There’s a beat of silence before I say, “Well, you don’t have to worry about it happening again.”
“If anything, that’s worse,” he says. “If it’s a regular thing, people will just think it was a game you play. A kink or something.”
I furrow my brows. “That’s not really something I want to discuss with my father.”
“Don’t be a prude,” he says, shocking a laugh out of me.
His mouth twitches, then he gets serious again. “Look, Nico. I don’t know what’s going on between you and this woman. But keep a lid on it. If this is something you’re going to pursue, do it, but I don’t want to hear any whispers.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder. “But remember that she’s going to be in your office tomorrow morning and every other day. And remember that her father’s sick, and she’s vulnerable. So whatever you do, do it right.”
From the next room, we hear an explosion of greetings that must mean that Roberto and Olivia have finally arrived.
“Looks like Roberto’s finally done fucking his new bride,” I murmur.
He grins. “Well, Vito’s always had a way with words. But he’s probably right. And who can blame the guy?”
He claps my shoulder a couple of times before pulling back and walking to the door. “Better get in there, or Bianca will skin us,” he says.
“I’ll be a second,” I say.
I stare out the window again as he walks out, leaving me alone.
Once again, I picture Erica. This time, she’s in my arms, crying, clinging to me, even though I’m the one who drove her to it.
I feel an odd churning in my stomach.
Suddenly, I need to see her, and tomorrow just isn’t soon enough. I have no idea what’s going to happen, how she’s going to act.
And I have to stop thinking about it, or I’ll drive myself crazy.
I take a couple of deep breaths and set it aside mentally before heading back in for dinner.
Chapter Fifteen
Erica
My cubicle is parked right outside Nico’s office, close enough that I can hear his door handle when it turns, close enough that anyone headed for him has to pass me first.
I’m always in before he is.
Today is no different.
Staring at the same dual monitors, the same stack of reports that was here on Friday when I shut everything down.
On Friday, when everything was different.
The office is quiet in that early-morning way where every sound feels amplified. The tap of my keyboard. The distant whir of the printer warming up. Somewhere on the other side of the building, someone sets a mug down a little too hard.
Conti Operations is sleek, efficient.
Polished floors. Dark trim. Glass walls around the conference room and bullpen so everything looks open without actually being open. The lighting is warm instead of fluorescent-bright, like someone thought about the fact that people work here all day.
It’s expensive without being showy.
There’s a lounge area with two low couches and a coffee table that never gets cluttered because I don’t let it. A small coffee station with an espresso machine and a neat row of mugs. A couple of framed prints that are abstract enough to be meaningless, but nice enough.
A solid door. Dark wood. No window. No glass. No view in or out. It’s a sealed space where he manages the family’s clubs and bars—staffing, vendors, licensing, repairs, security, VIPs, HR issues, and the emergencies that always seem to happen at 2:00 in the morning when the rest of the world is asleep.
