Maddie made him happy.
But he couldn’t do the same for her; what she wanted was impossible.
There was no way he was going to go to her and risk hurting her more than he already had done. But the idea of not having her in his life, the idea of her moving on, of her having everything she wanted with someone else… heat broke out on his skin and the taste of metal filled his mouth. He wanted to scream. He felt trapped by his own wants, and his brain’s inability to let him succumb to them. To think of her with another man…
Wasn’t that for the best though? Wasn’t that the reason he’d let her go? It was hard to remember. All he knew, standing on what felt like the edge of the world, was that he missed her in a way that made time stand still.
He spun on his heel, moving towards the villa with no real idea where he was going or what he was doing. Discontent raged within him and not moving wasn’t an option.
He could hear his brothers and cousins, their noise coming from the salon at the back. He could imagine the scene in there – the Christmas tree set up, the Montebello wine flowing. Soon his brother Raf would get on the piano and play carols. They’d all sing along. Dante, as if sensing Nico had come into the villa, stepped into the corridor, his rangy frame loping towards Nico so he put a hand out and Dante sniffed it then pushed, as if to guide him forward. Nico expelled a slow breath and went as the dog guided, but at the door to the salon, Dante looked in the opposite direction.
Nico frowned.
Gianfelice’s office, and the light was on. That was unusual. After their beloved grandfather had died, they’d only rarely broken the sanctity of this space, and only when absolutely required. He had the originals of some important paperwork which they’d needed to access. But being in here without him felt completely wrong.
This was his haven. His space. The centre of his universe, and with a man like Gianfelice, that meant something. Nonetheless, curiosity prodded Nico forward, Dante beside him.
If he’d known what he was to find in there, he might have braced himself harder, but he couldn’t have imagined. To open the door and see Yaya sitting at Gianfelice’s desk, her petite frame hunched forward, her greying hair pulled into a fine topknot, silver tears sliding down her paper-like cheeks – it pulled at every emotion Nico possessed.
“Yaya?” His voice was deep and throaty.
Her eyes slid to his – eyes that despite the passage of time had remained full of brightness and amusement. They were smart eyes, they saw everything.
“I’m glad you came, Niccolo.” She held one of her hands out; her fingers shook a little. “It hasn’t been the same without you.”
He didn’t reply. His absence felt selfish and childish now. He was feeling that way a lot lately. But why selfish? He’d given Maddie up because it was best for her, when it was the last thing he’d wanted to do. That made him the definition of selfless, didn’t it?
“What are you doing in here?” He moved to stand beside her, putting a hand on her shoulder comfortingly. It was at Yaya’s knee he’d learned to cook, in her arms he’d slowly recovered from the desertion of his mother. It was Yaya who’d loved him when no one else had cared to.
“Remembering.” She lifted her eyes to his, then placed a hand over his hand, stroking his fingers. “When I sit here, I feel like he is with me.”
Nico looked around the office, a shiver passing over his spine. “Yes. In this room, I think a piece of Gianfelice remains.”
“Not just a piece.” Yaya nodded to the golden urn in the corner and then laughed, a soft sound that turned into a small sob as she shook her head. It was so like Yaya to try to joke through her pain, to set him at ease. “It’s hard at Christmas.”
“It’s hard every day,” Nico agreed.
“Yes. Every day.” She sighed. “Where have you been, terremoto?” She used the term of endearment she’d given him as a child. At four, when he’d arrived at the Villa, he’d been out of control. Wild and devastated and unpredictable. Yaya had never yelled. She’d hugged him close, wrapped in her arms, and she’d whispered in his ears until he’d calmed, and always afterwards she’d kissed his forehead and whispered, ‘sei mia piccolo terremoto’, you’re my little earthquake. The tempers had faded with age but the name had remained.
“In New York,” he spoke the words with only the slightest hesitation, wondering at the desire now to confide in his grandmother.
She looked up at him, her intelligent eyes narrowing. “You look different.”
“Do I?”
“Hmm.” She frowned, her eyes not leaving his face. “What is it?”
He smiled at her, hoping to reassure her. “Nothing, Yaya. I’ve just been busy.”
“Hmm.”
He laughed, but his heart was heavy and he wondered if Yaya, who knew him so well, could see that somehow. “Did you boys do the star yet?”
He frowned. “I’m…not sure. I was outside.”
“Hmmm.” One ‘h
mm’ from Yaya was not generally a good sign. Three was troubling. “Come.” She put a hand out, so he held it, steadying her as she stood from the chair. Her body had grown so frail, her movements slow. Her mind, though, was that of a thirty year old’s. Nimble, quick, shrewd.