Page 156 of Stricken

The care in his touch sends a wave of warmth through me. I spent most of my life being untouchable, impenetrable. Now, I'm as fragile as spun glass.

And I can't quite tell which one I like better. Not feeling at all or feeling everything at once.

When we reach my car, Ivan's already there, ready to help me, but Nico shoos him away and guides me inside with tenderness I'd never expect from someone like him.

That first night, he doesn't go back home. He runs his empire from my office between showers and meal prep with Costa handling errands for him outside.

More often than not, I'm struck by the domesticity of these scenes. This dangerous man, heir to a massive criminal empire, chopping vegetables in my kitchen. I wonder if he secretly took classes while I was out or if it's just something that has always been in his blood, and he finally has an opportunity to demonstrate all his hidden talents.

"You don't have to do all this," I say the first time I find him sporting an apron. "I have kitchen staff who can handle it."

Nico looks up, blue eyes meeting mine, just as intense as the night I met him. The chef's knife in his hand glints in the sun streaming from the windows. "I want to, Vlad. I said I'd take care of you and I mean it. Let me."

Something in my chest tightens. I'm not used to this. I've been serviced all my life. Yes. But not cared for.

I open my mouth to argue, but Nico silences me with a look. It's then that I realize—I'm no longer in control in this relationship. And for once, that doesn't terrify me.

I simply watch him move around my kitchen, humming softly in Italian, enjoying the feeling of the ice around my heart thawing away completely.

Later, when we're alone in my bathroom, I sit on the edge of the tub, my broken leg awkwardly extended, feeling exposed in more ways than one.

Nico adjusts the temperature. "Ready?"

I nod. He helps me maneuver, guiding me to sit on the shower chair. The hot water hits my skin and I hiss, muscles tensing.

"Too hot?" Nico's hand hovers over the faucet.

"No," I grunt. "It's good."

Nico's fingers glide over my skin, like feathers teasing the surface of a pond, as he reaches for the soap. My eyes drift shut, consumed by the intimacy woven into this fragile moment. I never pictured our first naked encounter post-reconciliation would be like this—a mosaic of awkwardness and exposure.

Self-doubt lingers in my mind: does he see me as I wish to be seen, even now when I'm far from perfect?

"Relax," he breathes softly, his voice comforting as he massages the soap until it froths. "Better me than Ivan."

The joke draws a laugh from me—unexpectedly light against the heaviness of the situation.

His hands move across my body with gentle efficiency. A shiver runs through me at his touch. I open my eyes to find him watching me, his gaze intense.

"This isn't how I pictured this," I admit.

Nico's lips quirk. "No? And how did you picture it,caro?"

The pet name, spoken in that low, seductive tone, sends heat through me that has nothing to do with the shower. "With less medical equipment, for one." I knock at the edge of my cast I'm supposed to be getting off soon.

His own laugh echoes off the tile. "We'll get there."

And I believe him. I trust that every evening, as we sit on the terrace with glasses of iced tea and hopeful dreams of tomorrow, he means it. He will do everything in his power to fulfill his promises.

On one such night, after the cast is off and I feel emotional, I dare a question, "What are we doing here, Nicola?"

He shifts on the couch to face me, eyebrow raised, uncharacteristically hesitant. "What do you mean?"

I gesture between us. "This. Us. Can we... is this something real? Is this something we're going to try and fight for?"

Nico's expression softens. He reaches out, taking my hand in his. "It's as real as it gets, Vlad. And I'll fight for it us until my last breath."

There's a debate, right on the tip of my tongue. Because if this fight leads to his last breath, I don't want it. Now that both his cousins are out of the picture, he deserves a long, productive life. The kind of life his father or mother didn't get to live.

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