Vendetta(64)

Ping! I woke up, sweating and gasping for air. Behind my curtains, something was bouncing off the window. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and lit up the screen. It was 1:48 a.m.

Ping! I slipped out of bed and crept up to the window. A tall, dark figure bent low to the ground and picked something out of the untended grass. He lifted an arm into the air, taking aim at the spot where my head was. He paused when he saw I was standing where the darkened curtains had been just seconds before, then dropped the pebble from his hand.

I opened the window and a rush of warm summer air hit my face.

“Sophie?” He came closer, setting off the light sensor above the kitchen window.

“Nic?” I closed my eyes and flinched, remembering everything at once. The memory of the funeral photo flashed inside my head, along with the word “Mafia.” Nic’s father had killed people, and my father had killed him.

I wondered what good would come of me going to Nic, looking him in his dark eyes, and seeing the hurt behind them. Hurt he must truly hate me for.

“Sophie,” he said again. “I need to talk to you.”

I swallowed hard, hoping my voice wouldn’t crack. “OK — I’ll come down.”

I flicked on the bedroom light and unearthed a pink cardigan from the floor, wrapping it around me before skirting downstairs. When I reached the backyard, Nic was standing at the back of the garden in the dark, waiting for me.

The light flickered back on as I walked toward him. His expression was inscrutable, his gaze fixed on me.

“Hi,” I said, reaching him. I cradled myself, waiting, as the darkness enveloped us.

“You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here,” he said.

“Among other things.” I didn’t look at him directly. There was too much guilt inside me and if I looked him in the eyes, I knew it would explode right out of me.

“I had to make sure you were OK. Luca told me what happened …” He trailed off, then cursed under his breath. “And I didn’t want to leave things like this, not the way my brother made them. He was wrong to say that stuff to you, Sophie.”

I chewed on my lip until it stung. “I’m not sure what else there is to say.”

“Will you at least look at me?” He inched forward until I could see his feet.

I shook my head, keeping my attention fixed on the grass. There were too many emotions bubbling inside me. I had to keep it together or else I would lose it entirely. I had to focus.

“Sophie, please …”

“I can’t.” My throat bobbed up and down. I shut my eyes to stop the tears, but I could feel them welling up, ready to fall. I didn’t have enough resolve to hold it all in, not anymore.

“Why not?” he murmured.

“How can I look at you knowing what I know now?” I lifted my chin and stared at his chest.

“Sophie …”

“I visited my dad today,” I continued shakily. “I know he killed your father. I know that’s why you hate me.”

Nic reached out and pressed his index finger under my chin, nudging it softly until I lifted my head and met his eyes.

And then the dam that had been holding my tears for as long as I could remember burst completely. They fell hard and fast down my cheeks, shaking my body with every heave as my breathing hitched, gasping out for air.

Everything I had suppressed — my father’s incarceration, my mother’s pain, Jack’s desertion, the Falcones’ disdain for me, and my burning desire for Nic — was bound up in those heavy tears as they fell away from my face and rolled down my neck. I sank to the ground and pulled my body into a ball, hunching over and cradling my head in my hands as I wept uncontrollably for the first time since my father’s arrest, not caring about anything but the pain that was springing free from my body at last.

In an instant, Nic was beside me, curling my huddled body into his and enveloping me in his arms until he was all around me. He rested his head on mine and whispered into my hair, “Please don’t cry, Sophie. Please don’t cry.”

He held me for a long time, until the rage of tears subsided into quiet streams, and I began to catch my breath again. Then he guided my head into his chest and I buried it in his neck, inhaling his scent.

“How could you not hate me?” I mumbled into his skin. “You’d be inhuman not to look at me and see what my father did.”

He stroked the back of my hair, his words soft against it. “It’s not like that, I promise.”

“He didn’t mean it, Nic. It was an accident,” I sobbed quietly. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“I know,” he whispered. “Please don’t cry.”