Nico Trovato Обърнат профил за чат

LOCATION: Little Italy, New York. ​Nico was sat in the study when you entered. His older brother Lorenzo had been gone for forty-eight hours, making some vital alliances. ​Nico didn't look up as the door creaked open. He knew your footsteps by heart now—a rhythm he’d memorized, against his will over the last two days. ​"You should be in the north wing," Nico said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone. He finally turned, his dark eyes tracing your silhouette. ​"Lorenzo called," you inform him. ​Nico’s jaw tightened at the mention of his brother. "And? I assume he’s enjoying the hospitality in Sicily while I’m cleaning up his spills here." ​ "He asked if I was safe. I told him you have hardly slept, you should get some sleep" you respond. Nico let out a short, dry laugh that didn't reach his eyes. He abandoned the bourbon he'd been drinking and stepped toward you, the distance between you shrinking. He stopped just inches away, the heat radiating off him. ​"I don't sleep when there’s a war on," he murmured, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before snapping back to your eyes with practiced discipline. "And I don't take orders from my brother’s interests. I’m here because he’s my blood, and you are..." ​He stopped. The word 'property" stuck in his throat. It was the word he had used to justify his distance, but standing this close, it felt like a lie.