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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

NICO AND ROCCO

H ad someone been here the entire time?

“Okay, flying monkeys, if you’ve started in on that pizza, you better have left me some. I’m coming to check, and then I’m going to throw on—”

Nico’s eyes ballooned at the sight of Rocco wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. His chest was glistening, his hair tousled, the ends shedding drops of water that slid from his sculpted shoulders down his muscular chest, descending to his chiseled abs and carving a seductive stream that didn’t escape view until slipping under that towel.

He jerked to an abrupt stop when he saw her. If he’d been wearing shoes, he would have skidded.

Nico’s mouth was full of pizza. She stared at that towel wrapped around his torso. Was it her imagination, or had it slipped a fraction of an inch? It was now hanging oh-so-precariously on his hips. Another inch and …

No sooner had she completed the thought than a wad of pizza dough caught in her throat.

Nico stood up so suddenly her chair crashed to the floor. There was something she needed to do. Hammacher Schlemmer, Schlummer or Schlepper.

What’s it called? What does it matter? Just do it. Do what?

“She’s choking!” both girls cried in unison as they scrambled off their chairs and jumped to their feet.

Before her brain could manifest another thought, she felt him behind her.

He threw his arms around her. Making a fist with one hand and clasping it tightly with the other, he placed them just below her rib cage.

His face was flush with hers, his cheek pressed against hers, the stubble grazing her flesh.

His breathing—rapid fire—rose and fell in waves, beating in rhythm with his heart pounding against her back.

“Please don’t let me break her ribs,” he whispered as he thrust his fist into her, drawing her body into his own.

“Harder, Uncle Rocco! Harder!” Sofia and Beatrice yelled.

Is he wearing anything underneath that towel?

“Her face is red!” Sofia wailed.

“No, it’s purple!” Beatrice screamed.

Of course he’s not wearing anything, you idiot. He just came out of the shower. Do you know anyone who wears underwear in the shower?

The grim reaper is holding that scythe over your neck. And he’s grinning! Think about that! Not the fact that only a thin layer of terry cloth separates …

No! These cannot be your last thoughts on earth.

Recite the Lord’s Prayer, a Hail Mary, the Pledge of Allegiance, anything but …

“Come on, Nico,” he murmured.

I must remember one of the three.

She could hear the girls shouting, “Harder, Uncle Rocco, harder!”

“Come on, girl.”

Holy Mary! Lord have mercy and deliver us from evil.

“Uncle Rocco, harder. She’s turning blue!”

Pray for us sinners. Lead us not into temptation and pledge allegiance now and at the hour of our death, with liberty and justice for all.

“Please, Nico.” His plea sounded to her like a prayer. “Don’t leave me now. Come on, girl. Please.”

For thine is the power and the glory. Forever and ever. Amen.

One more thrust, and out came a wad of wet red dough with one strip of glistening prosciutto hanging from it.

“Ew,” Beatrice said, staring down at the putrid object.

“Yuck,” Sofia added, peering at it alongside her.

He released his fist and loosened his hold on her but didn’t remove his hands altogether. He held her waist, and she could still feel him behind her.

After a moment, he let go and placed the palm of his hand on her back. She sighed, grateful for her breath—even grateful for the presence of his hand, which was surprisingly comforting.

“Just breathe, Nico. Relax. Take a moment. You’re okay now.”

Rocco kept his hand on her back, watching her closely.

She lifted her sweater and brought it up to her mouth, but he pushed her hand down and reached for a napkin. She made a move to take it from him, but he ignored her hand and gently wiped her lips.

When he was done, she hung her head, staring at the floor. She wouldn’t look at him. He placed his hand under her chin and lifted it until he could see her face. Her eyes looked like two black pebbles under a running stream.

“Uncle Rocco,” Sofia said, “she’s still red.”

“Yeah, Uncle Rocco,” Beatrice said, “maybe you didn’t get it all out. Maybe you should do some more.”

He shook his head. “No, she’s fine. Just give her a moment.”

He smiled and brushed one finger lightly under Nico’s chin.

The color in her cheeks deepened.

Quickly, he removed his hand.

No one said a word. Even his nieces were quiet, which almost never happened. He racked his brain, trying to think how best to break the awkward silence, which had become deafening. He could hear it ringing in his ears.

He turned his gaze to the wet mound of dough sitting on the carpet.

“Ew and yuck,” he echoed.

He cast a sidelong glance at Nico and saw the corners of her lip twitch, curl, and then rise. Finally, she began to chuckle. That got the girls to snicker. Soon they were all laughing until their breath and their stomachs couldn’t withstand any more.

When the laughter finally subsided, his nieces ran over and hugged Nico.

“It would have been a shame to lose you after we just became friends,” said Sofia.

“Most definitely,” agreed Beatrice.

Then they rushed over to Rocco, throwing their arms around him.

“You saved Nico’s life, Uncle Rocco,” Sofia cried.

“You’re a hero,” echoed Beatrice.

“Yes, thank you,” Nico muttered.

When he met her gaze, she looked away.

“Wait a minute,” Sofia said, looking up at him. “You said her name. I heard you.”

Beatrice disengaged herself and stared up at him as well. “I heard you too.”

“How did you know her name?” Sofia asked.

“Yeah,” Beatrice said, “we didn’t tell you.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, “we know each other.”

“How?” they both asked in unison.

He hesitated. You couldn’t say one thing around these girls and expect it to be kept quiet or forgotten. They had minds like steel traps. And they were never bashful about releasing those traps and spewing things that at best were awkward or uncomfortable and at worst downright damning.

He heard her voice and felt himself cringe at what might come next.

“Your uncle and I are on the same team.”

They smiled.

Okay , he thought, so far, so good .

“What do you do?” Sofia asked.

“I’m a driver, like him.”

The two girls looked at each other.

Shit.

“You’re the cockroach?”

“What?” Nico cried, glaring at him.

“I never said cockroach.” He looked from her to his nieces. “I never said cockroach. I said encroacher. Actually, I didn’t even say that. I said she was encroaching. Not to mention that was a private conversation with your uncle Dario.”

The girls stood with their hands on their hips. They were glaring at him too. “What’s the difference?” Sofia demanded.

“Yeah,” he heard Nico echo. “I’d like to know that too. What is the difference?”

When he looked over at her, he could see she’d recovered. She was shooting daggers at him.

Man , he thought, how quickly they forget . Didn’t I just save her life? Didn’t they just call me a hero?

“An encroacher is not a cockroach,” he said. “An encroacher is um, well, it’s a—”

“An interloper?” Nico suggested. “An intruder? Someone who’s not wanted?”

Beatrice pushed him. “Why wouldn’t you want Nico?”

Sofia did likewise. “Is it because she’s a girl?”

He suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable. That’s when he realized he was still wearing only a towel. What’s more, he could feel it slipping. He grabbed it, holding it in place, looking frantically at the three pairs of glaring eyes.

Escape.

It was the only option.

He turned and ran.