Page 8 of Nicoli

“God says if thy right hand causeth thee to stumble, cut it off, and cast it from thee.”

“The scripture says the lips of the adulterous woman drip honey, and her seductive words are smoother than olive oil, but she is bitter as wormwood, a sharp two-edged sword. Her feet go down to death, and her steps lead straight to the grave. And that’s where I sent them. To their graves just like God told me to.”

“You might not be a harlot, but you’re the hand that caused me to stumble. I still do every time I look at you. My mind becomes a snake pit of sin, and the serpent infects me with its evil.”

“Your beauty infects my soul.”

Micah maimed me by dragging his knife down the side of my face, from my temple to my chin, right before Nicoli jumped through the mausoleum window, colored glass shattering as a gunshot echoed between the walls. Nicoli didn’t think twice about putting his life in danger to save me. He took a bullet for me, and as blood soaked his white shirt, all I could think about was how I couldn’t lose him, thinking that there was no way I’d want to live in a world he wasn’t part of. Leandra says I screamed that night, that she could hear me all the way outside where Alexius left her in the car. But I don’t remember it. I don’t remember screaming…or moving…or breathing. All I remember was the fear.

Cold, paralyzing, debilitating fear.

Nicoli’s courage that night almost had me fooled by thinking he might care more than he led on. But the very next day he proved me wrong by acting like ‘feelings’ had nothing to do with it. After that, he pretended like nothing happened, just like everyone pretends Micah never existed.

Chills run along my skin, and I inhale slow and deep, shaking the memory and turning away from my reflection in the mirror. I can’t allow my thoughts to hover around memories that can tear open old wounds. The dead have no place in my life and can only hurt me if I let them.

I turn and lean back against the windowsill, glancing around the three-hundred-square-foot bedroom. I’m not oblivious to the fact that my room is larger than some apartments in this city. I have the best of the best—the finest furnishings, luxury bedding, and an enormous walk-in closet filled with more clothes than one person really needs. But there’s this hole inside me, one I hide behind a thousand smiles, one I try to fill with every swipe of a credit card. Then, of course, there’s the guilt that comes along with it. How can I feel like there’s something missing when I have everything? I’m blessed to live here on the estate, enjoying the finer things in life—a life the Del Rossas have generously given me. I have everything a girl could need.

Everything except him.

“Nicoli,” I whisper to myself simply to hear his name on my lips, then push myself upright, square my shoulders, and pull on the mask of the perfect Del Rossa daughter—even if it’s not by blood.

My walk-in closet is half the size of my bedroom, with different fabrics and textures of every color and style imaginable. But there’s one color that dominates my wardrobe. It's like a scarlet wave across a sea of white shelves and chrome rails. To some, it’s the color of blood. To me, it’s the color of life—which is kind of odd considering what happened to my real family.

I slip on a short, red, Boho-style, sleeveless, halter-neck dress, finishing off the outfit with a pair of nude heels. Today is probably one of the last warm summer days we’ll have this year, and I intend to make the most of it.

I’m about to walk out of my room and open the door just as Maximo readies to knock.

I smile. “You’re knocking on my door early today.”

“You okay?” he asks as he rakes over me with his concerned gaze. We both know what today is, which is why he feels the need to check on me.

“I’m fine. You?”

He nods. “I’m good.”

There’s this awkward silence, and even though he doesn’t move, I know he’s secretly squirming. My brother is not the touchy-feely type, and anything that has to do with human emotion activates his gag reflex.

“I’m okay, Maximo. Really.”

“Okay, well,” he drags his fingers along his beard, “I’ll be around all day if you, you know…need me for anything.”

I smile, appreciating his effort to show me that he cares even though it’s probably giving him heartburn.

“Thank you,” I say and move in to hug him. We don’t have to talk about the fact that today is the anniversary of our parents’ massacre. We don’t have to say a word about losing our oldest brother that night either. Maximo doesn’t have to tell me that the night we lost Marco, he lost his best friend. I already know because Marco and Maximo were as close as two brothers can be, and even though I don’t remember much, I do remember a ten-year-old Maximo screaming at the top of his lungs when Mr. Del Rossa told him that Marco had died along with our parents.

“I know you miss him,” I whisper against my brother’s chest, and he stiffens before letting go of me.

He steps back, deflecting. “You should go grab some breakfast before Isaia gets there. That guy is a fucking Hoover when it comes to food.”

“Yeah, okay. Are you joining us?”

“Ahm, I grabbed a muffin on my way here. I need to check on security, make sure everyone is at their post.”

“I’m sure the security around here is ironclad. You can spend half an hour having breakfast with us, Maximo.”

“No. Not today.” He leans close and places a peck on my cheek. “I’ll see you later.”

It’s like he suddenly grew wings, flying down the hall in record time. I’m used to him pulling away whenever I mention our older brother. But I get it. He misses him, and we all handle grief differently.

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