hesitating. She’s mine now. That much is clear. The papers are signed, the vows are sealed, the blood spilled. She belongs to me, in every way that matters. Mine to love. Mine to protect. Mine to break, if I have to. But for the first time in a long time, I wonder...What if I don’t want to break her? What if I want to keep her just the way she is… even if it destroys us both? No. Don’t be fucking stupid, Nico.

I grind my molars as the thought cuts through the haze. I shove the softness down, bury it deep where it belongs. The girl will have to change. There’s no way around it. I will make her change, mold her with my own hands if I have to. Not because I want to destroy her, but because it’s the only way she’ll survive in this world. My world. A world of shadows, loyalty measured in body counts, and love that tastes like blood. She doesn’t get to stay soft. She doesn’t get to be the exception. That’s how people die. Dominic strolls in like he owns the fucking place, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder as he lets out a low whistle.

“That’s one hell of a girl you’ve got yourself, Don,” he says with that lazy smirk, the one that makes me want to break his jaw some days.

“Keep your fucking eyes off her.” The words are out before I can stop them, low, sharp, deadly.

He freezes, then raises his hands like I’ve pulled a gun on him. “Hey, hey. Relax, boss. I’m just saying. She made breakfast. It’s not every day a girl like that cooks for guys like us. You know it’s true.”

I grunt, jaw tight, throat dry. Because fuck him, I do know. Too well. She’s not like the others. Not the bottle-blondes who chase power, not the hungry-eyed daughters of made men who only want titles and diamonds. Ava’s soft. Real. Fucking dangerous in all the wrong ways. And she’s mine. But when I glance down at the plate, perfect eggs, crispy bacon, toast with just the right spread of butter, I feel my stomach turn. She tried. She thought of me. And I can’t even take a bite. I shove the plate away with a sigh and stand, grabbing a glass from the counter.

“I need a drink,” I mutter.

Dominic snorts. “Another? Did we not drink enough last night?”

“No.” I pour the amber liquid into the glass like it’s medicine. Maybe it is.

He leans against the counter, watching me with that amused tilt of his head. “Jesus. You know, usually this is the part where you’re supposed to be off somewhere warm, in bed, balls-deep in your honeymoon phase with your very beautiful wife. Not standing in your kitchen, pounding whiskey and scowling at scrambled eggs.”

I ignore him, tipping the glass back.

He laughs under his breath. “Seriously, man. You get a good one for once, and suddenly you look like you’re in mourning. What gives?”

I glare at him over the rim of my glass, letting the silence stretch long enough to make him shift.

What gives is that I don’t know what the fuck to do with something pure. What gives is that I don’t trust the way she smiles at me like I’m not already damned. What gives is that I’m scared, fuck, I’m scared, that the second she sees me for what I really am, she’ll leave. Or worse, stay, and become like me. I slam the glass down harder than necessary.

“She’s not ready,” I mutter.

“Ready for what?”

I look him dead in the eye. “This life. Me.”

Dominic doesn’t laugh this time. He just nods slowly, then says, “Then you better decide, boss. Are you going to protect her from it... or teach her how to survive it?”

I say nothing. Because I already know the answer. Even if it fucking kills me. I’ll make her into someone who can survive. Even if it means she’ll never look at me the same again.