Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
NORA
Sunday morning finds me cross-legged on my secondhand couch, spoon digging directly into a family-size container of mint chocolate chip ice cream. The apartment is silent except for the TV and my occasional sniffles.
I've been crying for twenty minutes straight now, watching this damn show about a woman rebuilding her life after escaping an abusive relationship. It wasn't supposed to be this kind of show.
The Netflix description promised comedy with "elements of drama." What it didn't mention was how the main character's ex-boyfriend would stalk her across three states, or how her family would blame her for "bringing trouble" to their doorstep.
Another sob escapes me as the woman on screen packs a bag in the middle of the night, leaving behind a note her sister will find in the morning. I shove another spoonful of ice cream into my mouth, the cold numbing my tongue while tears stream hot down my face.
"Stupid show," I mutter, but I don't reach for the remote.
I can't look away because it's too familiar. The constant looking over her shoulder. The way she flinches when someone raises their voice. The fake name she gives at her new job. It's like someone took my life and splashed it across the screen for entertainment.
When she changes her appearance, cutting her long blonde hair into a short brown bob, I touch my own auburn waves.
I'd considered dyeing it black when I first arrived in Chicago, but couldn't bring myself to do it. My hair is the one thing I've kept from before. My mother had the same color. It felt like erasing her too if I changed it.
The ice cream is starting to melt around the edges, but I don't care. On screen, the woman is having a panic attack in a grocery store because she thinks she sees her ex.
I've been there—just last week at the wine shop when a man with Declan's build walked in. I'd abandoned my carefully selected bottle and fled.
The woman on screen is crying in her new apartment, alone on her birthday with a single cupcake. I watch her blow out the candle, making a wish no one will hear, and something cracks open inside me.
A sharp knock on the door shatters my ice cream therapy session. The spoon clatters against the container as I freeze, panic surging through me like an electric current.
What if he found me?
My vision blurs as I set the ice cream down with trembling hands. I stand, moving silently across the worn carpet, avoiding the creaky floorboard near the coffee table. My breathing comes in shallow bursts as I press myself against the wall beside the door.
With one shaking hand, I reach for the baseball bat I keep propped in the corner. The other hand moves to the peephole, and I hold my breath as I peer through.
Pietro Sartori stands in the hallway, his shoulders filling the narrow view. He's not in his usual suit but dark jeans and a black henley that stretches across his chest.
Not Declan. Not my father's men.
Relief floods through me, quickly replaced by confusion. What the hell is Pietro doing at my apartment on a Sunday morning?
"I know you're looking at me, Nora. Open the door." His voice carries through the thin wood, commanding and impatient.
I swipe hastily at my tear-stained cheeks, suddenly aware of how I must look. I set the bat down and take a deep breath before unlocking the door.
Pietro's eyes narrow the moment he sees me. His gaze sweeps over my face, cataloging the tear tracks, the redness around my eyes. Before I can speak, he pushes past me into the apartment.
"Who's here?" he demands, his voice deadly quiet as he scans the tiny space. "Who made you cry?"
He moves with lethal grace, checking the bathroom, the closet, even looking under my bed. The absurdity of watching one of Chicago's most dangerous crime bosses searching my shoebox apartment for a nonexistent threat would be comical if I wasn't so angry.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I snap, crossing my arms over my chest. "You can't just barge in here!"
Pietro turns to me.
"Someone upset you." It's not a question but an accusation, like he's personally offended that someone dared to make me cry.
"Yeah, Netflix," I say, gesturing toward the TV. "It's a show, Pietro. I was watching a show and eating ice cream. That's it."
He looks between me and the screen, disbelief evident in his furrowed brow. "You're crying over a television program?"
The condescension in his tone ignites something fierce in me. Who does he think he is, judging how I spend my Sunday?
"Yes, I am. And even if I wasn't, what gives you the right to knock on my door and demand I let you in? To search my apartment like you own it?" My voice rises with each question. "I work for you, Pietro. I'm not one of your properties to check on whenever you feel like it."
Pietro
I stand frozen in her doorway, my prepared speech dying on my lips.
Nora Kelly is a fucking vision.
Her hair, Christ, her hair. It's down for the first time since I've known her, in waves past her shoulders.
At the office, she keeps it pulled back so severely I never realized how much of it there was.
It frames her face like a painting, making her green eyes even more striking against her pale skin.
She's wearing some kind of soft-looking shorts that reveal long legs I've only imagined beneath her professional skirts. Her oversized t-shirt slips off one shoulder, exposing a delicate collarbone.
The tear tracks on her cheeks make her look vulnerable in a way I've never seen, and there are freckles—fucking freckles—scattered across her nose that she must cover with makeup at work.
I clear my throat, trying to recover. "Get dressed. You're coming with me today."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "Excuse me?"
"Family dinner. I need you there." The words come out harsher than intended.
She laughs, the sound both musical and incredulous. "You need your secretary at a family dinner? On a Sunday?"
I hadn't planned this. The truth is, I woke up this morning with the sudden, inexplicable need to see her. The excuse formed on the drive over.
"I need to go through some paperwork at the estate office afterward," I say, the lie tasting bitter. "The quarterly reports are due tomorrow, and there are discrepancies in the shipping manifests that need to be addressed immediately."
Even to my own ears, I sound like a fucking idiot. Nora's expression confirms it.
"You couldn't have called first?" she asks, crossing her arms. The movement pulls her shirt tighter across her chest, and I force my eyes to stay on her face.
"I did. Dead line." Another lie. I didn't even try calling.
"Look, I appreciate the offer, but I have plans today that don't involve spreadsheets or shipping manifests." She moves to close the door.
I put my hand out, stopping it. "This isn't a request, Nora. It's part of your job."
Her eyes flash with defiance, and for a moment I think she might tell me to go fuck myself. Instead, she rolls her eyes dramatically.
"Fine. Give me fifteen minutes to get dressed." She turns toward what I assume is her bedroom, adding over her shoulder, "And finish my ice cream if you want. It's melting."
As she walks away, my eyes drop to the sway of her hips, the curve of her ass in those shorts. Heat pools low in my stomach, my cock hardening instantly. I shift uncomfortably, cursing under my breath.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, shattering the moment. I pull it out, seeing Nico's name on the screen. My youngest brother only calls when things are serious.
"What?"
"We've got a problem." Nico's voice is tight, controlled. "That shipment from Naples? Someone's been skimming. Fabio caught one of the dock workers loading boxes into his personal vehicle."
"Fuck. How much?"
"Enough that we noticed. And this isn't the first time."
I pace Nora's small living room, the muscles in my jaw working. "Where is he now?"
"Warehouse three. Lorenzo's with him, but we need you here. The guy's claiming he has protection from higher up."
"Higher than me?" My voice drops to a dangerous whisper.
"That's why I called. We need to send a message."
"I'll be there in twenty." I hang up and shove the phone back in my pocket.
I stride to Nora's bedroom door and raise my fist to knock, but hesitate. The sound of drawers opening and closing comes from inside. I picture her changing, slipping that oversized shirt over her head, and my mouth goes dry.
"Nora," I call through the door. "Change of plans. I need to—"
The door swings open suddenly, and she crashes straight into my chest. My hands instinctively grab her waist to steady her. Her body is warm against mine, soft in all the places I'm hard.
Our eyes lock. Her pupils dilate, and I feel her breath catch. My fingers tighten on her waist, feeling the curve of her hip beneath the thin material of her dress. She's changed into something dark green that brings out her eyes, makes her look like some kind of forest nymph.
"I need to go," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "Family dinner's canceled. For now."
Her eyes narrow slightly. "Just like that? After you insisted I drop everything?"
I can feel her heartbeat racing where our bodies touch. Or maybe it's mine. I don't know anymore.
"Business emergency."
She stiffens, seeming to suddenly realize how close we are. "You can take your hands off me now."
The words are like ice water. I release her immediately, stepping back.
"I'll tell you tomorrow about those reports," I say, my voice returning to its usual coldness.
She crosses her arms. "Sure. Whatever you say, boss."
The sarcasm isn't lost on me, but I don't have time to deal with it. Someone's stealing from me, challenging my authority. That requires immediate attention.
"Lock your door behind me," I tell her, already heading for the exit.
I slam the car door harder than necessary.
Lorenzo would laugh his ass off if he saw me now. The great Pietro Sartori, undone by a secretary with an attitude problem. My brother has this way of seeing through everyone's bullshit, especially mine. Always has, even when we were kids.
Lorenzo's the diplomat of the family, the one who smooths things over when I leave bodies in my wake. Where I use my fists, he uses his words. Where I intimidate, he charms. The bastard could talk his way out of hell itself, probably convincing the devil to apologize for the inconvenience.
He runs our legitimate businesses. The restaurants, the import companies that actually import legal goods. Makes us look respectable to the outside world. The cops love him. The mayor's wife thinks he's charming. Even our enemies respect him.
But there's steel underneath that silk tongue. I've seen Lorenzo put a knife through a man's hand for touching one of our waitresses without permission. Did it with a smile, too. Apologized to the girl for the mess while the guy screamed.
That's the thing about Lorenzo. He makes violence look elegant. Like it's just another negotiation tactic.
Then there's Nico.
My youngest brother is nothing like Lorenzo.
Where Lorenzo flows like water, Nico is all sharp edges and calculations.
The kid, though he's thirty now, sees the world in numbers and patterns.
Graduated from MIT at twenty-one, could have worked anywhere.
Silicon Valley. Wall Street. Instead, he came home to run our construction empire.
Nico questions everything. Every decision, every alliance, every fucking thing I do. It drives me insane, but he's usually right.
He's also the only one who openly challenges me about working with the Feretti family. Thinks we're making a mistake trusting them after what happened with Riccardo and Bruno.
The construction business is his baby. Every building permit, every contract, every brick laid in our territory goes through him. It's the perfect cover for our other operations. Need to move weapons? Construction vehicles. Need to launder money? Building projects that exist only on paper.
But lately, Nico's been different. More withdrawn. More suspicious. He barely speaks at family dinners anymore, just watches everyone. Lorenzo thinks he's lonely. I think he's planning something