Page 78 of The Cost of Silence

“For you, yes.” His tone is maddeningly simple, like it should’ve been obvious. Then he nods toward a small table. “Sit.”

I slide into a chair, watching him approach the counter. He orders two drinks, but when the cashier gestures toward the array of syrups, Nico gives her a look like she just suggested he adopt a kitten on the spot.

A minute later, he returns with two steaming cups and sets one in front of me.

“Try it.”

I lift it, surprised by the scent, rich chocolate, vanilla, a little cinnamon. “You got cinnamon.”

“You like cinnamon.”

“You don’t know that,” I say, smiling.

“I pay attention.” His voice is low enough to warm me from the inside out.

He sits across from me, watching me take the first sip. When I hum, actually hum, he shifts in his seat, jaw tightening like he didn’t expect the sound to hit him the way it clearly did.

The corner of his mouth tugs. Just barely.

“You’re impossible,” he murmurs.

“And you’re secretly nice,” I counter.

“No.” Hard glare. “Do not start that rumor.”

I laugh, soft and warm. “Too late.”

He leans back in his chair, watching me sip my drink like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s seen all day. Something about the moment feels strangely intimate, quiet, slow, normal.

“Finish up,” he says after a moment, but it’s gentle, not commanding. “Then we’ll get your… ridiculous wreath.”

“My amazing wreath.”

“It’s enormous.”

“It’s festive.”

“It’s a fire hazard.”

I lift my cup toward him in a mock toast. “Can’t wait to hang it.”

He exhales like he’s bracing for chaos he fully expects me to deliver.

But he doesn’t stop me.

And I think… maybe he never really planned to.

“We’re missing something,” he says suddenly.

“What?”

“A tree.”

My jaw drops. “You want a Christmas tree? In your minimalist mafia penthouse?”

“Don’t push it,” he warns. “I said a tree. Not a forest.”

I laugh and feel lighter than I can remember in years.