NICCOLÒ

37. Dinner and a Show

"Can I ask what happened?"

At first, Niccolò said nothing. There was a pause, filled only by the gentle hush of conversation and piano music. He seemed stuck in thought, absently brushing his thumb over the back of her hand; Cee reached for her water, suddenly nervous. It wasn't her place to ask - and he didn't have to answer, but she'd kept pushing.

She swallowed quickly, turning back to Niccolò. "I'm sorry, you don't have to answer, it's-"

"Camilla," he stopped her, catching her eye to make her freeze. "She raised me." Cee stayed quiet this time, hating the embarrassed flush that rose to her cheeks.

"Sir, madam." A waiter stopped at their table, inclining his head respectfully. "May I take your order?" Cee glanced down at her forgotten menu, her eyes widening; she hadn't even had a chance to look.

Niccolò caught her nervous expression, but nodded to the waiter. "For starter, the seared scallops, for my date, and the venison carpaccio for myself - the seabass and the salmon for main." While Niccolò ordered specific wines for each course, some of which she could not pronounce - and were older than her - Cee tried to appear calm and collected despite the funny butterflies sparking in her stomach.

"You ordered what I would have chosen," she whispered, as soon as the waiter turned away, looking down at her hand, still encased in Niccolò's.

"I know," he shrugged, watching her casually. "I know what you like."

"Oh," she mumbled. "What were you saying?"

"My aunt Diana raised me," Niccolò repeated calmly, the only sign of discomfort being the slight tightening of his hand around Cee's. "My parents died when I was young - killed by traitors to the family."

Cee flinched at his words. "Oh, Niccolò."

"The rats slit my mother's throat in front of my father, to break his heart before they stopped it." Niccolò paused, noting the horrified look on her face. "I don't have to tell you, if you don't want."

"No, no," she protested weakly, "I just- I can't believe someone would do something like that."

"I forget how innocent you are." Niccolò stared at her for a second, watching as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, nervous under his scrutiny. "I was sixteen, at the time. Angela had just turned one."

"So young," she murmured, biting her lip as she studied his face, growing angry that anyone would take away a child's parents. He shrugged.

"My aunt took me in, raised me as her own. I never considered myself an orphan." Cee felt her own heart crack under the strain, under the pain he'd endured for so long. "She died in a car crash." Abruptly, Cee realised that Diana's death had been traumatic for him. Niccolò still hated driving - Elias had mentioned it before - and now he valued family more than anything.

"When did she die?" Cee asked softly, feeling the tension in Niccolò's forearm increase; she trailed her fingers across his skin reassuringly, trying to alleviate his pain.

"Five years ago," he stated finally, once he was sure his voice was level, even. "That's when I truly felt like an orphan."

"Niccolò," Cee whispered unintentionally, her soul throbbing for him, aching for his suffering.

"I set up the orphanage in her memory," he revealed emotionlessly, his expression cold. "So that they could feel they have a home with James, as I did with Diana." The moment Niccolò had felt emotion rising in his words, he fought it back, supressing it with cold, unfeeling force; he didn't expect Camilla to slip her arms around his shoulders and soothe those painful, stabbing feelings to a gentle, bearable ache with one hug.