33. Amara #2
“Yes,” I reply. “But it all backfired. Now it’s a huge mess, and Pietro doesn’t trust me. I don’t blame him.”
“But you told him everything, right?”
“Yeah, but it’s too little, too late according to him,” I sigh.
“Well, let’s hope he figures it out. You’re incredible, and if he doesn’t see that, he doesn’t deserve you.”
I wish I believed her.
“My bulletproof chariot is waiting. Call me soon, okay?”
“I will.”
The line clicks off, and I’m left staring at the walls of a life on pause.
The sun was low and warm through the windows when Pietro came home. There was no knocking, no fanfare—just the sound of keys and the subtle shift in the house’s energy when he stepped inside.
“I wanted to thank you,” I say as he sets a paper bag on the kitchen counter. “For sending your family. Alena and Bianca made me feel like I belonged. And I spoke to Sarah.”
He glances at me and nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You seem in better spirits.”
“I am,” I admit. “It was the first time I laughed in a long time.”
“Good.” He pulls something from the bag and holds it to me—a giant, plush, stuffed bear, wearing a pale blue onesie with a little bear stitched over the heart. “I thought the baby could use a friend.”
I can’t suppress a smile. “You bought a stuffed bear.”
“Protection detail,” he deadpans. “Goes by the name Don Snuggles.”
I snort, the laugh slipping out too fast to catch.
Then I’m hit with a wave of nausea. I press a hand to my stomach and close my eyes, trying to breathe through it.
Pietro doesn’t hesitate. He is already moving toward the fridge, popping a ginger ale before I even ask. He hands it to me, brushing his knuckles against my wrist.
“Drink,” he said. “Small sips.”
It was sweet of him to know what to do to help.
“I want to start working again,” I said softly. “Even just remote stuff. I need to do something . I’m going stir-crazy here.
When I look up, I find him watching me, and he frowns slightly.
“Absolutely not,” he says immediately.
“Pietro—”
“Amara, no.” He folds his arms decisively. “Besides the safety risk, I don’t want you overworking. Until this feud is over, you’re not leaving. And I don’t want you working.”
“So, I’m a prisoner.”
“You’re protected ,” he counters.
There is a softness in his voice that almost makes me want to relent.
“And when this war is over?” I huff, fishing for answers.
“We’ll deal with it. Until then, you stay put.”
I’m not surprised at his answer. If their enemy gets hold of me, the Borellis will cease to exist. And from what I’ve heard, they’re the ones who broke up the human trafficking ring. I should be pissed about it, considering it changed the course of my life.
But when I think about the fact that I could have been trafficked, or Sarah, I’m glad they did.
The Borrelli’s are cut from a different cloth.
When Pietro’s phone rings, I hear his muffled voice. He quickly leaves, stating he’ll be back in an hour.
I wander through the hallway on his side of the house and find his office door slightly ajar. I pause, curiosity tugging at me as I glance around for Arman.
He’s nowhere in sight. I slip inside, looking to learn something about him.
The room smells like cedar and something darker, like espresso and cologne. His desk is neat, with everything in its place.
But there, sitting half-tucked under a leather-bound planner, is a notepad.
Baby names?
I blink.
Scrawled in his sharp handwriting were columns—boys and girls. Names I loved. Names I hadn’t even thought of. Some were underlined. Some had notes beside them:
Isabella – “means ‘devoted to God.’ Too soft?”
Romeo – “Too romantic, cliché?”
Adriana – “Sounds like fire—a handful like her mother.”
And next to the notepad is a book: Your Baby’s First Year.
I press my hand to my mouth and smile so hard I’m afraid my face will get stuck.
I need to get him back. I need to bring back the things we do that make us—us.
I’ll cook dinner. Nothing fancy—pasta, salad, something comforting but straightforward.
Tonight, I’m done waiting and no longer tiptoeing around the silence stretching between us like a chasm that dwarfs the Continental Divide. Pietro hasn’t touched me in weeks. Hasn’t kissed me, and he barely even looks at me unless it’s to ask if I’ve eaten or am in pain .
It’s torture.
So, I have to fight for what I want. No cause could be more worthy of a fight, and I won’t play fair.
It won’t be with bullets or bloodshed—this war is younger than that. This is about us. And I know exactly how to disarm a Borrelli.
My grandmother’s recipe for pasta all’Amatriciana is simple, bold, and spicy—like us—and should do the trick.
I spend the day making a list. I move my fingers through cans in the pantry and grab one tomato and a box of linguini.
I pull herbs and Italian ham out of the refrigerator and peruse the cabinet for spices.
I start the sauce from scratch, and soon, the scent of simmering tomatoes and pancetta curls through the house like a promise.
When I taste it, it’s amazing.
Now, phase two.. What to wear?
The dress is black and slinky, something I took for granted before vendettas and safe houses became the norm.
It hugs my curves like a second skin, the hem barely brushing mid-thigh.
I curl my hair, sweep on a bit of makeup, and dig through the digital music library on the stereo until I find the playlist—classic Italian love songs.
I hit play. Volare drifts through the house like silk mist. And it’s not a second too soon, as Pietro is home earlier than I expected.
My heart leaps when I hear his footsteps—heavy, deliberate, slower than usual. His cologne precedes him. I inhale deeply to smell him and to summon my courage.
I smooth the dress down my sides and meet him in the entryway of the kitchen, prepared to use a wooden spoon in my hand like a weapon if he refuses to eat with me.
But his gaze dips, and then his eyes travel over me, and then he freezes.
His jaw is tight, but he can’t recover from his gaze that moves over me again, slower this time. He starts at my neckline, then over my torso and abdomen, and finally settles on my bare thigh, which shows beneath the hem.
“What the hell is this?” he asks, voice low and unreadable.
“Dinner,” I say simply. “And maybe a chance to talk. ”
Pietro’s eyes flick to the stove, and the pans that I’ve kept warm, anticipating his arrival. Then, his eyes shift back to me. “You shouldn’t be on your feet this long.” It’s just like him to use the baby as an excuse to get me out of his sight.
“I’m fine,” I say softly. “I needed to do something.”
He crosses his arms. “What are you doing?”
“Making peace,” I murmur. “It’s an apology. There’s enough war and bloodshed. Can’t we be adults for one night?”
He doesn’t move for a second. Then he exhales, setting his gun on the counter, and walks to the wine rack.
I guess this means we’re a go. I have to be prepared for him to shut me out, but something tells me Lady Luck is on my side.
I plate the dinner with care. The table is set with linen napkins I found, and I hear him as he pours two glasses of wine. I know they drink wine while pregnant in Italy, so I’m not surprised. Besides, it’s the liquid courage I need.
We sit across from each other, the fragrant food steaming between us. His face softens as he sips the wine, and we eat in silence for a few minutes, with only the music softly playing in the background.
Finally, I speak.
“I never wanted to hurt you.”
Pietro’s fork stills. “But you did.”
I nod. “I know. I should’ve told you about my father. About who I really am.”
“Why didn’t you?”
I meet his eyes. “Because I was scared of losing you. I didn’t know about the feud, but I know our families weren’t linked. Besides, I saw the Petrovics as the enemy.”
He leans back in his chair, the shadows under his eyes deepened by exhaustion and disappointment. “You are Moretti blood, Amara. That doesn’t just disappear.”
“I didn’t choose that name,” I say quietly.
“But I’m choosing this . You. Our child.
And I hate to say it, but I would even tolerate the mafia life for you.
Don’t you see it’s not just about my father but the life?
I rebelled against it my entire life. And when my uncle, Vincenzu, died, it tossed me into the thick of it.
I wasn’t prepared to be on the stage and auctioned off. ”
His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t argue. His eyes soften, and he watches me like I might vanish.
“You said you’d protect me,” I whisper. “But I don’t want just protection. I want you . All of you. Even the parts you think are too dark.”
“You betrayed me,” he says, his voice a low growl. “You made me feel like I didn’t know the woman I…” His voice trails off.
“The woman you… What?” I press, breath catching. I’m not giving up on him. He needs to answer.
He closes his eyes like it hurts to say it. “Nothing.”
My heart nearly cracks in half. Nothing?
I quickly recover from the shock of his admission and walk to him, reaching for his hands. “I want to get back to where we were.”
He looks at me, torn between pride and need, and finally, he closes the distance between us and pulls me into his arms.
His mouth crashes onto mine with an intensity that makes my knees weak.
I kiss him back with everything I have.
Not as a Moretti. Not as a Borrelli enemy.
But his .
His Amara.
But as quickly as the kiss started, it ended. It was a kiss, hotter than the fires of hell. Then, nothing. He’s cold and distant. And we ate dinner in an insufferable silence.