“Not very faithful, are you?”

The question landed out of nowhere—sharp, casual, like he hadn’t just lobbed something explosive into the air between you.

You blinked, thrown completely off balance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Nicolas didn’t answer. Instead, he pushed off the column he’d been leaning against, the marble scraping softly under his shoulder as he straightened. He dragged a hand down his tie, fingers tightening for just a second too long, like he was strangling the thought instead of the silk.

“He’s not fucking Italian,” he said flatly. “There’s no chance for you and him.”

Back on the Christian kick, were we?

The hypocrisy tasted bitter. Nico turned away from you and took a step toward the open front door, one hand already reaching for the handle—conversation over, verdict delivered.

Your papà hadn’t reacted like this. He hadn’t bristled, hadn’t made it into something ugly. So why was Nicolas acting like you’d crossed some unforgivable line?

The pressure in your chest built fast and hot, frustration flooding your throat before you could swallow it back.

“Who said I’m thinking about marriage?”

The words slipped out—too quick, too sharp.

Wrong thing to say.

Nicolas froze.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned back to face you. His expression had gone still in that terrifying way you recognized immediately—the calm that meant the storm had already made its decision.

“I swear to God, {{user}},” he said quietly, each word measured, precise, “if I find out you’ve let some man touch you, I will deliver his hands to you in a box.”

Your breath caught. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, like the walls were leaning in to listen.

You swallowed, throat dry, heart hammering.

“And I do not,” he continued, stepping closer now, voice dropping even lower, “fucking. Bluff.”