One month, one week, and two days.
One month, one week, and two days of the little distraction that likes to roam our house with big, unassuming eyes and wild hair.
I growl, slamming the punching bag in front of me. One month, one week, and two days of me not being on my fucking game.
For the first time, the sixth of the month came and went without much of a change to my sanity. Usually, I'm raring to go for the Serpentine meetings, and the days that follow are a peaceful enough respite from my usual reality. The sixth of every month marks a purging of some of my darkest tendencies, the only time I can truly indulge without holding myself back. The numbness that follows—while volatile and crushing in its own way—is a welcome relief.
When there's no escaping your reality, you learn to blend in.
But not this month. No, this month, I returned home with my head all wrapped up in eyes that are like honey dipped in sunlight, smooth legs that curve gently beneath leggings she wears on our morning runs, and soft breaths that seem to fill the room when she's sleeping and we're sharing a room.
Upon our return from Seattle, I've been having to ask—well, demand—more targets from Simo and it's really posing a problem. I have a lot more steam I need to blow off, whether from Simo pissing me off or Nina simply existing. Simo is not running out of targets—there's an endless amount of pain and suffering in the world, an endless number of people who cause it—but my brother does seem to be questioning my sanity.
Not out loud. He's not good at the verbal. What he's good at is keeping all his thoughts somewhere deep in his subconscious, somewhere I'm not sure even he can access, but letting them slip out through idiosyncrasies I've become accustomed to over time. A twitch of his lips, a hardening of the eyes. A tenseness to his jaw, or a carefully masked rebuke.
Personally, I have other worries. I'm going to run out of ways to administer torture, eventually.
I've also had to get my clothes dry cleaned an inordinate number of times.
My fist stings as I deliver a particularly hard punch. Tommaso thinks I'm training for World War Three, and I might as well fucking be. Ever since that night in Seattle, where I got drunker than I've been in a while and acted like a weak fool in front of her, it's like a door within me has been kicked wide open.
I can't make sense of the desires boiling just beneath the surface of my skin when it comes to Nina. I thought they would be gone after I'd tortured her some more. That was what I did. What I was good at. She'd been all but dropped on my doorstep—or left in my getaway car, same difference—and I had been ready to deal with her the same way I deal with everyone else. But now that Simo had decided against that, I was frustratingly restricted from doing the one thing I knew would make me feel better.
But would it?
My knuckle busts open, blood smearing along the bag, but I ignore it. They're all busted at this point, and it doesn't fucking matter. My brothers think I'm insane—more than usual—and it all comes back to the frustrating existence of one fucking girl. Why couldn't she just have been someone whose untimely demise would have benefitted us?
Even just a little bit. That would've been fine.
And Jesus, I don't even have my morning runs to myself anymore. Maybe I am finally going insane—because I crave time away from her but then I drag her along with me on any little errand. I bring her to family meals like she's one of us.
I have a filing cabinet in my head, and there are only three sections: people I need to kill, people I work with, and my family. Nina doesn't fit into any of those. Safe to say I've never not known what to do.
I'm pulling back to deliver another punch when a hand on my shoulder stops me.
"It's three in the morning," Simo regards me carefully, like I'm made of dynamite and he's holding a lit match. "What are you doing?"
"I'm working out," I huff, rolling my shoulders. "That not clear?"
"You look like you haven't slept in days."
"Thank you for your observation," I grunt as my fist makes contact with the bag.
"I thought you'd be happy, with Vegas and Seattle going so well."
He's right—normally, I would be. Luciano wants to move in on our territory with his child sex trafficking business, fine. He wants to send an associate to our house to snoop around and assault his own daughter, fine. I'll just kill every single man he's ever worked with and string their bodies up all over town.
I've already worked my way through a few dozen.
I hit the bag so hard the chain creaks and rattles.
My brother's eyes narrow, but he steps back and leaves me alone. I would ask him why he's awake at this hour, but he's been busy with things ever since the night of the fundraiser. We both have. No rest for the wicked.
But work feels different now. I've never felt any sort of reluctance when it comes to spilling the blood of the deserving. Never felt anything but that it's my duty—written in my blood and reinforced by my family. The only times I've felt it, that deep discomfort tugging at my gut whispering that it just isn't right, was in Vegas and Seattle.
When she was with me.
After a few minutes, I sense a figure standing in the doorway—a fuzzy blob in my peripheral.
"Come to give me some more unwarranted observations?" I snap, not looking up from the bag.
"I-I'm... well—"
My head snaps to the voice that is decidedly not my brother's. Nina stands there, in just a baggy t-shirt that reaches mid-thigh, and some thick socks. She looks sleep rumpled and bleary eyed, and she's standing there like she needs an invitation to keep looking at me.
Fucking hell.
We haven't spoken since returning from Seattle. I've been busy with my targets and Serpentine—too busy to go on my runs. I've been using the gym late at night instead. I've hardly seen her for three days, and I have no idea what she's been up to. I wonder if it's been the same thing I've been obsessing over—burying all traces of our conversation in the hotel room that night somewhere deep and impossible to access.
"What's wrong?" I steady the bag with a fist, ignoring the sting of my wrist. Maybe I should be calling it quits for the night.
"Nothing," she mumbles, but she's the shittiest liar. My spine straightens.
"Tell me," I stalk over, noticing the way she becomes visibly nervous the closer I get, shifting on her feet and unable to look me in the eye.
"I just... I couldn't sleep, so I was wandering around. I didn't know anyone was down here," she eventually gets out.
I frown, about to push her to tell me the truth about what's bothering her, but then I remember I don't care.
"You should go back to bed. It's past three." I head to the door, feeling my chest twinge when the soft padding of her footsteps tells me she's following.
"That's the worst thing you can do when you can't sleep."
"Is it? So, when you can't sleep, the worst thing you can do is try to sleep?" I head to the kitchen, grabbing a banana from the counter.
"Yes, actually," she purses her lips at my sarcastic tone. "You'll drive yourself crazy just lying there. You're supposed to take a quick walk, do something different for a while, until that makes you tired."
I raise a brow. "Like work out."
"Well, no." To my satisfaction, pink dusts the tops of her cheekbones. I don't miss the way she eyes my arms as I unpeel the banana. "That will get your heart rate up and actually keep you awake longer. You're not supposed to work out for at least a few hours before bed."
"Who fucking cares?" No doubt she's right, but I have shit to do, and worrying about sleep is not one of them. Especially when my skin bursting open against a hard surface sounds so much more appealing.
I frown as she blushes harder, lowering her eyes in embarrassment. Her entire frame seems to shrink in on itself, and she blinks rapidly at her feet.
"What are you doing?"
She darts her gaze up to me, and Jesus, I'm fucking confused at the look in her eyes. Why she looks like she's about to cry.
"Nothing, I-I'll just..." Spinning, she doesn't even finish her sentence, moving to leave.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
She whirls around, her gaze glassy. "You're being an asshole. I'm going back to bed."
My eyes widen. "When was I an asshole? I'm not denying I am one in general, sweetheart," I tack on at the affronted look in her eyes, "but when was I just being an asshole?"
"You just admitted you're an asshole but you're asking me why I called you an asshole?"
Annoyance floods me. "It's fucking late, I'm preoccupied with some shit, and the last thing on my mind is being an asshole to you in this specific moment. So yes, I'm fucking asking."
"You—you really—" she breaks off, letting out a frustrated laugh. Her anger seems to keep her tears at bay for the moment, and I loosen the strangle-hold I have on the limp banana peel. "Normally, when someone's talking to you, 'who fucking cares' isn't a nice response. Look, I'm being sensitive. It's not like you're even nice to me anyway, so it doesn't ma—"
"I wasn't telling you to shut the fuck up," I frown, my confusion still irritating me. Why do I care about this again? "I was just saying that I don't care abou—"
"And I've kind of got some shit going on, too!" She explodes, her brows tightened in anger. She looks surprised at herself for a second, like she wasn't expecting to raise her voice.
"What are you—Christ, I wasn't saying it like that." I run a hand through my hair, feeling fucking crazy at my need to make sure she knows what I meant. This fragile air between us is driving me insane—and it's all because of that fucking night. Neither of us know how to act now.
And why in the everloving fuck do I care if she sees me as an asshole now compared to a week ago? The only difference is that I was actively trying to be one then.
But it shouldn't matter.
"I—what?"
"Just... fuck," I grate out, my chest heating, "I wasn't trying to be an asshole. This time. I don't need a lot of sleep, and even when I do, there's a lot of shit I'd rather be doing." Like hitting something. Or someone. "It's the way I talk, not a personal attack."
She looks at me like I have three heads. "This time."
"Yeah. This time."
She slaps a hand over her mouth, muffling sudden laughter. When she pulls it away, her eyes don't look particularly happy. "You are certifiable."
"Best to get used to it, sweetheart."
She gives me a funny look, and we stare at each other in the aftermath of probably the most bizarre conversation either of us have had in a while. I'm realizing Nina is much more sensitive after turbulent events than I ever could have imagined. It's logical and it makes sense, but I'm rarely surrounded by people like her. Soft and malleable and still affected by the darkness of the world we live in.
"So are you some expert on insomnia then?" I turn around, grabbing a glass from a cabinet. Desperately trying to hold onto my sanity which, for some reason, is slipping again. I don't like that just now, the worst thing I could possibly imagine was her thinking I'm an asshole. Since when have I cared about that before, with anyone?
And I don't like the way every part of me waits in anticipation for her to open those petal lips and answer my question, which takes a fucking minute. She looks like she has whiplash from this conversation.
"Not really," she eventually murmurs. "I just don't sleep well sometimes."
"Why aren't you sleeping well?"
She gives me an odd look, and I chug some of my water. I'm not sure why I'm making conversation, but I don't like us ending on that note. The note of her being hurt by something I said.
She's taking too fucking long to speak. I want to grab her and shake the words from her lips.
I realize I probably am entering the concerning stage of sleep deprivation, so I resolve to sleep tonight.
She's still looking at me weirdly, and I don't blame her. Even I can recognize that our one-on-one interactions consist of me torturing her, telling her that I'd like to torture her, jogging through the cracked streets of Chicago in silence, or yelling at her about a slew of things that make no sense.
"I was recently kidnapped, kind of tortured—but the jury's still out on that one—my father decided he finally doesn't care whether I live or die, and I almost got killed. Twice. Safe to say I've got a few things on my mind."
My movements still with her unexpected transparency.
Fair play, sweetheart.
"You want a banana?"
A laugh pushes past her lips, and I tilt my head at the sound. From her blush, it's clear she wasn't expecting that either.
"What, is it bad to eat when you can't sleep, Miss Insomnia for Dummies?"
She rolls her eyes, pushing herself off the counter. "Well, yes, but that's not the point." She does that little shifting movement, and my eyes are helplessly drawn to the long lines of her legs, how positively indecent she looks while wearing a t-shirt that looks like it was made for someone two-hundred pounds heavier.
"I should go," she says abruptly, interrupting the tension crackling in the air. "I'm getting tired now."
"Glad my presence could do that for you," I smirk, watching her small figure disappear down the hall. As soon as she's gone, I lose the act, swearing as I brace a hand on the countertop. Rubbing my chest, I let the discomfort roll through me. It hurts so bad it feels good, and suddenly exhaustion is tugging at my limbs.
I'm tired of not knowing what the fuck is going on inside my own head. If I don't figure it out soon, Simo is going to need to check me into a psych ward.
I had planned on making some calls, but after my sudden resolution to sleep, I feel like I could drop at any second. Jumping on the opportunity to get some rest, I head up to bed. But first to the shower, so I can get rid of the not so little problem in my pants that arose the second those smooth legs and pouty lips entered my gym.
+
"You look like shit," Tommaso scoffs the next morning.
The spoon I was using to stir my coffee clatters into the sink as I turn on him. I'm about to wrap my fingers around his stupid throat, but I think better of it as I can practically feel Simo's disapproving gaze on the back of my neck from where he sits at the table. Plus, Nina should be coming down soon for breakfast, and she doesn't need to witness Tommaso's untimely death.
I narrow my eyes at my little brother, and he narrows his right back. We got into a disagreement this morning, because I found out he's been getting into some dumb shit. Drugs, drinking, drag racing, shit like that. Shit that people like us can't afford to do, because people like us can't make dumb mistakes.
There's a lot more at stake than a brush with the law or even a few years in prison. Tommaso doesn't seem to understand that. I told him if he didn't want his dick cut off and fed to him by someone other than me, he needed to stop. After twenty minutes of discussing the issue—in other words, arguing in rapid fire Italian over our eggs until Nico had to leave the room—it's safe to say I feel like throttling the fucker.
And it's true that I'm a fucking hypocrite for saying that and having done what I did in Seattle. Antagonizing the authorities with some twisted, mangled version of the truth just to feel something familiar. I incriminated no one—not me, my family, or any of our associates. Yet I got exactly what I wanted.
I can masterfully ride the line between any contradiction, no matter how extreme, if it gets me what I want.
"Does anyone else want to tell me how awful I look?"
I turn at the sound of soft footsteps. God, does this girl just float into every room like a goddamn fairy? I tense my jaw at the sight of her in a long-sleeved shirt and leggings. Clothes that should look completely normal on a woman, but on her only serve to make my dick hard, even after I fucked my fist until I came hard on the shower wall last night. Twice.
She gives me a timid look, like I'm a rabid lion pacing its cage, and I ignore it in favor of holding onto my composure for an extra few moments this morning. I'm dressed in my running clothes for that very reason—I need to get all this agitation out. Right fucking now. I narrow my eyes on her, noting that she's suspiciously dressed for a run too.
"Don't worry baby doll, my brother and I were just having a small disagreement," Tommaso smirks.
"Oh," Nina nods. "I was wondering why I ran into Nico in the hall looking like he had indigestion."
Tommaso laughs, looking at me and gesturing to Nina with his fork and a 'did you hear that?' expression, like I'm not in the fucking room.
"I'm going for my run," I snap, wishing with everything in me that I could just do this one alone. What I need now is anything but listening to Nina's soft breaths as she acts like she can keep up with me and the scent of her pomegranate shampoo assaulting my senses with every inhale. But I don't have the heart to tell that to the footsteps hurrying to catch up to me.
"We'll be doing a few extra miles today," I say abruptly, and she doesn't say anything as we set off.
"Do you guys normally almost kill each other over breakfast?" She ventures about a mile in. It takes me a minute to respond; she's never tried to make conversation on our runs, and her voice sounds deliciously breathless.
We pass a group of men, one of which gives Nina an interested look, until my glare makes him turn away. I'm not slowing my pace for some blue-collar fuck to try and get Nina to tickle his dick.
"Only when necessary," I eventually grit out.
"What's that tattoo on your hand? The eyes? They look so real."
My chest fills with ice, and I come to an abrupt halt. She stops too, giving me a confused look.
"What's with the twenty fucking questions?"
"What's with the attitude? I'm just making conversation," she says with a lift to her chin.
"Excuse me?" Her bravado disappears as I take a threatening step in her direction.
"I—"
"I'd advise you to be very careful about the next words that come out of that pretty mouth, darling."
"I—I was just making conversation," she stutters, licking her lips.
My eyes track the movement. "Don't. Nothing's changed. I could still hurt you."
"But you won't," she says bravely. "You said so."
My heart beats unevenly.
"Right," I chuckle darkly, stepping closer until her short breaths puff out against my chest and she has to tilt her neck to meet my gaze. "I don't recall saying that. And even if I did, I don't know why you think I'm such a man of my word, mia cara."
I don't step back until I see the genuine fear filter through the gilded flecks in her eyes. Good. I don't like how comfortable she seems to be around me, like I couldn't end her in a second. Like she hasn't seen, firsthand now, how destructive I can be.
The eyes inked across my hand glare up at me, like they always have and always will. If she knew the half of it, she'd not act so brave. She wouldn't pretend like she's not secretly trembling in fear as she attempts to plaster on a brave face, to do things that get on my nerves like all of this is a fun game. In fact, I'd bet my life that she'd run for the hills, even if it all but sealed her death.
Death would be better than dealing with the alternative, and it's only a matter of time until she figures that out.