My gaze flicks past him to the champagne chilling in a bucket beside the bottles, condensation beading on the neck. It’s there like a joke. Like they expect me to celebrate.
I haven’t touched it. I haven’t had the courage. My nerves feel too close to the surface, my stomach too unstable.
I guess they don’t care that I’m not twenty-one yet.
They don’t care about a lot of things.
Nico doesn’t offer me the drink. He takes another slow sip himself, eyes still on me, and I realize his calm is like his anger. Controlled, not loud, but encompassing.
“I don’t understand,” I manage, and my voice wobbles despite how hard I try to keep it steady. “Why would you say it like that, sir?”
The word “sir” just rolls out automatically. It’s how I address him at work, so it should feel normal. But every time I say it here, in this room, I want to bite it back. Because it feels different, feels wrong.
Feels right.
He lowers the glass slightly, watching me over the rim. “Because you need it said plainly.”
“I’m not—” My throat tightens. I swallow hard. “I’m not yours.”
His eyes narrow, just a fraction. “In general? No.”
The words should reassure me. They don’t, not fully, because he doesn’t look reassuring. He looks like a man who made a decision and will see it through.
“But tonight,” he adds, voice low, “you are.”
I flinch.
He sees it. His jaw flexes once.
“Don’t twist it,” he says. “I’m telling you what this is.”
“I know what this is,” I snap, and it comes out sharper than intended. Defensive. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Furious with myself, and with him, and with the whole night.
His gaze holds mine, unblinking. “You didn’t.”
The certainty in his tone makes my skin prickle.
I take a step back without meaning to. The carpet catches the heel, and I steady myself, arms tightening around my body like that will keep me from shaking.
“Then tell me,” I say, and my voice drops. “Tell me what you think you’re going to do.”
He takes another slow sip. He sets the glass down on the edge of the bar without looking.
Then he walks back toward me.
Not fast. Not aggressive. Just direct.
Every step makes the air feel tighter. Every step reminds me how much larger he is than I am. How solid. How used to being obeyed.
I’m not stupid, despite what he thinks. I didn’t walk into his office one day off the streets. I know who he is. I know who the Family is. And what he does for the Family.
Everyone in New Jersey knows the name Nico Conti. They whisper his name in the dark, in fear.
Capo. The word is a whisper, like I can’t say it too loud, even in my mind.
But I’ve never felt threatened by him before. Not at work, at least.
I’m not entirely sure I do now either. What I’m feeling is not fear. Not for my life anyway.
