NICCOLÒ

24. Broken-hearted

Niccolò watched impassively as tears slid down her cheeks, his anger vanishing almost immediately. He'd never been good around emotional people - even with his own family. He'd struggled so much with his younger sister and her condition; he just wanted to help. He didn't know how - but he reached out for Camilla.

His fingertips brushed her shoulder and she flinched, pushing his hands away as he kept trying to hold her, to try to express that it was okay to cry.

"Don't touch me," she snapped, her voice rising into hysterics as the tears blinded her. "Don't touch me - don't touch me!" Cee pushed at his chest, slapping at his arms, sobbing helplessly as she beat her fists against his chest and cried. Niccolò absorbed everything, pulling her closer and pushing his instinctive anger deep, deep down to let her cry into his chest. She struggled for a second before breaking down, clutching at his shirt as if it could lift her above the grief she was drowning in. After several minutes of hysterics, she lifted her head slightly.

"I didn't mean to say that," she managed, her voice choked with tears. "It wasn't your fault."

Surprisingly, he nodded silently, accepting her attempt at an apology as she leaned away, controlling herself. Cee let the tears roll down her face, dripping onto her bare skin; she hated that Caterina was gone, she hated that she was afraid, she hated that she'd used it against Niccolò.

He handed her a shirt he'd pulled swiftly out of a wardrobe; Cee looked down, realising she was undressed - too tired to care, she pulled it on.

Niccolò had walked out of the room, to let her change in private, but she took a minute to calm herself, wiping her tears and taking deep breaths.

When her shoulders stopped shaking, Cee padded silently out to the living area - Niccolò was leaning against one of the kitchen surfaces, a glass of whiskey in one hand, another on the table top.

His eyes stayed fixed on her as she approached, assessing her. She jumped up onto the counter, sitting facing him, but didn't look at him, just watched as she swung her legs back and forth slowly.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, daring to peek up at him through her lashes.

"Don't." Niccolò passed her the second glass of whiskey. "I apologise too." He stared into the amber liquid, swirling it mindlessly.

"I didn't think you'd care this much," she mumbled, pulling a face at the bitter taste of alcohol. Niccolò raised his gaze to her face, staring at her impassively. "Don't look at me like that," she muttered, avoiding his gaze.

"I don't respond well to orders." Niccolò finished his glass, setting it down sharply on the counter. "I'm angry with you," he told her, losing the tension in his shoulders; even when he was standing, and she was sitting on a high kitchen surface, he looked down at her.

"I know," Cee mumbled, wrapping an arm around herself, lifting her glass again.

"Don't run away - don't pull a stunt like that again," he warned her, folding his arms across his chest, his biceps straining the sleeves of his shirt. Cee gave a weak half-smile, trying to lighten the tension between them; he rolled his eyes. "I mean it - no more running."

"I'll try my best," she offered, idly running her fingertip around the rim of her glass.

"Promise me." He glared at her, but she wasn't scared of him anymore.

"Do you want me to pinky swear too?" Cee looked up at him innocently, daring him to test her.

"You're infuriating." She could almost feel his anger disappearing; he was fond of her, even if it was just a little. She looked down, her forced smile fading a little; maybe if she hadn't gone, Caterina would be alive.