Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
PIETRO
Seven-thirty, and she's already here. Of course she is. For two weeks, she's been a ghost in my machine, exorcising the chaos. The office doesn't smell like stale coffee and desperation anymore. It smells like her. Clean, floral, and fucking organized.
I walk through the elevator doors, and there she is.
Today she's in a green blazer. It makes her eyes a weapon.
Not just green, but a shade that looks right through you.
She wears the same severe bun like armor, but a few strands of that red hair have broken free, clinging to her neck.
A flaw in the system. My fingers twitch with the urge to either fix it or pull more of it loose.
She doesn't look up when I pass her desk. "The Ricci shipment needs your signature. Customs forms are on your desk. Coffee's fresh."
The Ricci forms are on my desk, exactly where they should be. The coffee is next to them. I didn't have to ask. I haven't had to ask for a goddamn thing in ten days. It should be a relief. It feels like a loss of control.
"Stop staring and sign these."
Her voice cuts through my thoughts. She still hasn't looked up from her computer screen, but she knows. Of course she knows. The woman notices everything. Every shift in my mood, every change in the office rhythm, every drop of blood on Liam's shirt when he reports in.
My last secretary would have fainted at the sight of blood. Last Tuesday, Liam walked in with his knuckles split and his collar stained crimson. Nora slid a box of tissues across her desk toward him without breaking her typing rhythm. Didn't even flinch at the blood spatter.
Who the fuck is this woman?
I move to my desk, pick up the pen. The forms are arranged in order, colored tabs marking where I need to sign. She's even highlighted the relevant clauses in the contracts. Efficient. Thorough. Maddening.
I sign where indicated, but my attention keeps drifting to her through the open door.
She's chewing her bottom lip. Always the left side when she's working through a problem.
Her fingers pause on the keyboard, then resume their rhythm.
The morning light catches the red in her hair, turns it to copper flame.
"The Murphy situation." Her voice pulls me back. "They've been quiet for three days."
"Worried?"
"Observant." She finally looks up, those green eyes meeting mine across the twenty feet between our desks. "Quiet usually means planning."
She's right, but I don't tell her that. Don't tell her that Lorenzo called this morning about increased Irish activity at the North Side docks. Don't tell her that the Murphy family's silence has me on edge too.
"Focus on the legitimate shipments," I tell her instead. "Let me worry about the rest."
She holds my gaze for a heartbeat longer, then returns to her screen. But I catch a slight tightening around her mouth. She doesn't like being shut out. The less she knows about the real business, the safer she is.
Safer. Christ, when did I start caring about keeping my secretary safe?
The morning bleeds into afternoon.
Liam appears around three, and this time the blood is fresh. A spray pattern across his white shirt, still wet enough to glisten.
"Situation handled," he says, setting a folder on my desk.
Nora doesn't react. Doesn't even glance at the blood. But I see her fingers pause for just a fraction of a second on the keyboard. She knows exactly what "handled" means.
"The Morrison shipment?" she asks, not looking up.
Liam's eyebrows rise slightly. He glances at me, and I give him a microscopic nod.
"Delayed." Liam’s eyes flick to me for a fraction of a second. "Complications at the dock."
"I'll adjust the manifest." Her fingers are already moving. "And notify the buyers about the timeline change."
She's too good at this. Too comfortable in my world. It should worry me more than it does.
Liam leaves, and the office settles back into its rhythm.
The soft click of her keyboard, the whisper of papers, the distant wail of a Chicago siren thirty-five floors below.
I catch myself watching her again. The way afternoon light plays across her cheekbones, the elegant line of her throat when she tilts her head.
"You need to learn the shipping codes."
She looks up, surprised.
"The real ones," I clarify.
I'm on my feet, moving around my desk before I decide to. I stop beside her chair. She watches me approach, her spine straightening, but she doesn't move away.
"Here." I lean over her shoulder, pointing at her screen. Her scent ambushes me. It's not perfume. It's just... her. Clean, like fresh laundry and something floral that has no business being in this office full of gunpowder and secrets. It crowds out the air.
"When we mark something as 'fragile,' it means law enforcement is watching that port."
"'Temperature controlled' means the shipment contains..." she pauses, working it out. "Items that need to avoid inspection?"
"You're quick."
"'Express delivery'?" Her voice has gone husky.
"Payment required before release." My own voice drops lower. "Usually means someone owes us."
She nods, turning back to the screen, but I catch the way her breathing has changed. Shallower. Faster.
I should move away. Return to the safe distance of my desk. Instead, my hand brushes hers as I reach for the file.
She flinches. A sharp, violent recoil, pulling her hand to her chest like I've just held a flame to her skin. Her mask is back in place, but I saw it.
Fear.
"I should go." She's on her feet, gathering her things with practiced efficiency. "It's late."
It's barely five-thirty, but I don't point that out.
"I'll drive you."
She freezes, purse halfway to her shoulder. "That's not necessary."
"Wasn't a question."
Her chin lifts. She wants to argue. I can see it in the way her jaw tightens, the way her fingers grip her purse strap. But she just nods.
The elevator ride is silent. She stands in the far corner, a soldier at attention, maintaining maximum distance in the confined space. But I can still smell her, feel the ghost of her skin against mine.
My Maserati waits in the underground garage, engine already running. Liam's work. I open the passenger door for her, and she hesitates before sliding onto the cold leather.
"Lincoln Park." Her voice is tight, aimed at the passenger-side window.
I already know. Liam’s background check was thorough. He found nothing wrong about her. But I punch the address into the GPS, letting her keep the illusion of privacy.
The drive is ten minutes of silent warfare. The space is too small, filled with the scent of her shampoo and the sound of her quiet, controlled breathing. I want to tell her to relax. I want to tell her to get the fuck out of my car. I do neither.
"This is it," she says when I pull up to her building.
She reaches for the door handle, then pauses. "Thank you. For the ride."
"Nora."
She turns and fuck me, those eyes hold mine like they have never done before.
"You're not like the others, Nora Kelly."
Her lips part slightly, but no sound comes out. She just pushes open the door and flees into her building without looking back.
My phone buzzes. Lorenzo.
"Family dinner Sunday," he says without preamble. "No excuses."
"Fine."
I end the call. I watch until her light flicks on in a second-floor window, third from the left. Then I pull away from the curb, the ghost of her scent still in my car. Fucking maddening.
NORA
I lock the door behind me, sliding the deadbolt into place with trembling fingers. One lock, two locks, security chain. The ritual brings little comfort tonight.
What the hell was I thinking, letting Pietro Sartori drive me home? Letting him see where I live? I press my forehead against the cool wood of the door, breathing in the lingering scent of lemon polish.
"You're not like the others, Nora Kelly."
That gravelly voice wrapping around my fake name like he knows it's a lie. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my heart to slow its frantic pace.
I push away from the door and move through my apartment. It's small but clean, sparsely furnished with secondhand pieces I've carefully selected. Nothing that screams Nora O'Sullivan. Nothing that connects to Boston or my father or the life I left behind.
The shower helps. Hot water sluicing away the day. I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink and my thoughts quiet to a dull roar.
My days have fallen into a pattern since I arrived in Chicago. Work, home, books, sleep. Repeat. The simplicity is both comforting and suffocating.
I wake before dawn, run three miles regardless of weather, shower, dress, and arrive at the office before Pietro. I work until he dismisses me, then return to this apartment that feels both like a sanctuary and a prison.
Evenings are mine alone. I read—thrillers mostly, stories about people with problems bigger than mine. Tonight it's a dog-eared copy of Rebecca that I picked up at a used bookstore. The nameless protagonist's fear feels familiar, comforting in its resonance.
Fridays have become sacred. After work, I stop at the wine shop two blocks over. The ritual of selecting just one bottle for the weekend grounds me. Last week was a Cabernet, this week perhaps a Merlot.
I'm not a connoisseur, my father would be appalled, but I'm learning what I like. What I like, not what someone tells me to enjoy.
Weekends stretch before me, empty and glorious. I explore Netflix, discovering shows and movies I was never allowed to watch.
My father considered television beneath us unless it was the news or documentaries about historical wars.
Now I binge romantic comedies and crime dramas with equal abandon, curled under a blanket with my wine and no one to judge my choices.
I'm scared. God, I'm terrified most days, but there's freedom in this fear. Freedom in being alone. No one watching, no one expecting, no one using my every word and action against me or my family.
But tonight, Pietro's words have disturbed my carefully constructed peace.
"You're not like the others."
What the hell does that even mean?
Well, I don't know what that means. But I know for sure that I'm not special at all.