Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
NORA
Untouchable.
Nothing like the woman who shook in a coffee shop bathroom yesterday after meeting Pietro Sartori.
Pristine marble and chrome stretch before me on the floor. Chicago sprawls below the windows, a maze of steel and glass from the autumn sun. The reception area sits empty. No one else arrives this early, apparently. Good. I need time to establish myself before Pietro shows up.
His office door stands open. I pause at the threshold. The chaos inside is a language I understand. It speaks of desperation, of a man drowning. The broken glass from yesterday still glitters near the wall, the sharp edges a dull reflection of the man himself.
File folders spill from boxes onto the rug. The desk, that massive mahogany beast, drowns under invoices, manifests, and what looks like dried blood on a customs form.
I set my purse on what will be my desk in the outer office and walk into his domain.
I ignore the blood-stained manifests—for now—and focus on the shattered glass. Using tissues from my purse, I pick up the glittering shards. The soft clink as they hit the bin is the only sound.
Then, the paper. Customs forms, urgent. Invoices, pressing. A shipping manifest from years ago? This goes in the trash.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
Pietro fills the doorway, the morning light behind him turning him into a dark silhouette. Six feet two inches of barely controlled rage. Fresh coffee stains decorate his white shirt.
"Organizing." I look back to the manifest I was examining. "Your filing system is unacceptable."
"My filing system is fine."
"You have October invoices mixed with January customs forms. This is a shipping manifest from three years ago."
He stalks into the room, and I feel the atmosphere shift. A blur of motion. A whoosh of air against my cheek.
The explosion behind me is deafening. Ceramic shrapnel bites into the wall. Cold coffee drips down the fresh paint like brown blood.
I don't flinch. I don't scream. I don't give him the satisfaction. My pulse is a frantic bird against my ribs, but my hands are still. I turn, slowly. His chest heaves. The emptiness in his eyes is gone, replaced by a wildfire. He wants me to break.
"That's coming out of your pay." His voice is a low growl, meant to terrify.
It doesn't.
I walk to the wall, my heels silent on the rug. I pick up the largest piece of the shattered mug. "Fine," I say, my own voice steady. "My efficiency will more than cover the damages."
"Get back to work."
He drops into his desk chair, and I return to sorting papers. The weight of his stare is a physical thing, pressing between my shoulder blades. I can feel him dissecting my every move, looking for the tell, the weakness. I give him nothing.
I'm halfway through sorting the last year’s tax documents when footsteps echo in the hallway.
"Miss Kelly." Liam Blackwood stands in the doorway, his British accent making my fake name sound almost elegant. "I need to show you how things work here."
Pietro's head snaps up. "She's working."
"She needs to know the protocols, sir." Liam's tone stays professional. "Ten minutes."
Pietro waves his hand dismissively, already focused back on whatever document he has in front of him.
Liam leads me to my desk in the outer office. He pulls out a leather portfolio and sets it between us. "Right then. People will call about meetings. Some legitimate, some not. You need to know the difference."
He opens the portfolio to reveal a typed list. Names, companies, and what looks like codes beside each one.
"Mr. Sartori's schedule runs on priority levels." His finger traces down the list. "These five always get through. Family and critical associates. These ten, you schedule within forty-eight hours. Everyone else waits."
I scan the names. Lorenzo Sartori—restaurant supplies. Nico Sartori—logistics. The codes are simple but telling. RS for restaurant supplies. L for logistics. But I recognize the pattern underneath. Restaurant supplies means money laundering. Logistics means enforcement.
"Some callers won't give names," Liam continues. "They'll say things like 'Tuesday's shipment' or 'the Boston matter.' Write everything down exactly as they say it. Don't interpret."
"The Boston matter?" My voice stays level despite my pulse jumping.
"Hypothetical example." But his gray eyes study me for a heartbeat too long. "You'll also need to manage his temper. When he throws things—"
"Duck?"
A ghost of a smile crosses Liam's face. "Precisely. Though you handled this morning rather well as I saw. Most secretaries cry after the first mug."
"Most secretaries probably had better options."
This time he actually chuckles, a low rumble that transforms his face. "Fair point. Now, about the upcoming meetings—"
"What's so fucking funny out here?"
Pietro looms in his office doorway, his presence sucking the air from the room. The muscle in his jaw ticks as his gaze shifts between Liam and me.
"I was explaining protocols, sir," Liam says smoothly.
"Sounded like comedy hour." Pietro's dark eyes lock on mine. "We don't pay you to flirt, Kelly."
Heat floods my face. Not embarrassment but fury. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at the absurdity. Because of course a woman shares one laugh with a man and suddenly she's batting her eyelashes.
Liam excuses himself with a subtle nod in my direction, leaving me alone with my new boss and his prehistoric assumptions.
"Flirting?" I let just enough amusement color my voice to be dangerous. "Is that what you think happened? A man explains filing systems and I swoon?"
Pietro steps closer. "Watch your tone."
"Or what? You'll throw another mug?" My first day and I'm already pushing boundaries I shouldn't even approach. But his arrogance, his assumptions, the way he radiates danger and expects everyone to cower, ignites a reckless anger in my chest.
His eyes narrow to slits. For a moment, neither of us moves.
"Get back to work," he finally says, voice low and controlled. More dangerous than when he shouts.
I turn back to my desk, hands steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. Behind me, his office door doesn't close. I feel him watching.
The phone rings.
"Sartori Import and Export, Mr. Sartori's office."
"Where the fuck is Pietro? We had a delivery scheduled for—"
My fingers fly, the muscle memory is a comfort.
Two clicks bring up the shipping schedule.
My eyes scan the grid, finding the name in a sea of data.
"Mr. Ricci," I cut through his tirade, my voice pure, professional ice.
"Your delivery is Thursday. Dock seven. Three PM.
" I don’t offer an apology for his mistake.
I offer a solution. "Confirmation email is on its way. "
Silence. Then: "Who the hell are you?"
"Mr. Sartori's new administrative assistant. Is there anything else?"
"Just make sure that shipment arrives on time, sweetheart. Things get unpleasant when I'm disappointed."
The threat rolls off him like oil, coating the words with implied violence.
"Noted. Have a pleasant day, Mr. Ricci."
I end the call. Pietro hasn't moved, but something in his posture has shifted. Less coiled, more curious.
The phone rings again. Customs official, wanting to know why form 7501 hasn't been filed for last week's imports.
I navigate the bureaucracy with practiced ease, promising the forms within the hour, smoothing ruffled feathers with professional competence.
Pietro's fingers drum on his desk, a steady rhythm that matches my pulse.
Third call. This voice is different—younger, cockier, with an Irish lilt that makes my spine lock.
"Tell Sartori the Murphy family sends regards. And a message."
My throat closes. Murphy family. Irish mob. The one that Declan was working against my father.
"What message would that be?" I keep my voice level, though my free hand grips the desk edge hard enough to hurt.
"He'll know when he sees tomorrow's shipment. Or what's left of it."
The line goes dead. I set the phone in its cradle, my hand steady, aware of Pietro's eyes on me.
"The Murphy family sends regards. They mentioned tomorrow's shipment."
Pietro's chair creaks as he leans back. "And?"
"That's all."
"You didn't sound scared." Not a question. An observation.
"Should I have?"
He stands, moves around the desk with that predatory grace that makes my survival instincts scream. But I hold my ground, meet his eyes. He stops inches away, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his irises, the exhaustion carved into the lines around his eyes.
"Most people would be terrified getting a threat from the Irish mob."
"I'm not most people. And I don’t have any clue about mobs." I must convince him.
"No." The word comes out soft, almost wondering. "You're not."
The air between us crackles with something that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way his gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second. Then he's moving back, the moment shattered.
"The accounting files are in the bottom drawer. Left side."
I find them, start cross-referencing with the invoices.
The errors jump out immediately. Transposed numbers, missing decimal points, duplicate payments.
Someone's either criminally incompetent or stealing.
Within an hour, I've identified seventeen thousand dollars in overpayments from the last month alone.
"You need to see this."
Pietro looks up from whatever violence he's been planning on his laptop.
I bring the files to his desk, spread them out. "Here, here, and here. Overpayments to suppliers. This invoice was paid twice. This one has the decimal in the wrong place. You paid ten times the actual amount."
His jaw tightens as he scans the numbers. "How did we miss this?"
"Your previous secretaries probably didn't understand international shipping regulations. Or basic math."
A laugh escapes him. "You're saving me seventeen thousand in one morning and you negotiated for fifty-four thousand a year?"
"I'm worth more than I'm charging. Consider it an introductory rate."
He stares at me for a long moment. Then he's on his feet, disappearing through a side door I hadn't noticed. He returns with two cups of coffee, sets one on the corner of my makeshift workspace.
"Two sugars, no cream."
I blink. "How did you—"
"I have eyes everywhere Nora."
Of course he does.
The coffee is perfect. We drink in silence, him at his fortress of a desk, me standing amid the organized chaos I'm slowly taming.
The rest of the morning blurs into a rhythm. Phone calls I handle with increasing confidence. Files that finally start making sense. Pietro watches everything, testing, measuring, waiting for me to crack. But I don't. Can't.
This job is my lifeline, my disappearing fund, my way out from under my father's shadow.
By noon, I've fielded six more calls. Two from angry suppliers, three from customs, one from someone who hangs up when I answer. The office looks almost professional. Pietro's actually using his computer instead of glowering at it. For now.
"Eat." He drops a sandwich on my desk.
"I brought lunch."
"Save it for tomorrow."
It's not kindness. It's practical. Can't have his secretary passing out from hunger.
But when I bite into the sandwich I almost cry. God. Fresh mozzarella, prosciutto, basil. I have to suppress a moan. I've been living on ramen and bodega coffee for two weeks.
The afternoon passes too. More calls, more files, more of Pietro's tests. He criticizes my font choice on a letter. I change it without argument. He complains about my filing system. I adjust. Each accommodation costs me a piece of pride, but pride doesn't pay rent.
"Go home."
I look up from the manifest I'm reviewing. "It's only four."
"I said go home."
Not hostile this time. Almost... protective? No. That's projection. Men like Pietro Sartori don't protect women like me. They use us up and discard us.
"Eight tomorrow?"
"Seven. We have an early shipment."
I gather my things, acutely aware of him watching me.
PIETRO
My phone buzzes. Liam.
"She's arrived home safely," he says without preamble. "No stops, no detours. Straight to that apartment in Lincoln Park."
I grunt acknowledgment. The office feels different already. Organized. Functional. Less like the chaos in my head.
"You want to tell me why we're having her followed?" Liam's voice carries that particular British tone.
"She's handling sensitive information." I swirl the remnants of whiskey in my glass. "Need to make sure she's not reporting to anyone."
"And the real reason?"
I clench my jaw. Liam knows me too well. Ten years at my side has given him an annoying ability to see through my bullshit.
"She seems like the right person at the moment," I admit, the words scraping my throat. "To help me through everything. The business, the Murphy situation, O'Sullivan's moves."
"And the surveillance for the next few days?"
"Just a precaution. Making sure she's who she claims to be."
The silence on the other end stretches long enough that I know what's coming.
"You're lying, sir."
"Fuck you, Liam."
I end the call, tossing the phone onto my desk. It skids across the polished surface, nearly toppling my empty glass.
He's right. I am lying. But I don't know why the fuck I want her followed.
And I don't fucking care to know why.
It is what it is.