Nicoli: Chapter 6

My bedroom door slams shut behind me, the windows shuddering in their frames. What the fuck did I almost do?

“Jesus, Nicoli. You fucking asshole!” I jerk off my coat and toss it on the black tufted couch, yanking the tie from my collar while stomping across the carpet.

The crystal bourbon decanter is cold against my heated palm as I pour myself a drink at—I glance at my bedside clock—ten in the morning. I hesitate for a split second. Fuck it. Ten in the morning is as good a time as any.

The amber liquid glistens in the glass as I bring it up to my mouth, smelling the oak and spice before the velvety texture slips down my throat, the sting of alcohol settling in my stomach. One mouthful isn’t enough, so I drain every last drop, loving how it numbs my insides. That’s what I need right now. To be numbed.

Numb from feeling anything. Especially when it comes to her.

She came to us an orphan, a little girl with the yellow jacket and curly white hair. A girl with big green eyes that bewitched me into becoming fiercely protective over her. A girl who had me wrapped around her tiny finger since the first time she stared up at me from my mother’s side. I would read her bedtime stories and chase her through the garden while her laughter bounced off the red peonies. She would draw butterflies and rainbows on my arms, and cat whiskers on my cheeks. There were countless days I willingly walked through this house with scribbles on my face, looking like an idiot, all because it made her happy. It made her smile. And to me, it was worth the insults my brothers threw at me.

In this house, I was her ward until one moment in time changed the entire trajectory of our lives. The day I lost her.

My nostrils flare as I slam down the glass, immediately pouring myself another one. If I ever needed to get drunk off my ass this early in the morning, now would be that time.

Just like the first glass, the second one doesn’t erase the image of her plump, inviting, red lips inches from mine. I could smell the richness of the chocolate croissant she had for breakfast, fused with her perfume—the scent that lingers in her bedroom at night while I watch her sleep.

“So close,” I mutter.

It almost snapped, the tether that keeps me from losing control around her. All these years of keeping my distance, building that wall between us one reluctant brick at a time, came seconds away from crumbling. For what? A simple kiss? I nearly broke a promise I made years ago because my fucking mouth salivated to taste her. And now what she tastes like is all I can think about. Sweet cherries? Ripe raspberries? No. Her blood-red lips probably taste like something more exciting. Seductive.

Pomegranate. I bet it’s pomegranates. A scarlet fruit that tastes like cranberries but doesn’t. Tart like blueberries, but not. It’s a unique taste. Exotic and sharp-edged, like her. One of a kind.

Unique.

“Fuck!” I fling my empty glass across the room, glass shattering against the wall. My dick throbs like a motherfucker, and there isn’t a pussy in this goddamn universe that’ll relieve the ache. Except hers. And that thought alone makes me want to break every glass in this entire fucking house because it’s terrifying knowing that no matter how hard I try to fuck my way through life, try to fuck her out of my system, it’ll never work. The debilitating desire will never go away. Not unless I have her, and that’s something I’ll never allow myself.

Not her. Ever.

I pull my hands through my hair, tugging at the strands as I sit on the couch. I have no idea how this happened. It was one minute. Sixty fucking seconds. And in that time, I kissed her, tore her clothes off, slammed her back against that wall, and fucked her until she screamed while her cunt creamed my cock. I wonder if her pussy’s bare. Hollywood style. Brazilian, maybe. Or that cute little landing strip—a GPS location pin for pussy.

My eyes drift closed, trying to imagine her naked body. But I can’t. I never could. It’s like my mind cockblocks me when it comes to Mira. I can’t imagine her naked because there is nothing, no other woman I can use as a comparison because this is Mirabella. She’s perfection personified. If I had to put her in a cage, I’d never let her out. I would stare at her all day, all night, every day until the world comes to an end.

Landing strip. It has to be a landing strip.

God, why am I even thinking about this? She probably keeps it all neat and tidy with nothing more than a bikini wax since she’s never been with a man. She’s never even had a boyfriend—we made sure of that. Guys at school didn’t dare look her way, or they’d end up with their eyeballs shoved up their assholes. And the men in this town know if they want to keep their testicles inside their ballsacks, they better not even send as much as a smile in her direction.

Mirabella is this family’s most priceless gem, and we protect her as such. But to me, she’s my soul and has been ever since the night I experienced genuine pain through a little girl’s eyes.

I roll onto my side, the bedside clock saying it’s three minutes past midnight. I’ve been tossing and turning for two hours, but I can’t sleep. It’s been a month since Maximo and Mirabella arrived here, two orphans who lost their parents. They hardly spoke at first, but after Mirabella’s fifth birthday, spoiling her with a ginormous fairy tale castle cake and what seemed like fifty princess dresses, Mira started warming up to us, and soon after, so did Maximo.

They don’t talk about what happened that night. My dad told us how their family was gruesomely murdered and how they, too, would be dead if it weren’t for my dad’s men arriving just in time. He only told us about it because he wants Alexius and me to know the risks and dangers of being a part of a family such as ours. Everything has a price. Our family’s wealth, our power, the special treatment we get wherever we go, it has a cost. The grass might be greener on our side of the world, but that only means we have to work extra hard to keep it that way. The hard part isn’t getting to the top; it’s staying there. As the saying goes, ‘With great power comes great responsibility.’ It’s our family’s blessing and its curse.

I turn onto my other side, my legs tangled up in the sheets. “Dammit.” I grab the fabric and yank it free, jerking it up and over my shoulders, fluffing up my pillow and trying to get comfortable.

Another half hour passes before I finally feel my body get heavier, weighing into the mattress. I’m drifting off when the sheets move, and a tiny human slips in behind me.

My eyes widen when I realize it’s her. Mirabella, snuggling with her back against mine. I’m about to say something when I hear her sniff and feel her tiny body shaking.

Is she…crying?

“I miss Mommy,” she says, sniffing again, short and quick. “I miss Daddy.”

There’s a voice whispering to me to keep quiet and let her speak, so I don’t make a sound. I don’t even move.

“Mommy cried. I think it hurt.”

My stomach turns inside out.

“The men hurt her.”

I tighten the sheet around my shoulders.

“I…um…Mommy told me to hide under the bed. Said I have to keep quiet. She made me promise.” Her soft voice quivers more, and more with every word, and it’s like glass splintering inside my heart.

“I didn’t make a noise.” Sniff. “When she fell, I didn’t make a noise.” Sniff. “When she looked at me, I didn’t make a noise.”

It physically hurts to imagine a little girl hiding underneath the bed while her mother is being slaughtered.

“She told me to close my eyes. But I didn’t. I wonder if she’d be angry with me if she knew I didn’t.” Mira moves, tugging on the sheets. “I wish I was older. Eight. I’d be strong enough to help her if I was eight. Do you like the color red?”

I don’t answer.

“I like it. Mommy’s blood was red. It’s a pretty color. Did you know that when a person dies, their eyes change? Mommy’s eyes changed. Not the color. Just the way they look.”

The lump in my throat grows thicker.

“When she fell, she looked at me. Her lips moved. I think she said she loves me. Then she didn’t look at me anymore. Her eyes were open, but she didn’t see me. I think that’s when she died.”

Soft little sobs jab knives into my chest, and I can tell she’s trying not to cry. It sounds like she’s smothering them into the pillow. I don’t know what to do. I should probably comfort her, but I have no idea how. Do I turn around and hug her? Do I go to the kitchen and get her some milk and cookies? Do I call my mom? Yeah, I should probably do that. She’ll know what to do.

“You remember the day I knocked the cake pan off the kitchen table before Mommy could put it in the oven? How the thick chocolate batter spread on the floor?” Sniff. “That’s what it looked like.”

How what looked like?

“The blood that came out of her neck. It was thick. It spread slowly, too. But I wasn’t allowed to move. I promised her I’d keep still. So, I watched it come closer. I wanted to scream then. I really did. But Mommy says you should never break a promise. A promise is…a promise is expensiver than the biggest pot of gold. She says every time you make a promise, God writes it down in His book. And if…if you break it, He has to tear out the page, and we don’t want Him to do that, no.”

My eyes start to sting, and I clench my jaw, and it’s like my chest has been hacked wide open.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

I move my head in a gentle nod even though she can’t see it.

“God had to tear a page from his book the night Mommy and Daddy died because…” her gentle sob penetrates my bones, “because I did make a noise. I broke my promise. Mommy’s blood touched my sleeve, and I screamed. I think I made God angry because loud sounds exploded and hurt my ears.”

Gunshots.

“Do you think God is still angry…” she chokes on a sob “…still angry with me.”

God, no.

“I hope not. I don’t want Him to be angry with me because then I won’t go to Heaven and see Mommy again.” More cries, more heart-wrenching tears that sound like they’re cutting through her heart. “I’m sorry I screamed,” she whispers through sobs. “I’m sorry I screamed.”

My own tears start to lap off my cheeks, the pillow soaking it up as I lie there in the dark, listening to a little girl cry, hearing her pain in every single sob. It’s too much. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything sound as broken as her. God, I wish I could snap my fingers and take away her pain. Take away the memory. I wish I were older so I could help my dad find whoever is responsible for Mirabella’s heartache. Just like she saw her mother’s blood seeping through the floors, I want to see those bastards’ blood coat my hands. But I’m not older. I’m thirteen, and there’s nothing I can do to help her. So, I do the only thing I can do in the middle of the night with a girl crying in my bed…

I reach behind me and take her small hand in mine, squeezing it tightly. I have no idea how much time passes, but her sobs slowly start to wane, and I’m silently thanking God for it because I’m not sure how much more of it I can take before my heart explodes.

“I don’t think I want to talk about this again,” she whispers, clasping my hand tight. “I don’t want to cry again.”

I wipe my cheeks across the pillowcase and take a deep breath as Mira snuggles deeper into me. “I think I like Mr. and Mrs. Del Rossa. I hope we can stay here forever.”

Oh, I’ll make sure of it.

“I’m going to sleep now. I love you, Max.”

That night Mira thought she had wandered into her brother’s room. She opened her tiny little heart and spoke her pain, put her nightmare into words and told her big brother what she saw the night her mother was murdered in front of her. Only, it wasn’t Maximo she told.

It’s been seventeen years since that night, and she still doesn’t know…that it was me.