Page 104 of The Cost of Silence

I wake in Nico’s bed. Warm sheets. Heavy quilt. Fairy lights I’d strung around his dressing room casting a soft, golden glow through the crack in the door. My body aches in all the best ways, a deep, satisfied hum beneath my skin. My ribs twinge if I move too fast, but compared to the rest of me, they’re background noise.

The other side of the bed is empty but not cold. His scent clings to the pillow, that blend of cedar and something darker, like smoked wood and winter air. My fingers curl there for a second, right where his head was.

You’re gone but you were here. With me.

Last night feels like a movie, Christmas lights, turkey coma, my mother calmly bossing mobsters around in the kitchen, Letty falling asleep on my mandated couch cushions, Nico’s hand on my knee under the table, his thumb tracing lazy circles against my skin. Then the quiet after, music low, my mom leaving with Rossi, Nico’s mouth on mine on the couch, his palm spread between my shoulder blades like he was holding me in place.

Then later, under the tree. I’m beginning to think he likes that tree more than I do. Or at least fucking me under it.

Yeah. That happened—again.

Heat floods my cheeks and I bury my face in the pillow, grinning like an idiot.

I’m so screwed.

The bedroom door opens. “You’re awake.”

I push myself up on my elbows and try not to look like someone who was just replaying his mouth between my legs in hi-def.

He steps in wearing dark slacks and a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie hanging undone around his neck. Completely put-together and a little wrecked at the same time. There’s faint stubble on his jaw, like he chose sleep, or maybe me, over shaving.

His eyes sweep over me in his bed, his t-shirt swallowing my body, hair a complete disaster. Something sparks there, hot and proprietary, before he reins it in.

“Hey,” I say, suddenly shy and absolutely hating that.

“Morning, Belle.” His voice softens. “How are you feeling?”

I stretch carefully. My thighs complain in a way that has everything to do with him and absolutely nothing to do with the fire or the attack. “Sore,” I admit. “In… a variety of places.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Good sore?”

“Very good sore.” My cheeks heat. “And my ribs are okay. Promise.”

He crosses to the bed, perches on the edge, and brushes his fingers over my hairline, tucking a strand behind my ear. The gentleness of it hits harder than the sex did, which feels unfair.

“I have to go into the office,” he says. “A few hours. Adriano wants to go over some contracts in person, and I need eyes on a couple of things.”

“It’s the holidays.”

Nico purses his lips. “Not for the boss it isn’t, and I won’t be long.”

My stomach dips stupidly. “Okay.”

“You’ll be here,” he says, like it’s a condition, not a suggestion. “Rossi’s downstairs. Two men in the lobby, two on this floor. You don’t open the door for anyone who isn’t me, Rossi, or one of my brothers. You need anything, you call me. You even think something is off, you call me.”

I snort lightly. “You forgot the part where I’m not to set anything on fire.”

“Don’t set anything on fire,” he agrees, deadpan.

“Or go on solo investigative missions?”

His eyes narrow the tiniest bit. “You’re mocking me.”

“A little. With love.”

He leans down and kisses me, slow and warm, the kind of kiss that steals my breath and rearranges my insides.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine for a beat. “I’ll be back this afternoon,” he murmurs. “We’ll pick up where we left off.”