26. Pietro
PIETRO
THIS ISN’T OVER
I feel like shit.
It’s a rare feeling for me—guilt. Remorse. I can count the times I’ve felt it on one hand and still have fingers left over. But tonight, it sits in my chest like lead, pressing, heavy, and I’m suffocating under it.
“She loves you, Pietro. You’d be an idiot not to notice the covert glances you two share that are charged with sexual tension. She’s good for you. You deserve to be happy,” Matteo says. I called him on my way into work.
He’s right, as usual. I noticed. Of course, I fucking noticed. I felt it in every look and every shiver when I got too close. I noticed how she sharply inhaled whenever I murmured something obscene in her ear. It turned me on to see her reaction.
And I still let my stubborn pride come between me and the woman I possess.
I caved. I’m desperate to keep her safe. I want this baby, and I want Amara to be happy and safe. I just want to see her smile again, damn it.
I blame my fucked-up life, and the fact I’m so damaged as the reason why I blew us up. Perhaps it was a defense mechanism, to make her leave me so I wouldn’t have to admit I cared for her, because I knew being alone was safer.
I’ve played it safe my entire life. But Amara is different. She’s sassy and sweet. And—she’s too good for me.
Father said love makes us weak. Perhaps that’s why he pushed Mom down the steps.
Despite my issues, I’m keenly aware that something is off tonight. I’m standing in the middle of the club when a movement to my left catches my attention. He’s a mafia soldier, not ours, and he’s wearing a trench coat. He’s not here to dance. He’s here to stir shit up.
I scan the main dance floor and the bar, only to find more men like him. Men who don’t belong. They try to blend in—but they can’t hide who they are from me.
Their eyes are fixed on the exits, and they refuse to meet my gaze. My dark world surrounds me.
Yeah, something’s about to go down. My stomach twists—and then it hits me. I haven’t seen Amara tonight.
And if she’s not here…
Where is she? I panic but keep my gaze steady. I take a deep breath and force my breathing into a normal rhythm. If something happened to her, I’d be alerted.
But tonight, she’s nowhere. I haven’t seen her.
At first, I brushed it off—maybe she was running late, caught up in something. But now the minutes feel heavier. The noise around me fades, replaced by the pounding in my chest.
Something’s wrong.
I can feel it in my bones.
And the longer she’s gone, the worse it gets.
I should have run into her by now, leaning against the bar, throwing back an iced tea to stay awake. She is usually talking to a server or a patron, pretending I don’t exist—until I force her to look at me.
But tonight, I haven’t seen her.
I walk a slow lap with my eyes scanning every corner. The low red glow of the lights makes the crowd blur together in shifting shadows.
I’ve searched the club, and it’s not my imagination—she’s not here.
At first, I assumed she was tired, as she said.
Then I progress to the fact she thinks I’m an asshole .
Fair. I am an asshole.
Which then leads me to the conclusion that she must be pissed at me.
I left earlier than usual, which is rare for me, but she said she was tired. And maybe that was an excuse to avoid me. Maybe she didn’t want to be around me after the way I got inside her head last night.
Why hasn’t she texted me? With every passing minute, my annoyance bleeds into something else.
Concern.
Then dread.
I check my phone. Nothing. No messages.
That’s not like her.
My gut tightens, and my instincts are screaming like a fire alarm.
I text her, and I don’t get a response.
I’m in a panic as I take another pass around the club, slower this time. That’s when I see them—more strangers lurking in the dark corners of the bar, not drinking, not dancing, not even watching the dancers.
They’re waiting, but for what?
Something is about to go down.
I don’t like it.
I reach into my pocket, gripping the cool weight of my knife, my body humming with unease.
Then, my phone vibrates.
Once. Then again. And again.
My heart slams into my ribs as I yank it out, my thumb swiping across the screen, hoping it’s a text from Amara.
But words that appear in bold letters make my blood run cold.
Princess is gone.
Princess, my code name for her.
She’s gone, and my world stops.
No!
No, no, no.
I move before my brain fully processes what I’m doing, shoving through bodies, my breath coming too fast, my vision narrowing into a tunnel of rage and terror.
Not her. Not fucking her.
I hit Matteo’s number without thinking. He picks up on the first ring.
“Pietro?”
“She’s gone,” I grind out.
A pause. A breath. And then Matteo’s voice drops, sharp and lethal.
“Where are you?”
“The club. I don’t know what happened—she was at the penthouse, then she wasn’t. Something felt off, I should’ve—I fucking should’ve ?—”
“I’m here. Calm down,” Matteo cuts in. “Keep your eyes open. Be careful. We don’t know if she left or if someone has taken her. I’ll send men to her apartment to check for her.” His collective manner is the reason he’s perfect to lead the family. He’s always cool in a crisis.
The line goes dead.
I don’t even need to ask. The family will rally.
If someone took her, war is coming.
I turn, scanning the room again, looking for anything out of place, as if the culprit is here. Face after face blurs together. But my mind is a fucking hurricane of panic and fury, and my pulse is a relentless drum in my skull.
Then, my phone vibrates again.
I barely breathe as I glance down. Afraid that it will be bad news.
Sarah
Amara is hurt. She needs you.
Hurt.
Not taken. Not dead. Not?—
I exhale sharply as my legs feel weak. I turn on my heel and run out of the club, already initiating a call back to Sarah’s number.
She picks up. “She’s bad, Pietro.”
“Where are you? ”
“Our apartment,” she says, and I can tell she’s concerned.
I should be relieved she called.
I’m not.
Because nothing about this feels right.
“I’m coming.”
My hands are clenched so tightly around my phone that my knuckles are white as I text Joseph to pick me up.
I have a sinking fucking feeling that this is only the beginning of something bigger.
When I look at the exit, I’m not thinking as I rush toward it, knowing my driver will be waiting for me. But that’s when I’ve been watching, causing a disturbance. A fight breaks out, and I speak into my mic, instructing security to handle it.
There’s only one thing on my mind.
I have to get to Amara.