Chapter 2 - Midnight With the Man Who Never Saw Her
Octavio lasted eleven minutes before breaking the silence.
Nomi noticed because, naturally, she counted.
“You’re shivering.”
“I’m aware.”
“You should go inside.”
“So should you.”
“I’m not cold.”
“That’s because arrogance creates body heat.”
His mouth twitched.
There it was again.
That almost-smile.
Nomi became irrationally interested in seeing the full version.
She hated that.
Octavio removed the jacket he had folded beside him.
“Put this on.”
“No.”
“Nomi.”
“I have a jacket.”
“You have decorative leather.”
“It is vintage.”
“It is useless.”
“It has emotional value.”
“You can preserve its emotional value beneath something that actually prevents hypothermia.”
She stared at the expensive charcoal jacket he held toward her.
“You’re extremely controlling for a guest.”
“And you are extremely stubborn for someone whose teeth are about to chatter.”
“They are not.”
Her teeth chose that moment to betray her.
Octavio raised an eyebrow.
Nomi took the jacket.
“Not a word.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
His jacket was warm.
Too warm.
It smelled faintly of cedar, cold air, and something clean she could not identify.
Wearing it felt far more intimate than it should have.
They sat quietly again.
Below them, Valentina’s party continued without Valentina.
Nomi wondered how long it would take the guests to realize their host had fled to Nevada.
Probably not long.
Valentina’s parties tended to become self-sustaining disasters.
“Why tattooing?” Octavio asked.
Nomi looked over.
“You’re making conversation?”
“I’m practicing.”
“Courtesy?”
“Yes.”
She considered making him work harder.
Instead she answered.
“My mother drew.”
Octavio waited.
“She painted storefront signs when I was little. Menus. Murals. Whatever people paid her to do. She could turn blank walls into places you wanted to stay.”
“Is she still an artist?”
“She died when I was sixteen.”
Octavio’s expression changed immediately.
No exaggerated sympathy.
No uncomfortable apology.
Just stillness.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
Nomi returned to her page.
“My father disappeared before that. So I spent a few years being very angry at blank spaces.”
“You filled them.”
“With ink.”
“On people.”
“People carry stories better than walls.”
Octavio looked toward the skyline.
“My father hated tattoos.”
Nomi glanced at the dark line barely visible at his collar.
“You have one.”
“Several.”
That surprised her.
“I noticed the neck.”
“Of course you did.”
“Occupational hazard.”
He unbuttoned one cuff and pushed his sleeve slightly higher.
Black ink curved around his forearm.
Not the kind of elaborate threatening design Nomi expected.
It was handwriting.
Small.
Italian.
She leaned closer before remembering proximity to Octavio Ki was probably a bad habit to develop.
“What does it say?”
“My mother wrote it.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
He studied the tattoo.
“Remember who you were before they tell you who to become.”
Nomi stopped.
“That’s…”
“Unexpected?”
“Good.”
“She died when Valentina was nine.”
Nomi understood something then.
A small piece.
“You raised her.”
“Not alone.”
“But enough that you stopped knowing where brother ended and father began.”
Octavio looked at her sharply.
She lifted one shoulder.
“I observe.”
“That is becoming irritating.”
“You’re welcome.”
He looked away again.
At 10:36, fireworks appeared in the distance.
Small ones.
Practice bursts.
Nomi added them to her page.
Octavio watched her draw.
“You make decisions quickly.”
She glanced up.
“You know me for two hours.”
“I’ve known you for three years.”
“No. You’ve occupied rooms near me for three years.”
“Fair.”
Nomi smiled faintly.
The admission surprised her more than any argument would have.
Octavio Ki could admit when someone else had a point.
Maybe Valentina had never tried insulting him on a rooftop.
At 10:58, Nomi’s phone rang.
Valentina.
She answered immediately.
“Well?”
A scream came through the speaker.
Nomi pulled the phone away.
“I assume that means married?”
“MARRIED!”
Music exploded behind Valentina’s voice.
Axel shouted, “Tell helicopter brother I promise to respect her!”
Octavio held out his hand.
Nomi shook her head.
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
“No speeches tonight.”
“I only want to congratulate her.”
“Are you capable?”
His stare could have frozen Lake Michigan.
Nomi grinned.
She handed him the phone.
Octavio lifted it to his ear.
“Valentina.”
Whatever his sister said made his eyes close.
For a moment he looked exhausted.
Then he said, quietly, “Are you happy?”
Nomi stopped drawing.
Octavio listened.
“I asked if you are happy.”
Another pause.
Something in his face softened.
“All right.”
Valentina apparently did not trust that answer, because Octavio sighed.
“No. I’m not sending anyone.”
Another pause.
“I said I’m not.”
He looked at Nomi.
“Yes. She’s here.”
Nomi mouthed, Don’t involve me.
Octavio ignored her.
“She has explained, repeatedly and aggressively, that I am an unbearable control freak.”
Nomi covered her mouth.
“Yes,” Octavio said into the phone. “Apparently you agree.”
A longer silence.
Then:
“Happy New Year, Valentina.”
His voice had changed.
Just slightly.
“Be safe.”
He hung up.
Nomi held out her hand for the phone.
He gave it back.
“That was almost emotionally healthy.”
“Careful.”
“You might develop a personality.”
“I have one.”
“Threatening isn’t a personality.”
He looked offended.
Nomi laughed.
Actually laughed.
The sound surprised them both.
Octavio stared at her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re looking at me.”
“I’m allowed.”
“Technically.”
“You have a nice laugh.”
Nomi’s amusement disappeared.
“That was terrible.”
“What?”
“Conversation practice.”
“I was being sincere.”
“That makes it worse.”
Octavio leaned back on his hands.
“You don’t accept compliments.”
“Not easily.”
“Why?”
“Usually because someone wants something.”
“I wanted something earlier.”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
She met his eyes.
“What do you want now?”
The wind moved between them.
Octavio did not answer immediately.
“I’m trying to decide.”
That was worse than any obvious flirtation.
Nomi returned to drawing.
By 11:30, they had covered several subjects she never expected to discuss with him.
His dislike of champagne.
Her addiction to terrible convenience-store coffee.
His inability to cook anything except eggs.
Her secret habit of sketching strangers on trains.
His preference for old jazz.
Her hatred of people who called tattoos “body doodles.”
At 11:52, Octavio’s phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
His entire body changed.
Not dramatically.
That was what frightened Nomi.
The relaxed man on the gravel vanished.
The leader she had watched from three chairs away returned.
“Speak.”
He listened.
His jaw tightened.
“When?”
Another pause.
“No. Don’t move anyone yet.”
Nomi pretended to draw.
Octavio stood.
“I’ll call you back.”
He ended the call.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“That was very obviously not nothing.”
His eyes moved toward the helicopter.
“You should go downstairs.”
Nomi set her charcoal down.
“Octavio.”
It was the first time she had used his name.
He noticed.
“What happened?”
He hesitated.
“Someone accessed one of our private storage facilities.”
“Robbery?”
“No.”
“What did they take?”
“Nothing.”
“That seems good.”
“They left something.”
Nomi’s skin prickled.
“What?”
“A photograph.”
“Of?”
Octavio looked at her.
“You.”
The rooftop suddenly felt colder.
Nomi laughed once because the alternative was acknowledging the fear rising through her.
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Why would someone leave your family a photograph of me?”
“I don’t know.”
“What kind of photograph?”
“Security is sending it.”
His phone vibrated.
Octavio opened the image.
The color drained subtly from his expression.
Nomi stood.
“Show me.”
“No.”
“Show me.”
“Nomi—”
“If someone took a photograph of me, I have a right to see it.”
His jaw tightened.
Then he turned the screen.
Nomi stopped breathing.
It was taken through the front window of her tattoo studio.
Three nights earlier.
Nomi was inside alone.
Bent over a client chair.
Drawing.
A red circle had been drawn around her head.
Beneath it were four words.
THE GIRL SEES TOO MUCH.
Nomi’s fingers went cold.
Octavio took the phone back.
“Who knows about your drawings?”
“What drawings?”
“All of them.”
“No one.”
“Valentina?”
“Some.”
“Have you ever drawn people from my family?”
Nomi hesitated.
Octavio saw the answer.
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nomi.”
“A lot.”
His voice became very quiet.
“Show me.”
“No.”
“If someone believes you’ve seen something dangerous—”
“They’re sketches.”
“You told me yourself that you observe.”
Nomi stared at him.
Then she understood.
The dinners.
The faces.
The little details her hand reproduced without conscious thought.
Watches.
Documents.
Reflections.
People standing in doorways.
License plates outside windows.
“You think I drew something.”
“I think someone else believes you did.”
The first major fireworks began exploding over the city.
11:59.
People below screamed the countdown.
Ten.
Nine.
Nomi barely heard them.
Eight.
Octavio stepped closer.
Seven.
“Nomi, where are the drawings?”
Six.
“At my apartment.”
Five.
“Are you certain?”
Four.
“Yes.”
Three.
The skyline erupted.
Two.
Octavio reached for her hand.
One.
Midnight.
Chicago exploded into gold.
Nomi looked at the man who had ignored her for three years.
He looked back at her with a terrifying certainty.
“Cancel whatever plans you had for tomorrow.”
“I didn’t have any.”
“Good.”
He leaned closer, his voice nearly lost beneath the fireworks.
“Because until I know what you saw, bambina mia, you’re not leaving my sight.”
Nomi’s heart stopped for entirely the wrong reason.
“What did you call me?”
But Octavio was no longer looking at her.
He was looking at the rooftop access door.
It had just opened.
May you like
And the man standing there was holding one of Nomi’s missing sketches.
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