The air between us turned to ice. The ambient music faded to static.
Which meant the woman had to be Massima.
She was beautiful, I realized with a hollow ache. Dark hair cascading over bare shoulders, lips painted the color of arterial blood, a body that curved in all the places men noticed. She looked like a woman who had never been told no in her life.
Nico's expression hardened into granite. His lips parted, a muscle jumping in his jaw, but no sound emerged. He stared at me blankly for a long moment, then reached into his jacket and withdrew his phone, tapping the screen with his index finger.
I knew that gesture all too well. It was our method of communication—the only bridge across the chasm of his silence.
My phone buzzed.
"What are you doing here?"
Another buzz.
"Are you following me?"
A third.
"Go home."
Three messages in rapid succession, each one a small death. My last shred of hope crumbled to ash.
Massima wrapped herself around Nico's arm like a serpent, her smile sweet as poisoned honey. "Nico, who's this? A friend?"
She swayed against him, pouting prettily. "Can you ask her to let me have this dress? I really want it."
And then—
Nico smiled.