A soft light was filtering through the blinds, brushing across Niccolò's eyelids, highlighting his strong jawline; he lay there for a second, keeping his eyes closed, and let the slight warmth sink in. He hadn't slept so well in weeks - although his arm felt numb.
Shifting slightly, Niccolò lifted his free hand to his face, wiping sleep from his eyes; he stopped at the sound of a gentle moan. Turning his head, he realised his arm was still wrapped around Camilla, her head resting on his chest. She was fast asleep, her expression peaceful: one arm was thrown around his waist.
He remembered carrying her back to his room the night before, sliding her into his sheets and stripping down to his boxer briefs before he joined her. She hadn't wanted to sleep alone after those pictures, and he was almost relieved - any excuse to keep an eye on her.
At some point, they'd shifted closer together, talking in low voices about everything and nothing until Cee was falling back asleep. He could get used to it.
Trying not to move too much, Niccolò reached out for his phone, resting on his bedside table: it was nearly seven in the morning - later than he usually woke.
"Niccolò?" Camilla's voice was sleepy and confused; he turned his head to her, dropping his phone immediately.
"Did I wake you?" he murmured, watching her eyes open and flutter shut repeatedly as she nodded, eventually deciding to keep her eyes closed. "Go back to sleep, cara."
"Mm," she mumbled, her palm now resting on his chest. Niccolò watched her, watching her eyelashes brushing against her cheeks, her hair glinting in the morning light, and for a second, he felt like he could love.
When Cee woke again, she was alone. The blinds had been closed fully, not a crack of light shone through the material, and the sheets had been carefully tucked around her; she smiled to herself.
Niccolò wasn't the type to wait around until nine o'clock to get going, or the type to make her breakfast in bed, but she knew his tiny gestures meant a lot, and she wouldn't change him or his impatience.
---
Niccolò glared at the rising numbers of the elevator; he was rising too slowly. Anton had refused to talk - again - and two of his employees had been arrested at midday, meaning he couldn't meet Camilla for lunch as a surprise.
The arrests were pretty meaningless: both on suspicion of assault. Whilst Niccolò had quite a few high ranking officials keeping an eye out for him, sometimes the police force were pressured into a crackdown against organised crime, due to spikes in crime rates. The chief of police couldn't exactly tell his force specifically not to arrest Romano's men but it was frustrating: some jumped up new boy playing dress up clearly hadn't got the memo that Niccolò Romano was untouchable.
He worked damn hard to ensure that he was untraceable - none of his drugs could be traced back to him, none of his workers, none of his offshore accounts. And this young, dumb kid who'd clearly only just earned his badge had held him up for nearly half an hour trying to pin something on him for bailing the two men out.
Niccolò almost slammed his fist into the mirror again - he really needed to get that fixed - but he was finally at the top floor.
"Camilla?" he called, before the doors had even fully opened. Their apartment looked almost exactly the same as when he had left it, except now a small figure was curled on the sofa, looking up from the book in her lap.
"Niccolò." She sounded surprised, but a small smile appeared on her face. He strode over, leaning over and tilting her chin up with his hand to kiss her hard, taking her breath away. Niccolò broke the kiss, abruptly realising that his anger had dissipated the moment he'd seen her.
Cee raised her fingers to her lips, shocked, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed; she was smiling. "What was that for?" He shrugged, offering her a hand - she placed her book aside before taking it, standing too close for her to breathe.
"We're going out. Tonight," he told her, his hand resting on her waist. "Please let me take you to dinner." Cee nodded, trying not to let her breathing hitch.
"Let me get changed," she mumbled, "I thought you'd be back later."
Niccolò let her detangle herself from him, slipping away like a ghost; she could feel his eyes resting on her shoulder blades, watching her until she rounded the corner, heading back into her room.
All at once, the guilt slammed into her like a wall of concrete. Niccolò trusted her, wanted her, protected her - and she was planning to sneak away like she was breaking out of prison. Slowly, she closed the door, making sure it was shut firmly before she allowed herself to cover her face with her hands.
Half of her wanted to jump up and down like a teenager again, tell her mother about the cute boy - like she used to when she was in high school - but her mother was dead, and she was about to run away from Niccolò. Again.
The other half of her wanted to run, crying, into his arms and confess everything, tell him that Flo and Angela were in danger, that Stefano was a backstabbing traitor, that she still had nightmares about Caterina dying in front of her.
Cee bit her lip, not tightly enough to draw blood but hard enough to ground her back in reality; Stefano would kill her the moment she told Niccolò - and the two girls, the two innocents, would be killed too. She had no choice - she couldn't tell Niccolò before the girls were safe.
Slowly, she dropped her hands to her sides, scanning the room for paper and a pen: if she couldn't tell him now, she could at least give him notes to explain where she had gone.
The flowers, sent earlier, were hiding on her desk, shoved into the corner; if Niccolò had seen them when he'd walked in, he would've asked questions. Cee opened the draw of the desk, pulling out the paper and pen she found inside - thank God for Niccolò's over-prepared nature.
1, King's Avenue, she wrote, her handwriting reduced to a messy scrawl, for Flo and Angela. Do not trust S.
She ripped the sheet from the pad abruptly, folding it once and turning, scanning the room for a place to put it; where would Niccolò first look for evidence - for anything - if she went missing?
She chewed her lip nervously, before folding the paper one more time and sliding it underneath the flowers. Hopefully, he'd notice her gift - from a sinister admirer - realise something was wrong. He had to.
Cee changed quickly, struggling into a tight, figure-hugging, silver dress; it was something she was sure she'd never worn before, or seen before, and she wouldn't put it past Niccolò to have bought her clothes secretly. He'd chosen her size perfectly.
For a second, Cee paused, touching a hand to her neck; the two necklaces were laced carefully against her skin - the past and present, tangled together. The rosary beads from her mother, once reassuring, didn't match her outfit; gently, she pulled the beads over her head and lowered it to the bedside table - it would save them from getting lost.
The amethyst necklace from Niccolò, initially a warning, was warm against her cold skin, reminding her that he was waiting outside - probably impatiently, knowing him.
Cee didn't usually bother with makeup, or perfectly manicured nails, because it was usually deemed unprofessional in a nursing environment, but tonight she sucked it up, fighting with mascara, and concealer to hide the bags under her eyes from a lack of sleep.
She was almost done with her makeup, adding a tiny bit of sparkle to her cheekbones, when Niccolò knocked impatiently at the door. She paused, highlighter still in hand, suddenly grateful that the door automatically locked.
"Camilla," he warned through the door, trying the door handle. "Unlock this door."
A shimmer of nerves passed over her; she was terrified to go on a date with him but at the same time, she couldn't wait. Cee brushed the excess powder from her skin quickly, staring at herself in the mirror.
She looked older than when she'd met Niccolò, wiser. Grief had aged her, not physically, but with a mature glint to her eyes. She wasn't scared of men with guns - or Dons with protective streaks - but she was determined, this time, to save Flo and Angela. Caterina had died, for no reason, scared and cold. Cee couldn't let it happen again.
She tipped her head to the side, noticing how the stranger's reflection copied her; this was a woman who wanted to live. A woman who was willing to fight.
"Camilla." Niccolò's impatient voice came through the door again. "You have two minutes to get your shoes and meet me in the elevator."
"Okay," she called back softly, her nerves kicking in again. She may be determined to fight for Flo and Angela, but her bravery did not extend to dates with a dangerous, tall, dark and handsome man who kissed her like she was the first angel on earth.
Taking a slow, reassuring breath in and out, Cee forced her shoulders back, lifting her chin and staring at her reflection; the silver fabric shone like moonlight, lighting her up like a star - it suited her. She looked confident, cool and collected - everything that she didn't feel.
Carefully, she took her first, slightly wobbly, step towards the door, before adapting to the unusual height of her shoes; she couldn't wear a dress like this with flats. Her hand rested on the door handle, hesitantly for a second. She hadn't been on a date for a long time - not counting her gelato dinner with Niccolò - but she was braver now, stronger now.
She opened the door, forcing herself out of her room before she changed her mind; she flinched at the echo of her heels against the floorboards, slowly making her way down the corridor before entering the wide, open space of the kitchen and living room combined, her eyes immediately flickering to Niccolò's silhouette by the glass.
He turned, facing her; his jaw clenched as his eyes trailed down her body, her cheeks turning a light shade of pink as he made a move as if to reach for her, to kiss her again - but Cee knew she'd melt into his arms and they wouldn't leave the apartment if he did. She slipped just out of his reach, lowering her head slightly to avoid his gaze, her blush deepening.
"You look beautiful," he murmured, letting her escape him; they both knew that if he tried, he could pin her against a wall before she could blink, but he gave her freedom. "Are you ready, carissima?"
Wordlessly, she nodded; something about seeing Niccolò in his dark dress shirt - evidently, he'd taken the opportunity to change - the same midnight black as his hair, took the breath from her lungs, the words from her mouth. Sometimes, Cee forgot how stunning he was - she could never get used to his chiselled jaw, his smouldering eyes - he looked like he'd walked straight out of the pages of Vogue, even though her internal description of him made him seem like he belonged in a raunchy erotica that had middle-aged women swooning.
Niccolò must have noticed her unusual silence, because he leaned forward, making her heart stammer, to kiss her cheek, his touch lingering for far too long on her skin, far too close to her lips. Cee felt her legs tremble, as though gravity had suddenly tripled in magnitude, intent on sending her to her knees, melting her in front of the Romano; Niccolò brushed his fingers against the small of her back, sending shivers up her spine - it was as if he could tell, somehow, that he was making her weak on her feet: he was ready to catch her if she fell.
"Niccolò," she murmured, slightly too breathily; his jaw tensed into a razor sharp line.
"Andiamo," he replied abruptly, breaking himself out of the moment. They could spend all evening in this apartment if she wanted - he couldn't let her know that he was wrapped around her little finger. He was so tempted to pour them each a glass of wine and let her choose a film and stay in, but she deserved a date proper. "Get your coat."
Cee flushed; somehow, they could both read each other so easily. They were so comfortable with each other, so in sync - despite having spent so little time on their own. She could tell he needed her to step away from him before he lost control, kissing her like before; ducking her head, she managed to make it two steps before she felt his strong grip on her waist, his fingers almost painfully digging into her skin.
"We're going to be late," she reminded him, forcing herself to remove his hands and turning on her heel to scowl at him playfully. "I hate being late." Niccolò shrugged, not even remotely bothered.
"I can do what I like," he said simply, looking down at the petite girl who held his life in her hands. "I'm Niccolò Romano."
Cee rolled her eyes, lifting her cream mac from the singular row of coat hooks near the lift and shrugging it on. "Just because you can do something doesn't mean you should," she warned him, lecturing him gently - careful not to give any direct orders that might trigger a mood swing. This, right here, was her favourite Niccolò; calm, without stress - or at least, hiding his stress very well. "If you're ever late for me, I'll-"
She stopped herself, blushing; Niccolò didn't bother pushing it, just enjoying the flustered expression on her face. They both knew she couldn't threaten him - not effectively.
"Let's just go," she mumbled hastily, calling the lift quickly before he could say anything; Niccolò just smiled knowingly, letting her step into the lift first. Cee watched their reflections in the cracked mirror, seeing thousands of Niccolòs looking down at hundreds of Cees; a brief memory came to mind, of their first dinner with his business partners. They'd stood in an elevator then, two strangers, standing side by side, looking to all the world like a couple - and now, here they were again, going to another dinner, but this time they would be alone.
Almost alone, she reminded herself, looking down to avoid Niccolò's gaze. Stefano would be watching. She'd have to lie to Niccolò, leave their date - her first official date - because of some traitorous snake and his blackmailing employers.
Niccolò was watching her in the mirror the entire journey down to the ground floor, admiring the shell-pink tint of her lips, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear neatly - it was the little things that made her beautiful.
"I'm nervous." Niccolò looked up from her interlocked fingers, focusing on her face; she couldn't even look at him. She was just hours away from running away - once again - and this time, she didn't think he'd forgive her. Flo and Angela were the priority, no matter what he said.
"Don't be," he replied simply, his eyes catching on his necklace, resting just below her protruding collarbones. She was back at a healthy weight but he wanted her to gain a bit more, just to be sure - there was no way his girl was going to starve. She would want for nothing, forever. "It's just us."
Cee smiled to herself, almost wistfully. If only it were just the two of them; no mafia families, no guns, no prisoners. Somehow she couldn't exactly imagine Niccolò working a desk job - if anything, he'd be a CEO or businessman, taking over the financial world in a legal, professional role - finding enough time for her outside of work. But that wasn't reality: the reality was that Niccolò ran a mafia, and family would always come first.
The reality was that Niccolò wouldn't trust her after that night, and there was no point dreaming of a world where it was easy to be together.