30. Pietro
PIETRO
I’LL HURT HER IF I STAY
I can’t trust myself around her.
I know she didn’t set me up, but it’s not that simple.
I’ve been honest with her, and she’s not honest with me. Honesty and respect are everything in our world.
I’m cursed, and her being beaten proves it. I should have prevented it. I blame myself. But the ordeal taught me a valuable lesson. And that is that my father was right.
Emotions can make us weak, and emotional decisions are often not the best choices. Women can be used as a weapon, and in our world, women are used to make peace.
I also learned that caring for someone comes with a huge responsibility. I have to be alert. I can’t let emotions cloud my judgment. Therefore, I will keep my feelings locked inside. I can’t show love, or fear, or regret. I will bottle everything up. It’s worked well for me so far.
But Amara tripped me up. She is the perfect Trojan Horse. If her father knew he could dismantle us so easily, the Morettis would have sent her to us on a golden platter years ago.
Her father won’t let her walk away from this mess. He needs her to stop the Serbs from dismantling his empire.
I sleep in my room at the opposite end of the house. It’s still not easy. I long to rest beside her, but I can’t risk it. I have to be on point. We have a mission because our future and that of our children depend on our success.
My bed is too firm, too cold, and the nights are far too quiet. But I can’t risk being close to hers. Every night, I lie awake envisioning us together. Every night, I wake up with a raging hard-on. It’s torture to know I can walk to her at any hour, and she would fill my needs.
But I have to be strong.
The temptation is torture.
But my stubbornness is paying off.
She’s down the hall, hurt, and alone—and I’m the asshole who put her there.
I should be beside her.
But it’s the one luxury I can’t afford.
Every day, I hear her footsteps, soft and uneven, I feel my fucking chest splitting in two. She’s broken because of what that bastard did to her when I wasn’t there to stop. I think of the bruises, the way she winced when I touched her ribs, the blood on her lip.
And all I can see is the Borrelli curse.
It’s not some myth. It’s a fucking Grimm Fairy Tale that’s hangs over me. And it’s been passed down with whispers and warnings.
It’s real.
Matteo nearly lost Alena to a gunshot. Renalto has been haunted by his past. Hell, his wife could have died on his wedding day. And then there’s Niccoló, who had his scare with the relentless rapist. It’s not a pretty picture.
We’re men who are too dangerous to love.
And now it’s my turn.
I fell for Amara.
And look what happened.
She was taken, beaten, and used like a pawn in a war I was born into.
I tell myself every night that if I keep my distance, she’ll be safer. I’m pushing her away to protect her because I can’t protect her if I’m wrapped around her finger.
I can’t think straight when I’m near her. I lose my mind when she smiles, her voice is my favorite music, and the way she banters with me is second to none.
But it all leads to one fact. She’s a distraction.
And distractions get people killed.
If I hadn’t been so fucking consumed with touching her, and claiming her, I would’ve seen it coming.
Now?
I’m laser-focused. I know every detail as we hunt for Milo?. I’ve read every report Julia sends. I’ve reviewed footage, mapped what we’ve learned of him, and we’ve studied Elio’s routines. I don’t miss a thing—because I’ve cut her out.
And yet…
When I see her walking through the kitchen—ghostlike, hair pulled back in a ponytail—it feels like I’ve already buried her.
She’s a smaller version of herself. Faded. Diminished.
There are no smiles or banter, and I’ve hidden my love for her. I’ve buried my lover deeper than a bottomless well. It’s the only way I can be close to her and not touch her.
I doomed her.
That’s the part that makes me sick.
She could’ve died.
If that had happened, I’d paint the town red, that’s for sure.
She should hate me.
Maybe she does.
However, I still need to do something for her. Something decent. Something human.
So I pick up my phone and call Alena.
“Can you come see Amara?” I ask, my voice raw.
There’s a beat of silence. Then her voice, soft and unsurprised. “Of course. Is she okay?”
“She’s... surviving. But I can’t…” I pause. My chest tightens. “She doesn’t need me hovering. She needs someone who can make her smile.”
Alena understands. She always does. “I’ll be by this week. ”
Afterwards, I sit, staring at the phone like it might punish me for dialing it.
I’ll send others to comfort her. That’s the least I can do.
Because I’m not allowed to feel love.
Not when love in my world comes with blood and bullets.
And Amara deserves a hell of a lot more than that.
I hear a beep and grab my phone from the nightstand. I check my messages.
One of our warehouses is burning, and some men were injured.
Fuck!
We’re spinning our wheels. There’s been no progress in two weeks, during which we’ve increased manpower to protect what’s ours.
I quickly leave the house. Joseph drives me to the Borrelli mansion. I enter, walk to his office, and find Matteo pacing in the courtyard attached to his office.
I notice the cigar is burning low between his fingers, which tells me he’s been here for some time. He only smokes when things are fucked—and tonight, the air reeks of it.
I approach, slow and steady, my boots crunching over the gravel. He hears me but doesn’t turn until I’m right beside him.
“What happened?” I ask, my voice flat.
He doesn’t sugarcoat it.
“Luca was taken to the hospital an hour ago,” he says, his tone clipped. His jaw is tight, and he is worried. “Beaten half to hell.”
My fists clench. “Alive?”
“Barely. Concussed. Ribs shattered. They wanted him to live…so he could deliver the message.” He flicks the cigar into the stone fire pit with a quick snap as his last breath of smoke slowly unfurls. I already know I’m not going to like what comes next .
“What message?”
Matteo looks me dead in the eye. His voice is even, but under it, I hear the rage. “It was a Serb. One of Milo’s men. He said, and I quote, ‘Give me Amara, or you’re a dead man.’”
My blood goes ice-cold.
I turn away, and my jaw aches from clenching it so hard. My mind flashes to Amara—soft, curled up on an oversized couch dressed in one of my T-shirts, utterly unaware that her name just got pinned to a fucking death warrant.
“And they just let Luca go?” I mutter.
“They didn’t botch it. They wanted you to know they can get close,” Matteo says grimly. “They made a statement.”
“Fuck.” I rake a hand down my face, trying to keep it together and not think about what they would’ve done to her if they’d gotten to her first instead of Luca.
“She can’t know,” I say after a moment.
Matteo narrows his eyes. “She has a right to know.”
“No,” I snap. “Not this. You didn’t see her after the last time—she was already broken. If she finds out they’re this close and if she thinks she’s the reason Luca got hurt, it’ll destroy her. She has nightmares as it is.”
“And if she finds out later?”
“She won’t.” I turn to him, my voice steel. “Because we’re going to end this before it gets that far.”
Matteo studies me, and neither of us says anything for a beat. Then he nods slowly.
“Fine. But we need a plan. I’m calling everyone in for a family meeting.”
I nod once. “Good. Because if Milo? thinks he’s going to threaten my family?—”
“He already has,” Matteo quietly murmurs. But there’s something in his tone. This attack affects all of us, but it’s his responsibility to get us through it safely. A long silence stretches between us.
“I’m not losing her,” I say quietly. “Not like this.”
Matteo’s voice is low, resolute. “Then let’s make sure they don’t get the chance.” I know he’s resigned to winning this war when he pats my back, reassuring me he’s not going to give up.
We turn back toward Matteo’s house, both of us already working through the war raging around us.
And I know one thing for sure:
They should’ve killed me when they had the chance.