I don't know how it happened.

All I know is I came next door with the excuse of needing to give Nik one of his favorite toys. (Nik doesn't have toys. He likes to pretend he's stuck in a joyless existence, even though I spoil him rotten). All I really wanted was to see if Massimo happened to regret anything we did last night. His Good morning text was fucking weird.

Like, good morning to you too. I very much enjoyed having your dick in my mouth last night.

I walk in to an assault. The kind on my ovaries. Because despite their personalities, Massimo's brothers still look like that. Tommaso reclines against the counter, his upper body an exposed mess of ink and lean muscle. Santo, meanwhile, has just apparently finished a workout if the glistening of his muscles are anything to go by. His tattoos cover nearly the entirety of his exposed skin, while Tommaso's are sporadic and messy. They're engaged in some kind of serious discussion, a conglomeration of dark glares, clenched jaws, and the buttery musicality of Italian. 

Tommaso's in the process of looking at something on his phone. And that's when the yelling starts.

Tommaso throws his phone at the wall, immediately burying his fist in the drywall. He's shouting, and then Santo's joining in, both yelling at each other while Tommaso gestures wildly to his broken phone. They've switched to Italian again so I have no idea what's going on. But the look on Tommaso's face is like the world is coming to an end.

It takes me a solid few minutes to realize they're not screaming at me. I begin to slowly back out the door.

And that's when Massimo bursts in. And I have never seen him move so fast. He must think his brother is angry at me because he places himself between us before grabbing Tommaso, backing him into the wall hard and forcing a palm over his mouth to shut him up. Massimo's face is white, mouth set, eyes blazing. He's furious.

"What. Did. You. Do."

Tommaso's eyes are blown wide in shock, but the misery is still written all over him. He sags against Massimo's punishing hold, not even trying to fight.

Santo glances at me and steps forward. "He didn't touch her. Let him g—"

"Speak." It's one chilling syllable, spoken inches from Tommaso's face. "Tell me what you did. "Tell me," he snarls, shaking his brother so hard the back of his head smacks into the wall, "why I just got a call that the feds are after you."

His words hardly process because it's that look in Massimo's eyes, two empty fucking sheets of ice, that alerts me to the fact that he's fallen over the edge of the abyss.

"You've finally done it, haven't you?" Massimo still doesn't release his brother, doesn't let him talk. "Gotten yourself into a mess I can't bribe, negotiate, or weasel you out of. You've done so well," his words turn sour and mocking, "done this family so proud. Months of this, Tommaso. Months. Every other week I'm cleaning up after you. Burying bodies, cashing out favors to placate powerful people, manipulating the system just so you can enjoy your new lease on life. And this is how it all ends, huh?" He gives a bone chilling laugh, a noise unlike anything I've heard. "One dead, one in prison... I would be worried about doing this family proud myself, but everything that's happened is what you all deserve."

Tommaso shudders a little, and I'm utterly shocked to find his eyes glazed over with a sheen of emotion.

A noise comes from Santo's mouth and he steps back, visibly shaken.

"Don't you fucking dare," Tommaso croaks, and anger is quickly beginning to send trembles coursing through him. "Say what you want about me, but don't you dare fucking speak of him. You left, so you can't talk about him. He didn't deserve—he should have been the most protected, our first thought... And you're saying he deserved it? Why don't you fucking care?"

Massimo makes a disgusted sound. "This is useless chatter."

"Santo," I whisper, sidling up to his side. "He's not himself right now, you need to..." I mean to say more, to warn him, but it's too late.

Massimo tosses his younger brother to the side. It's not particularly violent—well, it wouldn't be. Except the side of Tommaso's head hits the corner of the mantle over the fireplace. Blood is all over the carpet before Tommaso even hits the ground. Massimo takes in the scene placidly, cocking his head as he observes the spray of blood on his leather loafers.

Santo kneels on the ground, his hand in Tommaso's hair. He wrenches off his shirt, pressing it to the wound. Both younger brothers' voices are overlapping, shouting, "what the fuck is wrong with you?", but all my focus is on the older brother.

The one who has completely exited himself. The one who's kneeling, running his finger through the blood, rubbing it between his fingers like it's liquid gold, stepping forward as if he wants to finish the job on Tommaso. 

He looks at me so hatefully when I stand between them, my hands outstretched as if he's a wild animal.

He might as well be. This is the Massimo that stabbed that soldier of his twelve times, the one who mutilated his father, the one who likes the blood. The one who almost killed me and killed fuck knows however many people in the past. And I'm choosing to believe that that's not at all who he really is.

"What are you doing?"

My heart races. That voice is so chilling. It astounds me that anyone could think he normally sounds unaffected—that I once thought that. This is unaffected. Normally, there's a layer of calm beneath the cold, and it's in the clearness of his eyes, too. A kind of caged softness. Like he's just waiting for someone to come along and take a few seconds to realize that he's not all ice.

Right now, he's all ice.

"Do you remember that time you came to my parents' house? I was annoyed at myself for actually liking your presence, so I ran away and stayed with them for a week. Until you showed up, all bossy and annoyed. Anyway, you ate me out. Remember that? You edged me to hell and back. I didn't know it at the time, but you were pissed that I refused to give up control. You figured making me beg for an orgasm might teach me to stop ignoring my feelings for you."

I hear a choked noise from somewhere behind me, but continue ignoring everything except the beautiful, empty man in front of me. Believe it or not, I do have a plan right now. Massimo's not aware of who or where he is, so he needs a memory to ground him. I'm just not sure why I chose this one.

"Anyway, I was pissed, and then we left. I didn't even want you driving in the same car as me but of course you strong-armed me into that. And I got really angry when I realized you had stolen some papers from my desk and were rifling through them."

"I need you to move, or I'll do it for you. And it's going to hurt."

"After that, I avoided you for a few days. And I'm realizing—right now, I guess—that around then, right around then, is when something changed." He became colder, emptier, but it happened slowly. "I don't even care what happened. I just want to be with you. I want to help you. Is that okay?"

I take a risk, placing my palms on his arm. He stiffens at the contact and something in his face slackens. But now he's completely focused on me, and that's what I wanted.

I don't know if he'd hurt me—and we don't get a chance to find out.

Transfixed by my words and touch, Massimo doesn't notice what's happening. The soft rustling behind me as Santo, thankfully, understands what I had started telling him earlier. Massimo's eyes round as he stares at the place my skin meets his, right as his brother's fist meets his mark.

To Santo's credit, he knocks him out with one clean hit. But it's still hard to watch Massimo crumble, to see the light leave his eyes like that.

"Fuck," Santo curses, shaking out his fist.

I go to my knees and brush Massimo's hair from his face. He looks peaceful and only a little broken. There's already a bruise forming on his temple, and his usually styled hair is falling over his face, making him look uncharacteristically boyish.

"What happens now?" Santo asks me gruffly. He kneels by my side, dark eyes surprisingly vulnerable as he watches me cradle his older brother's head in my lap. "Tell me what to do now, and I'll do it."

"I don't know," I choke out. "I've never had to knock him out. He usually just snaps out of it? He's never hurt me. Get me an ice pack, and we need to figure out if he needs stitches," I gesture to Tommaso, who I'm only fairly certain isn't bleeding out. "Massimo won't be happy if you've bled out when he wakes up. He cares about you. I know he does."

Tommaso makes a choked sort of sound, and I glance down at my lap. Massimo's staring up at me as my hands mindlessly card through his hair.

"Vivienne, would you like to tell me why I'm lying on the floor?"

He says it in that exclusively Massimo way, flat and bordering on annoyed but full of empty threats.

I want to weep with relief.

♛

We sit spread out between the couches and chairs in my living room. I had Massimo call someone to clean the blood from his carpet—a seemingly small detail, but I know after this, once he comes down from this episode completely, he won't want to see that.

He's fine now—at least, he looks it. I'm quickly realizing that Massimo's 'fine' over the last few weeks has really been a slowly deteriorating 'barely hanging on.' He's quiet and exhausted, an empty suit sitting next to me on the couch. Everyone seems to take that as a sign that it's fine to move past his moment of insanity.

Tommaso thankfully doesn't need stitches. Head wounds do bleed a lot, Santo reassured us, and it stopped after a few minutes. He's unusually docile, and if it's not from blood loss, it's certainly from what transpired between him and Massimo. They both dutifully avoid each other's eyes, like mature men who don't bury their problems.

But eventually, the story comes out.

Last week, right before they'd answered my 911 text, as it happens, Tommaso was out partying with some friends. I can tell by friends, he means mostly women. Then, apparently, some guy had shown up with his crew and started giving him a hard time, trying to get under his skin.

"And you weren't starting anything," Santo says flatly.

"Yeah, I wasn't," Tommaso glares. They don't seem to care that I'm witnessing this. "Anyway, one of them kept posting everything on her fucking social media. Pictures, videos, you name it. It got to the point where I started avoiding this bitch because she'd just shove her phone in my face."

Eventually, driven to a breaking point, Tommaso had snapped. Beaten the man to a pulp. Kept going even after he was unconscious. Killed him right then and there, in the crowded club. And it had all been filmed and posted online by, as Tommaso calls her, "this bitch," a whole week later. He'd stumbled across it this morning.

The video makes my stomach curl as we all gather around to watch it. Despite the dark lights and crowds of people it's immediately clear which one is Tommaso; he's the only one shouting, looming over another smaller guy, a lone tempest in an otherwise calm sea. The girl gets closer to film, close enough that it's easy to see the unhinged fury rolling off Tommaso before he suddenly swings, and the guy crumbles like a bag of bricks. Then Tommaso is on him, throwing punches. It's immediately clear the guy's knocked out, his head flopping sickeningly back and forth with each hit. Tommaso suddenly yanks the unconscious man up by the front of his shirt, stumbling a little, and slams his head into a nearby table. Blood is immediately everywhere, splattering all over a group of girls nearby and provoking a slew of screams. And this time when the guy hits the floor, he's dead. The footage becomes blurry before it cuts off.

It all happened in less than a minute. And it was captured perfectly.

"It's like she's trying to win a fucking Academy Award," Tommaso mutters. "But look, I don't remember doing that. I remember it like it was someone else doing it."

"Do you think that fucking matters?" Santo snaps, pacing. "You promised me a month ago you'd stay clean."

"I am clean," Tommaso insists. "I swear."

"But you were drinking," Santo frowns down at him, like a disappointed parent.

"Yeah, I was drinking," Tommaso frowns at his brother like he's insane. "I'm not a fucking monk. But I didn't have enough to black out."

"The point," Massimo interjects, his eyes still somewhere far-off, "is that with hundreds of witnesses, video evidence, and the fact this is a high-profile case, getting you out of this will be impossible."

"But—"

"You're my brother, they'll get you on anything they can," Massimo says. "And this is incredibly straightforward. You brutally murdered a man who did nothing to you. The only reason you haven't been arrested is because you're here. The feds will be waiting for you when you go back."

"And you can't do someth—"

"Tommaso, I have done everything I can." Massimo's head is in his hands, shoulders sloped in exhaustion. "It's too late. This is where my control over the situation ends."

Tommaso stares off blankly into space. "I'm going to jail."

From behind him, Santo shrugs as if realizing he's warming up to the idea.

"You're going to prison," Massimo corrects. "My guess is you'll be convicted sooner than later." He stands, a little unsteady on his feet. "I'm going to make a few calls."

Tommaso, whose face was in in his hands up until this point, shoots up. "You have an idea?"

"There might be one person I can call. A lawyer."

"Who? Can he get me out of this?"

"She might not even want to help us. And if she does, she'll require steep payment." He heads off to another room, pulling out his phone, and I'm left in the room with his brothers. Who still don't care I'm watching their mafia soap opera.

Santo's levels a death glare at his younger brother, who has the decency to shrink back a little. It appears his fuck up has finally managed to break through that impenetrable ego of his.

"I'm getting married," Santo says quietly, teeming with rage. "In two weeks. The only reason I'm not hitting the fuck out of you right now is because the blood on the back of your head has barely dried."

I'm staring a little too hard at Tommaso—not reveling in his defeat, but definitely taking in the unusual sight of him being humbled—when his sharp gaze shoots to mine.

"Fuck you looking at? Why are you even still here?"

I gesture around us. "You're in my house."

"Don't talk to her," Santo snaps. "She's not the problem." He shakes his head. "Can't believe I thought you were really sober this time."

"I was!" Tommaso says, flustered. "If I'm going to prison, I'm obviously not fucking going to be sober, but I didn't lie to you."

I can't help but think that they should instead be talking about how their brother just lost his fucking marbles right in front of them. But Massimo's moment of instability, now that it's over, is essentially forgotten. Hell, I've forgotten it, haven't I? I'm sitting here watching his brothers bicker. It's easy; they take up a lot of space with their personalities, the abrasive drama and cursing.

Santo's eyes glitter so promisingly with violence that I feel the need to scoot away from him. "You're going to be in fucking prison for my wedding! If this upsets Nina, if she sheds one fucking tear over this, I'm killing you."

"Aw, c'mon," Tommaso groans. "Short stuff cries at the drop of a fucking hat. That's not f—"

"Killing. You." Santo enunciates as he pulls out his phone, a moment later holding it to his ear.

"Tesoro," he murmurs, and I watch in awe as he seems to melt into the word and the voice of whoever's on the other end. This big, grumpy man softens in a matter of seconds.

I do my best not to eavesdrop on their sappy conversation, characterized by far too many fond Italian nicknames. Or be too enthralled by the way Tommaso softens in his own way when Santo hands him the phone. They both love her, clearly. She's part of the family.

The sudden pang of jealousy nearly takes me off my feet.

Thankfully Massimo comes back soon after that. I was just about to give in to my frayed patience and go find him. I don't care how important this lawyer or this new problem with Tommaso is, I'm worried about him.

"I have a meeting with the lawyer in Chicago," Massimo says. "While I'm gone, Tommaso, I don't want you leaving the apartment for anything. I'll be back in six hours."

His phone starts ringing and he slips out, my front door clicking shut.

Okay. So I'm just hosting these fuckers then? Annoyed and not wanting his brothers to see, I head to my kitchen.

In what seems like the blink of an eye, we're so far off from where we were last night. The trust and intimacy behind what we did, Massimo letting go—it seemed to be a relief for him at the time. But any light and ease he showed me yesterday has been drained from him now. I can't even be mad at him for acting like I'm invisible because I understand. Well, I am mad.

But he's Santo's and Tommaso's before he's mine.

I hear the sound of my door opening. "Where'd she go?"

Seconds pass, and when I don't hear anything else, I peer into the living room. Massimo is leaning halfway through my front door, his phone glued to his ear. I can hear the tinny sound of the person on the other end speaking. His eyes narrow on me and he beckons me forward with one hand, responding to the person with a slew of Italian that literally, unfortunately makes me wet on the spot.

"Vivienne." Apparently, I'm taking too long. He's frowning now, mouthing come here.

I haul ass. He's way too hot right now. It's inappropriate.

Once I'm in front of him, his discontent intensifies. He rests a guiding palm on the small of my back, pushing me out the door.

"Quindici minuti, soldato. Capito?" He rolls out an order before turning to me. "You assumed you weren't coming. Do you not wish to join me?"

"I want to come." I resist the urge to brush his hair back and inspect the bruise. It looks painful.

 His shoulders loosen, and his hand slides down to my ass.

"We have to leave now. My private jet will be ready in fifteen minutes. I'll have a soldier buy you whatever you need since there's no time to pack."

His desire for me to be by his side is reassuring. But it's still clear that Massimo is not mine, or even his own. His responsibility for his brothers, for his business—it sits so firmly on his shoulders it's almost a tangible thing. And I'm afraid it's crushing him.