Deep (Pagano Family #4)(10)

He was on his own tonight. Vanessa, apparently more hurt about being dismissed yesterday than he’d realized, had returned his call last evening with a terse text: Busy, will call soon. There had been no further contact.

Standing out on his balcony the morning before, he’d understood that his time with Vanessa was winding down. If she was going to play passive-aggressive games, then the end was much closer than he’d realized. Romance was not Nick’s thing. Appeasing the fragile sensibilities of flighty women was not his thing. He was not a misogynist, at least he didn’t think so. He loved his mother fiercely. His cousin Carmen was his favorite among all the Paganos in his generation. He respected women and treated them well. And there was little he enjoyed more than the feel of a female body in his hands.

But he had no such powerful need of their company that he would cater to whim or fancy, and he would not, ever, be dragged into the ‘if you don’t know I’m not going to tell you’ bullshit that women, in his experience, seemed to favor as a means of manipulation and control. Or the hotter kind of war his parents had often engaged in.

He would not tolerate pouting, and he most certainly would not reward it. If Vanessa was pouting, then they were over.

For the best, really. He’d been feeling her hands on him, grasping, for weeks now—since his father’s death, in fact. She’d wanted to comfort him, and he had not wanted her comfort. The only comfort he’d wanted or needed was revenge, which he had wrought. But his distance then, he thought now, had made her feel how tenuous her hold on him was. It was nonexistent. He enjoyed her; he didn’t love her. He desired her; he didn’t need her.

He was forty-five. The pressure from Uncle Ben to marry, heavy in the years since he’d been made capo, had become constant since his father’s death. The pressure from his mother, who wanted grandchildren, had been heavy for his entire adult life. He’d always resisted, even ignored it. But he was beginning to wonder if he really did want to live his life as he was spending this night. Alone, unattached, unbonded.

He looked around his apartment—tasteful and comfortable—and tried to imagine the touch of a woman on his things. His taste in color was earthy and neutral: browns, greys, blacks. The designer who’d done the work had persuaded him to add orange to the living room for ‘punch.’ Nick looked over the counter peninsula at his living room and tried to picture some flouncy cushion, or a vase full of cut flowers, in the space—or f*cking magenta paint, like his neighbor had done on the wall they’d put her sofa against. Magenta. On the wall. Just the one wall, but still.

He shuddered and drank down his scotch, refilling the glass immediately. No. He simply could not imagine sharing his life. He was sorry not to give his mother grandchildren, especially now, when she was alone in that house, but she’d just have to spend more time with his cousins’ kids.

As he put his refilled glass to his lips, Jimmy rapped on the door with his distinctive knock, and Nick set the glass down and glanced at the clock on the range. Nine—Jimmy was checking out. He went to the door and checked the peephole, which was filled by his guard and driver’s chest. Not bothering this time with his gun, he opened the door.

“You out, Jimmy?”

“Yeah, boss. Nose is on. Unless you need me?”

As a rule, Nick had not spent his life being guarded around the clock. As a rule, the Pagano Brothers’ business had been mainly calm and well-ordered. But the rules didn’t apply these days. Even before his father’s murder, security had been increased since Church had started thumping his chest. Now it was practically Secret Service level.

“No, Jim. I’m good. Tell Nose I’m in for the night.”

Jimmy nodded his massive head and turned toward the elevator. A sound down the hallway made him turn back suspiciously. Nick looked, too, and saw his neighbor, she of the bright smile, rogue furniture, and magenta wall, coming toward them, a six-pack of something or other in her hands. Jimmy made himself broad—and at six-nine and three-sixty, his breadth was considerable.

Nick almost laughed. “It’s okay, Jimmy.”

The neighbor—Evelyn? Was her name Evelyn?—faltered at Jimmy’s glower, stopping about six feet from Nick’s door. “Um, hi.”

“Jimmy, go on. Give Tina my regards.”

Nick’s most constant companion hesitated one more second and then nodded. “I will. G’night, boss.” He finally headed for the elevator, and Nick turned to his neighbor.

“Having another furniture disaster?”

She smiled—it was an amazing smile, as if it actually had light. Her eyes were good, too. He’d not really noticed before the depths of their blue. She was dressed simply, in jeans and a black, v-neck t-shirt. The shirt showed just enough of her excellent cleavage to get his attention.

“No. I just couldn’t stand not thanking you better for rescuing us tonight. If it weren’t for you, we’d probably still be jammed up right here.”

“Blocking me in. I’d say I rescued myself more than anything.”

That made her laugh; the sound was pleasing and gentle. “Maybe so. Anyway, I thought I’d bring this down, at least.” She lifted the six-pack as an offer, and he noticed that one bottle was missing.

“Part of a six-pack?”

Now she was blushing. He liked that, and his interest interested him. “Yeah, well, um…Chris didn’t like it. It’s IPA, whatever that means.”