go to school?" he asks, assembling ingredients from the fridge onto the counter.

I smile, letting my bare legs dangle from the bar stool, propping my head on my arms against the cool granite.

Earlier, as I slid his shirt over his head, I had whispered into his ear that he should talk to me more. That I didn't even know anything about him besides how much I love his mouth.

As he chops onions and garlic, I tell him about Emily Carr and study his dark form, curious.

"Did you go to school?"

His lips tilt up at the corners. "UBC."

"Oh."

A small chuckle. His eyes flicker to my face briefly before he turns his attention to the stove. "Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm not!" I laugh. "I'm just trying to imagine what you studied."

I swear I notice a small tinge of red fill his cheeks, but I'm probably seeing things. It's the heat from the stove.

"You'll never guess." Ever verbose, he avoids my gaze and focuses on the pasta he's sliding into a boiling pot of water.

My curiosity fades as a part of me suddenly remembers that first time Caleb cooked for me, recalls him pouring spaghetti into a steaming pot. I swallow. Not now, not here.

He must notice my sudden change in mood because he glances up, and he realizes instantly that something has changed. He walks over, stands near, lets me look off to the side and avoid his eyes.

I vaguely and vividly recall Caleb bringing a spoon of red pasta sauce to my lips, giving me one of his sparkling grins.

Once I blink myself out of it a couple of times, I bring myself back, to Nero, wrap my arms tightly around his neck and sink my face into the crook of his shoulder. "Why do men always cook pasta?" I try to make it a joke for both our sakes, but he must understand. He presses his hands to my hips and lets me lean into him.

Eventually, he mutters into my ear. "English lit."

I must have misheard him. A strangled laugh escapes my lips and I am brought back to him, to us, here. "Excuse me?"

He chuckles. "You heard me."

"I don't think I did." I pull away to look into his face, and his confession has filled his cheeks with a pale flush. "You did not."

He purses his lips, not meeting my eyes.

"The underboss of the Vancouver mafia studied english lit at UBC? Are you serious?"

He lets me go gently to attend to his saucepan, shaking his head a little. "Don't laugh."

But I do. I laugh. And I laugh a little more. "You're kidding me, right?"

"No."

I rack my brain. I love English lit. The romance, the history. But watching the muscles ripple through his dark t-shirt, I realize that I must have him wrong.

"Okay, who wrote A Cask of Amontillado?"

A chuckle. "Poe."

Hm.

"Name three Romantic writers."

He shakes his head, now amused. "Austen, Shelley... Brontë."

I huff. "All that shows is that you've seen Fifty Shades."

He turns back to me, challenge written across his face, etched into his arched brow. "Just because I went into the family business doesn't mean that I didn't once have interests of my own."

I squint at him. "Prove it."

He rolls his eyes, just a little. Leaning towards me from across the counter, his face is suddenly a few inches from my own.

His voice is just a low, rough whisper. He doesn't meet my eyes, though, instead focuses somewhere near my lips. His words are deep, hesitant, powerful. Each sound is low, slow, sends shivers down my spine. "'I loved her simply because I found her irresistible. . . I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be.'"

His breathing and mine make the space between us warm, and my heart pounds in my chest, completely captured. My eyes flutter away from him shyly, because he might have just used Charles Dickens to admit that he is falling in love with me, and I am utterly spellbound.

He places a tender kiss to the top of my head and leaves me to think it over, attending to the stove where things have started to boil over.

As soon as he says it, all I feel is warm and safe and right. My heart doesn't protest. I watch his movements, magical, and I sigh, my chest fuzzy.

I'm not sure how to respond to him, so I don't. I just slide off the chair and make my way towards him, bare feet making light steps along the hardwood. As he stirs the sizzling sauce I press my face into the comfort of his back, wrap my arms around his torso, lean into his warmth. His muscles relax beneath me, letting me fit against him. I feel him lean into me too.

•§•

I come to realize, Nero is a great cook.

"So I've been cooking for you since I moved in and you've never made me this pasta before." I have to keep myself from shoveling down the plate of creamy, rich spaghetti.

He raises an eyebrow, amused. "I'm Italian, you know." I guess I shouldn't be that surprised that his food is delicious. "Also, you've never slept over before."

I blush. "Tragic."

His lips twitch. "Very." His eyes sparkle, his gaze makes my skin warm. "One of these days you should bake for me again."

It makes me irrationally happy that he likes my cooking, too.

I'm not sure teasing him like this is exactly the way to go, but I can't help it. "Natalia can bake cupcakes for you. She should know my recipe by now."

A wry expression captures his eyebrows, he rolls his eyes a little. "I'm guessing you want to hear that story, huh?"

Oh. "Now that you mention it, yes I do."

He pauses for a long moment, watches me sip my water.

I'm definitely curious to hear his side of their story.

It takes him a long time to decide where to start. "Natalia and I were close growing up." A pause. "We went to the same high school, same university."

I try to picture Nero, young and innocent, fresh out of the twelfth grade.

His voice is almost regretful, nostalgic. My heart breaks for him, a little.

"She went into nursing. I..." He trails off, gives me a small, wry smile.

"You studied romance novels." I bite my lip, and he shakes his head at my obvious amusement.

"Natalia's mother was like a mother to me." His gaze is somewhere far away. "My mom passed away when I was very young."

"I'm sorry, Nero." The thought of it fills me with sympathy. I take his hand softly, and he gives my palm a gentle squeeze.

"Don't be." A small, shy smile. "Natalia's mom, my aunt, wasn't very close with my father because of his... business."

I wait as he takes a breath. His low voice makes me hang on to every word.

"Just after my last year, something happened." I can see the far off look in his eyes.

"There had been a lot of conflict. My dad..." He shakes his head. "There was some kind of fight over a shipment that was coming in." Swallows. "They killed him."

Just the though of Nero as an orphan makes me sick to my stomach. But I know he doesn't want my pity. "I can't imagine, Nero," I whisper, before stopping myself, realizing.

His lips tilt up, wryly. His voice is apologetic. "Something tells me you can."

Maybe I can.

"At that point, my uncles and cousins took me in and...." For the first time since he began his story, he meets my eyes, and I can see the emotions flash across them. "I was so angry, Rosalyn."

I just nod, wind my fingers tight with his. I know what that anger feels like.

"I needed revenge." He chuckles but there's no humor in it. "Natalia warned me. Mia zia, she warned me."

I don't think I have ever seen this kind of rawness from him. I have never seen this deep into his life, his past.

"They told me I couldn't do it, that I shouldn't go back. That it would ruin me."

I have to close my eyes because otherwise a tear will fall. Too late. I squeeze them shut and feel the rough pad of his thumb sweep the dampness softly away. "Eventually, I got in so deep that I lost them, fell into a different world."

I force myself to look at him. The softness in those hard lines of his face is indescribable.

"And I never realized it, never looked back or felt remorse or regret." He brings his hand to my face, hovers his thumb above my lips in an impossibly gentle caress. His voice turns quiet, just barely a whisper. "Until two years ago." My heart beats rapidly in my chest, because I know what comes next. "Until you moved next door and I..." He leans closer, tilts his head. "Until you made me realize."

The softness in my heart is more than I have ever felt. I reach my hands to take his face between my palms. His eyes close, his skin melts into my touch. My forehead rests against his and we hold each other, breathe the same air, say nothing, yet everything.

I had already forgiven him. But now, I know that I truly understand him, understand it, all of it. It brings me both heaviness and a kind of peace.

***

A/N:

So. What do you think of Nero's story? Is it understandable, how he got here? Can you forgive him?

XOXO Ami

Thanks for reading! Please consider voting if you're enjoying BTW. Votes help books do well in the Wattpad stats. ❤️