Page 109 of My Best Friend Is Broken
Chapter thirty-six
Nicky
The house in Mayfair is exactly what you’d expect from someone at Dario’s level. Elegant, expensive, and so far removed from the council estate where Liam and I grew up that it might as well be on another planet. White Georgian townhouse, black iron railings, windows that probably cost more than most people’s yearly salary. The kind of place that appears in architectural magazines and makes you check your shoes before stepping on the polished hardwood floors.
I glance at Liam as we approach the front door, checking his reaction. His eyes are wide, taking in the grandeur with a mixture of awe and something that might be intimidation. He’s dressed in one of the new suits we picked up the other day. It’s charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, making him look like he just stepped off the page of a menswear magazine. The jacket fits his shoulders perfectly, emphasizing the muscle he’s been rebuilding at the gym, and the dark color makes his blue eyes even more striking.
He looks incredible. Sophisticated and polished in a way that makes my chest tight with pride and something more possessive.
“You okay?” I ask quietly, my hand finding his as we reach the steps.
“It’s just... a lot,” he admits. “I’ve never been anywhere like this.”
“Neither had I, when I first joined the mafia. But it’s still just a house, and they’re still just people.” I squeeze his hand. “Besides, you’ve met Molly. You know he’s not going to make this stuffy or formal.”
As if on cue, the front door swings open before we can knock, and Molly appears in an outfit that can only be described as deliberately flamboyant. Tight leather trousers, a silk shirt in a shade of emerald that shouldn’t work but absolutely does, and enough jewelry to stock a small boutique.
“Darlings!” he exclaims, pulling us both into enthusiastic hugs. “You’re here! Come in, come in. We’re all in the dining room and Carlo is already complaining that he’s starving, so your timing is perfect.”
I check my watch. We are not late, the others are early. Besides, Molly doesn’t seem as if he is about to give me a lecture, so it’s all good.
As we walk down the hallway, Liam gawps a little, and I don’t blame him. The interior is as impressive as the exterior. High ceilings with ornate cornicing, artwork that’s probably worth more than I make in a year, furniture that manages to be both expensive and comfortable. But Molly’s presence somehow makes it feel less intimidating, his energy and warmth cutting through any sense of formal stuffiness.
“Liam, you look gorgeous,” Molly continues, linking his arm through Liam’s. “That suit is perfect on you. Doesn’t he look gorgeous, Nicolo?”
“Stunning,” I agree, enjoying the way Liam’s cheeks pink at the compliment.
“And you clean up pretty well yourself,” Molly tells me with a wink. “Now come on, everyone’s dying to see you both.”
The dining room somehow manages to be both grand and intimate. A long table that could probably seat twelve comfortably, but tonight set for just six of us. Crystal glasses catch the light from an enormous chandelier, and the china looks like it belongs in a museum rather than being used for actual eating.
But the people around the table immediately make it feel less formal. Dario at the head, looking relaxed in a way I’ve rarely seen him. Clearly, he’s more comfortable here with Molly than he ever was in the various shady places where we usually meet. Carlo and Dante are already seated, both of them in suits but with their ties loosened and their jackets hung over their chairs, making it clear this is a celebration rather than a business meeting.
“Nicolo! Liam!” Carlo calls out, raising his wineglass in greeting. “About time. I’m wasting away here.”
“You had three appetizers,” Dante points out dryly. “I counted.”
“That was just to be polite.”
Liam and I take our seats. Me next to Dante, Liam beside me, and immediately staff appear with the first course. I half-expected Molly to have cooked, but apparently when you live in a house like this, you have people who handle that sort of thing.
“I wanted to cook,” Molly says, as if reading my mind as he settles into his seat beside Dario. “But Dario had a minor panic attack about me potentially burning down the kitchen, so we compromised.”
“It wasn’t a panic attack,” Dario protests, his hand finding Molly’s automatically. “It was a rational concern based on your recent track record with ovens.”
“One small fire, and suddenly I’m banned from my own kitchen.”
“Three fires,” Dario corrects.
“Okay, three small fires. But it was only because I was attempting souffles! I’ve been fine before and since!”
The easy banter between them, the comfortable teasing that speaks of genuine affection, helps Liam relax. I feel it in the way his shoulders drop and the tension eases from his posture as he realizes this really isn’t going to be some formal, intimidating dinner where he has to watch every word.
The food is incredible. Course after course of beautifully prepared dishes that make even Carlo stop complaining about his hunger long enough to actually savor what he’s eating. We talk about everything and nothing. Carlo’s latest disastrous attempt at online dating, Dante’s new motorcycle, Molly’s plans to redecorate one of the guest rooms in a style that Dario is clearly dubious about but will inevitably let him do anyway.
Under the table, Liam’s hand finds mine. Our fingers interlace naturally, and the simple contact grounds me in a way nothing else can. This is good. This is right. Sitting here with people I trust, with the man I love beside me, celebrating not just survival but the building of something better.
I steal glances at Liam throughout the meal, watching him laugh at Carlo’s stories and engage in enthusiastic conversation with Molly about Italian pronunciation. He’s come so far from the broken man who came home from prison, so far from the person who could barely leave the apartment without falling apart.
