◇─◇──◇─◇

        "You know anything about dope?"

        Nicky's eyes widened. He stared at Michael in disbelief, his salad fork discarded to the side. He was pretty sure he knew exactly where this was going. "I know it killed my fuckin' wife, what about it?" he asked defensively. Michael fixed him with a cold brown stare.

        It had been about a month and a half after, and the pain had receded to a dull ache, but Michael was rubbing salt in that wound as vigorously as he possibly could.

        "I want you to be at the head of it. I want you to control all dealing, smuggling, imports and exports." he said shortly. Nicky scoffed.

        "You're fuckin' with me. You're kidding." he said. He pushed his food back, scooting his chair out from under the table.

        "Do I look like I'm fuckin' with you?" Michael said harshly, his hands curling into fists. If anyone else had spoken to him that way he would have put a fist in their teeth, and that wouldn't even have been the half of what he'd do to them. "I give you a fuckin' promotion and this is how you thank me?"

        "You could have given me anything else. The racketeering. Pornography. Unions for fuck's sake! Instead you choose to hurt me. You motherfucker." Nicky snarled, rising. Michael opened his mouth to speak but Nicky cut him off.

        "No, fuck you. I'll do your fuckin' dirty job and I'll be the best damn one you've ever had, but don't think for one minute that I'm gonna fuckin' like it. Go fuck yourself Michael. I'm gettin' the hell outta here, tell Ma her cookin' was good.'' With that, he stood up, the chair screeched loudly as he straightened his legs. He was gone in the blink of an eye. The air where he sat was vapid, and cold.

        "Where's Nicky?" Isabella, Michael's wife asked, walking in with a baking pan of Tiramisu. "The dessert is ready."

        "He left. He's probably out making a goddamn fool out of himself." Michael replied, he sat his own salad fork down and leaned back, crossing his arms with a deep frown.

        "What did you do?" she asked. She sat down the ceramic pan and tilted her head. "You've got guilt written all over your face."

        "I told him. Y'know, about the deal." he replied, arms still folded across his chest.

        "Are you a fool?!" she struck him rapidly in the arm with small slaps. "I told you it was a terrible idea! Why do you have to be so... stubborn! "Per l'amor di Dio sei proprio un testa di cazzo!"

        "I did it for his own good! He's never gonna get to where I am by being a little bitch boy!" Michael shot back, voice raised. "It'll build character. You leave him alone, he'll be fine." And that was that.

◇─◇──◇─◇

        Nicky was still fuming when he got home. Rain pounded the ground, only accentuating the man's ill feelings. He couldn't believe the audacity that Michael had to ask him that. A month after Vittoria! He shot his mouth off, and that would bury him deep. It was a ridiculous request though, and he didn't regret it. He'd take the consequences gladly.

        He got out of his souped up Cadillac, craving nothing but a strong drink. He tried to compose himself, knowing that he'd have to thank Harlow for coming on such a short notice, especially on a Sunday.

        It was 11 PM. He'd driven extra slow back home, spending his time being angry and avoiding traffic violations. He opened the door as slowly and silently as he could. Aurora should have been sleeping by now, and he didn't want to wake her up.

        The television was murmuring softly in the other room. There was a plate of food sitting in his spot, untouched. He took his hat and coat off and hung them onto the rack by the door, heading over to the kitchen. He wasn't hungry, having lost his appetite. He poured himself a glass of I.W. Harper. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his collar, padding into the living room. He saw a sight he hadn't expected in a million years.

        Kennedy and Rori were still sitting on the couch, and the late late show was playing, the lights dancing on their sleeping faces. Rori was curled into Kennedy's side like a cat. Kennedy had one arm slung over her and her head rested on top of Rori's. They looked so peaceful like that, like a real mother and daughter. Nicky's chest ached for them.

        He lifted Aurora off Kennedy gingerly, careful to not wake the nanny up. The little girl sighed softly, content, and nuzzled further into his chest.He smiled and carried her to her own bedroom. The girl must have needed the sleep because she didn't come to full consciousness the whole time he worked tucking her in. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and turned the light off, looking at her little sleeping form one more time before heading back into the living room.

        Now he had to decide what to do with Kenny. She needed the sleep too; the dark circles that decorated her under eyes spoke for her, but he had no clue if she had to be home that night. He sat in the armchair adjacent to the couch to think.

        Maybe I'll let her sleep. He thought. But I don't want to make her uncomfy... but she might be angry with me if I disturb her. If I have to handle one more person with an attitude today I'll fuckin' lose it. No... she's not like that. She'll appreciate it if I wake her up. She'd probably be embarrassed if I let her sleep any longer. He paused for a moment, a bit of self-reflection hitting him like a ton of bricks. Why did he even care? Why were the feelings of a woman he barely knew so damn important to him? He shook it off. Now was not the time to delve into stupid feelings and whatnot. If he were good at what he did he wouldn't have to have feelings anyway, or that's what he told himself at least.

        She strengthened his resolve and placed a hand on Kennedy's shoulder, shaking it gently.

        "Kenny," he whispered, studying her face. Her eyes fluttered open, gleaming in a sleepy haze. She looked at him for a moment in confusion. Her eyes widened in alarm when she figured out what was happening.

        "Oh Mr. Ricci—"

        "Nicky."

        "Nicky, I'm so sorry, I must have fallen asleep!" her hands flew up to smooth her hair. He withdrew. "Where's Rori?"

        "She's all tucked in, asleep. I didn't know the Late Late show had such sedative properties." he replied. "Relax, I'm not angry with you."

        "I'm so ashamed Mr. Ricci—"

       "Nicky," he corrected her again calmly.

        "Nicky, I'll understand if you'd want to let me go,"

        He leaned forward and grasped either shoulder in a reassuring hold, gazing into her eyes.

         "Mio Coniglia, relax. Per favore."

        The gravity of the situation hit Kennedy like a ton of bricks. Here her boss was, face just inches away from hers, lips parted slightly. He gazed at her through his lashes, blue eyes sparkling in the moonlight that was flittering in from the window behind the couch. There was liquor on his breath, and he was speaking another language to her in a low voice. From any outside perspective, this would look completely and utterly unprofessional.

      The worst part? Kennedy Harlow had no intention of doing anything about it.

◇─◇──◇─◇

"Per l'amor di Dio sei proprio un testa di cazzo!" — "For God's sake you're such a dickhead!"

"Mio Coniglia, relax. Per favore." — "My rabbit, relax. Please."

— nicky having pet names after animals for his girls > literally anything else. i love him so much it hurts bro