34. Pietro
PIETRO
I WAS MADE FOR WAR, NOT HER
I know Amara will be up soon, so I brew coffee and take her a cup. She hears me walk into the bedroom and sits, taking the coffee cup from me. Our fingers brush, and it reminds me of the night we met. And for a minute, I remember all too well how we were before things became complicated.
I guess I’m going soft because I hate to leave her. Damn this war.
My defenses are slipping. Every day, my resolve to distance myself from her weakens.
All I want to do is pull Amara into my arms and tell her she’s mine. I long to tell her I love her and that she’s safe. That she will be safe forever. I can’t make a promise I don’t know I can keep.
Not while Milo? still breathes. He’s like a bad habit. He’s relentless. But I can’t stop fighting, not while her father sits in his glass palace pretending he doesn’t have blood on his hands.
We have to figure out a way to neutralize her father—cleanly, and without it blowing back on us. We can’t risk starting a war we can’t contain.
If not, we’ll start a goddamn chain reaction across the Mafia Universe. We need proof. Solid, irrefutable evidence that Stefano ordered the hit on me. Amara’s words are not enough.
Without undeniable proof, we’re walking on razor-thin ice in an ocean where one wrong move means certain death. We’re criminals, sure, but we live by a code. We can’t make a move without it being justified, especially when it comes to murdering a made man or a Don.
And men like us don’t start a war unless we’re prepared to finish it.
To complicate this even more, we have to kill Milo?. That’s non-negotiable. He put his hand on my woman.
I dress casually, tugging on jeans and a thick pullover because today is the family meeting. Joseph drives me to the Borrelli mansion as the sun rises on the skyline, casting long shadows across the estate’s lawn.
I let myself into the mansion, my Berluti sneakers making no sound as I walk over the expensive tiled floor. The hallway ends at Matteo’s office. Like the true don he is, he’s already waiting in the war room with Renalto, Niccolò, and our black hat, and computer hacker extraordinaire, Julia.
Everyone is on edge when I walk in.
“Milo? is torching Moretti assets,” Matteo advises us, cutting straight to it. “Three Moretti-owned buildings lit up last night. Brooklyn. Red Hook. One in Jersey.”
“All of this is over Amara?” I ask.
“Or desperation to gain ground with a mission to dismantle an empire,” Renalto replies. “Maybe all the above.” He shrugs.
“Milo? is trying to smoke Stefano out,” Niccolò mutters. “There has to be something we’re overlooking. There has to be an angle we can use.” Niccoló is a boxer, and it’s strange how the strategy he uses in the ring can be applied in our war room. But he has a point.
I’m desperate for any shred of information that we can use to end this war quickly.
Julia pulls up a new feed on the big screen that sits over the huge TV in Matteo’s office. It’s grainy footage, but I can make out a dock and Feds.
“Wholly shit, is the FBI swarming a port in Queens?” Renalto asks.
“Your idea?” I ask her.
She smirks. “Maybe. Matteo gave the go-ahead.”
Matteo meets my eyes. “They know we’re on to them. And they’re scrambling. Have you ever seen a leader panic like this? I mean the Feds’ raid on containers has to hurt,” he smirks.
“No,” I mutter, before I turn to him. “Brother, I had no idea you could be so diabolical. You wear it well,” I joke, but I have nothing but admiration for my oldest brother.
“What I’ve gleaned from the last few weeks is that Milo? is all ego and no patience.
He’s irrational and emotional. He thinks fire is power.
He’s a fool if he thinks he can win a war without playing the long game.
To me, Stefano appears to be thinking ahead.
Stefano promised his daughter to Milo? to appease him.
She was to marry Vukan, his brother, and solidify an alliance.
Amara ran and hid, thinking she could stop it.
I unwittingly dipped my dick into the situation and now we’re on the wrong side of a soured deal.
” My sardonic voice gives a praise-worthy recap, bringing us right up to the meeting of the minds we’re hashing out today.
“The war is escalating. They’re lashing out and drawing blood where they can, but let’s face facts, it’s a takedown,” Renalto says cryptically.
Matteo takes a sip of his drink, eyes narrowing. “Good. Let Petrovi? burn Moretti’s empire down while we find a way to cripple them both.” He runs his hand over the stubble on his face.
I never noticed his salt and pepper hair before today, and it dawns on me that running the empire has aged him. “No one can fight two wars at the same time and expect to win. Milo? Petrovi? is committing suicide. It’s as if he wants to destroy the city,” I add thoughtfully.
“Maybe he’s afraid he’ll lose. I mean, if his word wasn’t honored, he’s a target that has to be taken off the chessboard, either by his men, or others,” Niccoló says. “And fear makes men reckless. We can use that.” He stands and paces the floor as we all mull the situation over.
“They’re trying to make us react,” Matteo corrects, leaning forward.
His dark mahogany desk is fitting for the man who walks both sides of the law.
“And they’re losing product fast enough to get sloppy.
Now, they’re burning our buildings because it’s the only play they have left,” Matteo adds. “But it hurts.”
“The only issue is that we can’t fight two wars either,” I say, recapping our conundrum .
“We’re hitting their import routes, squeezing their cash flow. No one will refute the fact that we give as good as we get,” Matteo says, leaning back in his stately leather chair.
“We’re close to something,” Julia says. “I’m watching Vukan’s communications. He’s becoming more active—more aggressive. He might be the key to getting to Milo?. I think he’s pissed at his brother. I mean, if his brother burns everything to the ground, he has to start over.”
“That’s great. Maybe we can open a channel,” I say hopefully.
“Can we use him?” Renalto asks, suddenly coming alive even though he’s not a morning person. “Maybe we can turn him against his brother.”
It’s a brilliant idea. I, for one, am for anything that might end the war in our favor.
“If we make the right offer, perhaps,” Matteo says. His eyebrow furrows as he considers the idea.
“Smart men negotiate to end wars,” I add.
“It’s entirely possible that there is an opening. Or…” she says as she clicks to the next slide, and my chest tightens when I see what it is.
“Absolutely fucking not.”
Everyone looks at me.
“Julia, are you serious?” I bark. “You want to use Amara as bait?”
“She’s the connection,” she replies, calm as ever. “Milo? wants her to redeem himself in his men’s eyes. If we dangle her, he might bite—it will flush him out.”
“No way,” I say, shaking my head. “We find another way. She’s carrying my baby. We’re not risking her or my child to set a trap.”
“I knew you’d say that,” she says, as if it’s a crime.
“Then why bring it up?” I give her a look that shows her how pissed I am.
“Because it could work,” Matteo replies.
“Then we make something else work,” I say.
The silence stretches across the room like an industrial haze.
Finally, Matteo speaks. “If Vukan wants something badly enough, he might offer us Milo? in exchange. We don’t use Amara. But we do open a channel.”
I look at my brothers before I settle on Matteo. “You really want to make a deal with the devil?”
He meets my gaze without blinking. “We already are the devil, Pietro. The question is—can we control Vukan? Will he do his part?”
I stare at the floor and begin to pace anxiously. All my rage burns low in my chest. I know we’re running out of options.
“Can we trust him?” Niccoló asks.
Matteo’s reply is sharp and tired all at once. “Who can we really trust?”
No one answers because we all know the truth.
This war’s getting bloodier by the day. We can’t fight forever. Wars cost everyone money and men, and the risk of a government crackdown.
“Every hour we don’t end it… is one more hour Amara stays a target. So yeah, I vote we open channels with Vukan,” I say. “What do we have to lose?” But I know all too well what we can lose. We can lose our loved ones, everything we own, and all the power we wield.
But if it goes according to plan, we’ll have the winning hand. It’s risky, but we’re out of options.
Vukan had better honor his word.
Because I will not let our enemies get close to Amara again.
And I’ll scorch the earth before I let them take what’s mine.
I return home filled with hope-or a semblance of it, but then again, they say hope springs eternal, and perhaps it does.
I don’t know if it’s the winds of war or the fact that I can’t deny how I feel for another second. Because when I walk in the house and see Amara’s face, the only thing on my mind is burying my face in her tight pussy and fucking her into oblivion .
All my anger and hate are channeled into loving her, the essence of her, her pouty mouth, her brilliant smile, and her fiery retorts.
She’s dressed in a cable knit sweater dress. Her breasts look a bit larger, and she has a glow about her that I can’t deny.
Our eyes meet and she sees me—a man who’s dropped his guard and longs to possess her.
I drop my coat, pull my gun out of its holder, and set it on the counter as I approach her. She’s standing in the floor-to-ceiling windows, the setting sun contrasting with her dark hair.
She’s a Goddess—and she’s mine.
I approach her in a few long strides and cup her face, turning her so that we’re eye-to-eye.
Her lips tremble, unsure of my intentions.
I crash my lips to hers, and savagely kiss her lips, sucking and pulling. My cock is swollen with need.
I think she’s immune to me, but her hand grabs my shirt, and her lips press into mine—I’m home.
My hand moves to her lengthy hair, pressing her into me.
“You are mine and I’m fucking that pretty little mouth,” I say as I scoop her into my arms.
She’s light in my arms. I gently place her feet on the ground and peel her dress off. She drops her bra and I’m excited as fuck to discover she’s not even wearing panties.
I shuck my clothes and stand before her with an engorged cock. She kneels and parts her crimson lips. She takes me into her mouth and I moan. She strokes my shaft and bobs her head. But I don’t want to come like this.
I pull out and quickly lift her, depositing her on the mattress.
“No other man will have you. You’re mine.”
My words are a growl against her skin as I slide two fingers into her heat. She arches beneath me, trembling with need. I impale her with my veined cock and her warmth surrounds my cock and I moan, “I love you, Amara.”
I pump her hard and fast, our bodies eager to move, pumping each other until we reach the pinnacle of desire. I roared as we came together, a needed physical and emotional release.
Afterward, I pull her to me and gently run my fingers over her belly, wondering if we’re having a girl or a boy.
Afterward, Amara nuzzles into me, her hand lying possessively over my chest.
“I love you, too, Pietro.”
Her words make it all worth it.
The doubt, the fights, the fury, the fear—every shadow fades.
For tonight, we have a sliver of something rare.
A moment of peace. A taste of normal. A lie we’re both willing to believe.
The retching is what wakes me.
Soft at first. Then sharper.
I throw the covers off and head straight for the bathroom, knowing what I’ll find.
And there she is curled over the toilet, her hair falling around her like a curtain. Her bare feet rest on the cold tile. It’s chilly, but I know the sun will be up soon.
I crouch beside her without a word. My hand slides into her hair, gently pulling it back as her body tenses with another wave of nausea.
She hates it when I see her like this. But I don’t care.
This is us—every raw and unglamorous part, but she must know I’m in this with her.
She sinks back against the wall, eyes closed, breathing shallow.
“I’m fine,” she whispers.
“No, you’re not,” I mutter. “And that’s okay.”
I walk to the sink, grab a washcloth, run it under cool water, and gently press it to her forehead. Exhausted, she leans into my touch.
“Stay here,” I say. “I’ll be right back. ”
In the kitchen, I move like I’ve done this a dozen times—because I have. Ginger ale. Crackers and her favorite blanket on the couch.
I carry everything back in and help her sit against the bathroom wall.
“Here,” I murmur, cracking the seal on the bottle. “Small sips.”
She obeys, her lips brushing the rim of the glass.
Then I place a few crackers in her palm and sit beside her, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders like armor.
“I hate this part,” she mumbles.
“I know.”
“But I love the reason for it.”
I glance down at her belly, barely showing, but maybe it’s my imagination. All of this feels real, but becoming a father is surreal.
“I do too,” I say quietly as my nose nuzzles her neck.
She leans her head into me, and I hold her tighter.
Even as the world burns around us, this moment, right here, is everything I’d fight for a hundred times over.