Nikki checked her watch as she leftThe Prophet. It was 21:14. She was late to meet Valerio. She texted him an apology and an ETA. He replied with a thumbs-up emoji.
She was walking briskly down the pier, focused on reaching her bike, when someone shouted: “Nikki! Nikki Serafino! Ciao, bella!”
The call came from the deck of a sleek twenty-meter yacht, where a man was smiling and waving. Nikki raised her hand to wave back before recognizing Vincente Di Pavola, father of her ex, Enzo.
She was suddenly hot, mind flexing. Her hand dropped to her side.
Nikki hadn’t seen or heard from Enzo or his father since the summer, when she learned that Vincente had paid her debt to Tito Calandra. This was hardly an act of charity from the canny businessman, however; he’d meant it to pacify her after Enzo sent a thug to her house.
Vincente gestured her forward: “Come, come! Nikki!”
Then he seemed to register her mood. He held up a palm, shouting, “Please, don’t go. Wait. I’ll come to you!”
She watched, mind detaching a little as Vincente exited the boat and jogged towards her. He was well styled in slacks and a black leather jacket. And he looked so much like Enzo—those easy, muscular movements. Like a powerful cat. Also, like Enzo, he was handsome—but his tanned face was aging, wrinkles and folds set into characteristic lines, his thinning hair neatly trimmed.
“Grazie,” he said as he approached. “Thank you for waiting. I’m glad to see you.”
Her legs shifted, wanting to run away as he leaned in and kissed her cheeks in that familiar gesture she so disliked.
“Signor Di Pavola,” she acknowledged.
“You’re looking fit,” he said. “I hope you’re keeping well.”
“I am.”
He paused, and seemed to consider. “Let me be frank. I’ve wanted to come to you a dozen times. I was appalled to learn what Enzo did. I don’t know what to say except that I’m so very sorry.”
The apology was so spontaneous, so sincerely expressed, Nikki was stunned.
In the years she’d dated Enzo, she had met the shrewd businessman a few times—but she’d only ever really seen him through the lens of Enzo’s perception, where he was hard and disapproving of his youngest son. Vincente Di Pavola had, through Tito’s intermediary, paid sixty thousand euros to recompense Nikki for Enzo’s attack, and Nikki assumed he’d viewed this as a business transaction, his responsibility towards her closed.
His expression now, far from what she might have expected, was open and warm and full of concern.
Those eyes were so much like Enzo’s. The realization brought a pang—and Nikki understood how much she needed Enzo’s apology…his remorse and tenderness.
Perhaps this was the closest she would ever come.
Some barrier in her chest seemed to soften.
“Please,” he continued, motioning to the restaurants on the shoreline. “May I buy you a drink?”
She shook her head. “I have an appointment. I need to get going.”
“I see.”
His disappointment seemed almost childlike. Then his mood shifted. His expression turned suddenly serious.
“I want you to know,” he said, “Barile doesn’t work for me anymore. I was sickened to find out what he did—that he hurt you. It was inexcusable.”
“It was inexcusable,” she agreed.
“May I walk with you?” He gave a flourishing gesture. Nikki nodded.
—
As they approached her bike, Vincente continued: “I regret Enzo did something that can never be forgiven. I always liked you for him. You and I both know my son is weak. He takes after his mother. People like that need someone strong to look out for them.”
Nikki stopped, and faced him. “Signor Di Pavola.”
