He doesn’t want to be here. He’s here because my father told him to come, and that resentment is radiating off him like heat. And when my brother doesn’t like what he’s doing, everyone around him pays for it.
“So.” He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling with his thumb. Not looking at me. “Dad wanted to make sure you’re still where he put you.”
“Yep, still here.”
He doesn’t respond. Just scrolls. The silence stretches, and I can feel it pressing against my skin, that particular Nikolai silence that dares you to fill it. I know better. I’ve always known better.
I fill it anyway.
“How was Miami?”
“Productive.” He sips his vodka. Eyes still on the screen. “Wrapped up with Restrepo’s people this morning.”
My fingers go still in my lap.
“Your future husband sends his regards.” A beat. The corner of his mouth lifts. “I’m kidding. He didn’t mention you. He cares about the pipeline and the laundering infrastructure, not the gift wrap.”
The gift wrap.
That’s me. The pretty bow on a deal made by men who’ve never once asked what I think about any of it.
“His people want the wedding within sixty days of the deal closing.” He shrugs. “So start thinking about what you want to wear, I guess.”
Two months.
My nails press crescents into my palms where he can’t see.
I knew the marriage was coming. I didn’t know it would be this soon. Didn’t know they’d already sat across from Restrepo’s people and mapped out the rest of my life over whatever they eat at cartel negotiations. Steak, probably. Cigars after.
“I’ll be ready,” I say, because that’s what’s expected of me.
“You don’t really have a choice, so yeah.” He sets the glass on the coffee table, still half full. Vodka sloshes over the rim onto the wood. He doesn’t wipe it up.
I watch the puddle spread into the grain.
His phone buzzes. He takes the call without excusing himself, swiveling away from me on the couch, and for two full minutes I sit there and listen to him talk logistics with someone in a voice that’s warmer than anything he’s used with me since he walked through my door.
I’m furniture. I’m the throw pillow he shoved aside to sit down.
When he hangs up, he pockets the phone and stretches, rolling his neck until it pops. He’s almost smiling, which is rare enough to notice.
“Sounds like Lorenzo Andretti’s youngest went missing.” He says it to the room more than to me, still riding whatever high the phone call gave him. “Luca always was a piece of shit. Good riddance.”
I nod like I care. I don’t. The Andrettis are my father’s obsession, not mine.
Nikolai checks his watch and stands. “Alright. I’ve got a flight to catch.” He grabs his jacket off the couch and cuts through the kitchen toward the door.
I let myself exhale for the first time since he walked in.
That’s when he stops. His hand lands on my anatomy textbook, the one I left on the counter, bristling with colored tabs and sticky notes.
Every muscle in my body locks at once.
Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes spent scrubbing every trace of Johnny from this house, and I leftmyselfsitting right there on the counter.
He turns it over in his hand. Reads the spine. Flips to a page I had bookmarked. His mouth twitches.
“What’s this?”
