Nicky the Driver (Underboss Insurrection, #2)

by Cate C. Wells

I kept his secrets before he knew how to keep them himself.

I don’t say the other part. If they catch him like this out in the clubs, they’ll kill him. He knows it as well as I do.

I’d do anything in the world for this kid, and there is nothing I can do for him.

The man by the French doors is watching me. He’s motionless. Almost casual. Not bored. He’s alert, but unconcerned. He’s not wearing the cold and menacing mask that the other men wear. And he’s staring. I don’t dare stare back at him, but I also can’t stop my gaze from flicking over. How do I know him?

He’s not in charge. He’s not the greatest danger here. That’s Lucca Corso without a doubt. But still—I know him from somewhere.

Everything else makes terrible sense. Tony Junior fucked up. Lucca and Tomas found out. Vinny and Ray are here as the muscle. So who’s the man by the door?

The man by the French doors watches me. It hits me in between waves of panic. I do know him. Nicky Biancolli. We went to school together. He came to St. Celestine’s in eighth grade. He followed me around until I told my cousin Tino that he was making me uncomfortable.

“So here’s what’s gonna happen. Zita, you want your little brothers to walk out of this kitchen, right?” I don’t hesitate. “Yes.” By the doors, Nicky’s shoulders square. It’s a small movement. I wouldn’t have noticed if my nerves weren’t stretched almost to the point of snapping.

“Oh, no. Not me, honey. I’m not the marrying type. But lucky for you, he is.” He jerks his thumb toward Nicky. Nicky steps forward, his hands clasped in front of him, his spine ramrod straight, watching me. His face is unreadable. Shivers skitter across my clammy back.

Aren’t you engaged to the Italiano’s Pizza Grille kid?” Paul’s parents own the Italiano chain. Nicky moves forward, and Lucca punches his shoulder. “Watch out for this one. She’s easy come, easy go.” Nicky ignores him.

Nicky glances over his shoulder. I drop my gaze to the ground. His eyes are terrifying. Black. Blazing.

“Don’t do anything crazy,” he says, staring straight ahead. “This is crazy.” My voice is strange to my ears, shrill and echoey.

“I remember you,” I say, breaking the silence. It sounds like an accusation. I guess it is. His gaze flicks over and immediately returns to the road. “From St. Celestine’s,” I go on. “You used to follow me around.”

“My cousin Tino made you stop.” The corner of his mouth twitches. That amuses him? I’m pretty sure Tino beat his ass. It’s almost impossible to jive that kid with this man.

Nicky hasn’t adjusted himself once—not his hair or his cuffs or the lay of his jacket. His focus is entirely on the road. And me.

“You’re not going to tell me?” I ask. “You’re fuckin’ in charge here, then?” he says in an almost wry tone, his voice gravelly with its thick working-class Pyle accent.

“Are they making you do this?” I don’t know why, but I lower my voice to ask. “No,” he replies without hesitation. Impossibly, my stomach sinks.

He glances over—he can’t seem to stop doing it every few seconds—but he doesn’t reply. I guess I’m worth looking at but not speaking to.

“What are you anyway? Some errand boy? Lucca’s bitch?” His lips curve. “Gonna be your fuckin’ husband. Maybe you show some respect, eh?”

He’s not just decent looking. He’s beautiful.

And he’s not the least bit pissed off at me for questioning him. That means he’s not an errand boy. He’s not worried about his pride. In this world, that means he has a body count. He’s earned a reputation.

Nicky lifts a shoulder. “Tell him you don’t want him anymore.” Paul would never believe that. I’ve never not wanted him, and he knows it. That’s why he’s with me. The ultimate ego boost for the strait-laced student government president—the mobster’s daughter is in love with him. She’d do anything for him. He’s right. I can’t give him up.

Who cares what Nicky Biancolli knows? Who gives a shit what he thinks? I don’t. He’s Lucca Corso’s pawn—just like the rest of us. I don’t care, but like always, I’m powerless against the feeling.

Of course, his gaze is riveted on me. He tenses. His bunched biceps twitch, and his throat bobs as he swallows. He doesn’t say anything. Except for the twitching muscles, he doesn’t move. He just gorges himself with his eyes.

I know what starving looks like, the hunger you can’t feed. I know that no matter how tightly you hold on, eventually, you can’t stop yourself. He’s watching me now, but it’s only a matter of time.

“Stop looking at me,” I hiss. He lets out a short laugh. It echoes. “You don’t call the shots.” I know. I know, I know, I know, I know.

Nicky finishes covering me with a weighted blanket, bamboo like the one I have at home.

He’s facing the bed, watching me.

He moves so quickly that I don’t have time to startle. He puts his knee on the bed, leans over, grabs my hand, tugs off my ring, and shoves it in his pocket.

How long had he been wanting to break up with me? When did he figure out that I’m damaged beyond repair? I thought I’d hid it so fucking well. I thought I had it on lock. He thinks I need help.

And on the shelf at eye level, there’s my brand of aluminum-free coconut and vanilla natural deodorant, still in the plastic wrap. And my argan oil body butter. My shave cream. My rose gold razor. The kind of natural sea sponges I use instead of loofahs. My shampoo. My conditioner. My air dry cream. My styling balm. A slender pink bottle with a charm and a purple heart-shaped bottle of perfume, the same ones I have on my vanity.

I reach for the body butter and unscrew the lid. There’s a very slight indentation where someone ran their finger lightly across the top. I skim my finger along the same groove and rub the lotion into my shaking hands.

Nicky’s been in my bedroom. Or someone told him what products I use. Oh, Lord. He’s gone through my stuff.

At some point, Nicky was in my dorm room. Holy shit. What do I do with that?

There’s an exercise bike in the center of the room, facing the wall of windows. Same kind as mine. With the same heart rate monitor that I bought separately.

I don’t care about him. Fucking stalker. Loser. Lucca Corso’s bitch. Still, the shame scrapes me raw.

He has a five o’clock shadow. He didn’t last night. He must’ve shaved before he broke into my house to kill Furio and blackmail me into marrying him.

He doesn’t have a normal man’s eyes, he has an addict’s—calculating and fixated and dauntless.

I want him to know that no matter how much he scares me now, I remember feeling sorry for him.

“How long have you been watching me, Nicky?” He raises his eyes to stare over my shoulder at the wall. It’s the first time he’s stopped looking at me since he got back. “You really want me to marry you?” I press.

“You’re completely fucking nuts,” I tell him. This time, he gives me a whole smile, teeth and everything. They’re almost too white and even.

The bowl is full of tomatoes speckled with oregano. No mozzarella. He saved me his tomatoes. He was paying attention. Even when it looked like he wasn’t.

“That’s fucked up,” I say, quietly. We’ve both lowered our voices for some reason. I’m not sure if I mean the stalking or the snack cake question or both. “I know,” he says, and almost as if he can’t stop himself, he raises a hand and slips a strap off my shoulder.

I raise my eyes to meet his, and instantly, I’m stuck, a fly in honey. His black, glassy irises are tar. Quicksand. My breath shallows. He is beautiful. Not almost. Is.

He wants this. He doesn’t give a shit about should. He’s not even trying to hide how much he wants it.

But no, thinking back now, even younger, horny Paul never wanted me this bad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look like they want something this bad.

A slash of color stains his cheekbones. “Yes.” His voice is even, but the word has weight. Heft.

How long has he been stalking me? I bet he’s pictured it a hundred—thousand—times.

I go back to the closet and dig out face wash and styling product. There’s a blow dryer—my make and model—and a round ceramic brush. “You gonna watch this part, too?” He’s resting his forearms on his thighs, and he gazes up at me from under sooty eyelashes, a sheen on his olive skin from the steam. His undershirt is damp and clinging to his sculpted pecs. He’s hard. There’s a tent in his pants that he’s making no effort to hide.

Nicky watches like he’s never seen anything like it before, and his interest makes me aware of every inch of my skin, every slight movement, in a way I never am.