Page 62 of My Best Friend Is Broken
“I’m Carlo, you must be Liam.”
He knows my name. That probably means friend rather than foe, though in Nicky’s world, the distinction might not be as clear as I’d like.
Oh, wait a minute. Carlo. Nicky has talked about a friend called Carlo. The one who has cooking disasters and a different girlfriend every week.
This man is safe.
I stand there awkwardly, trying to remember how normal people handle social situations. Do I invite him in? Offer refreshments? Pretend I don’t know what kind of work Nicky does and act like this is a perfectly ordinary business acquaintance?
Jesus, it’s so hard to remember how to be normal.
“Um... do you want to come in and wait?”
Carlo’s smile widens, but he shakes his head. “I’ll wait here.”
What? My social skills are rusty, but I swear that’s an odd response. The hallway is hardly comfortable, and it’s not like we’re complete strangers if he knows who I am and I’ve heard about him.
Perhaps it is a mafia thing? You don’t go into a man’s home if he is not there?
I stare into Carlo’s dark eyes. He knows my name. He might know other things about me. Dante could have said something. Everyone could know I’m a frightened little rabbit.
I swallow. I’m being paranoid and overthinking. He can probably simply tell that I’m nervous. He has to know he is an intimidating man. So he is staying outside to give me space.
It’s oddly thoughtful.
“Can I get you a coffee or something?” I ask, because I should be polite to Nicky’s work friends, even if I don’t understand the politics involved.
“That would be great.”
I leave the apartment door open while I make coffee, hyperaware of Carlo’s presence in the hallway but trying to act like this is perfectly normal. Like I regularly serve refreshments to more-than-likely armed men in expensivesuits, in the corridor outside my front door, while waiting for my boyfriend to return from whatever violent business required his attention.
When I bring the coffee out, Carlo accepts it with the kind of genuine gratitude that suggests good manners matter in his world, that courtesy and respect are currencies as valuable as money or information.
“Thanks,” he says, and I hover awkwardly nearby, not sure if I should make conversation or disappear back into the apartment.
The elevator pings, and I feel my heart rate spike with relief and anticipation. The doors open to reveal Nicky, looking slightly disheveled in a way that probably wouldn’t be noticeable to anyone who didn’t know him as well as I do. His hair is mussed, his shirt collar slightly askew, and there’s something in his posture that speaks of recent stress.
“Ran into a problem?” Carlo asks, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.
“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Nicky replies, and they both look at me.
Yeah. They’re right. This isn’t something I want any part of.
I slink back inside the apartment, leaving them to their conversation in the hallway, and wait in the kitchen while they discuss whatever needs discussing. Their voices are too low for me to make out words, but the tone is businesslike, efficient, the kind of conversation that resolves problems without dwelling on unnecessary details.
Nicky isn’t long. When he walks into the kitchen a few minutes later, I can tell immediately that his arm is hurt.Nothing obvious, nothing that would be visible to a casual observer, but there’s something in the way he holds it, a careful stillness that speaks of recent injury. He was hiding it well in the hallway, but now his facade has slipped.
“Bathroom,” I order, pointing toward the hallway. “Now.”
Nicky raises an eyebrow at my commanding tone, clearly amused. “Yes, sir.”
I blush at the way he says it, the teasing hint of submission that sends heat racing through my chest. But I’m not distracted from my purpose.
“Take off your shirt,” I tell him, already moving toward the first aid kit I’ve seen in the bathroom cabinet.
“Liam…”
“Don’t argue. Let me see.”
