Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
NORA
Numbers swim on the spreadsheet. Tuesday. The week’s hangover. My fingers fly across the keyboard, translating the drunk-spider scrawl of Pietro’s handwriting into clean columns.
Not that he seems to notice. He's been locked in meetings yesterday and today all morning, his voice carrying through the walls in sharp Italian phrases.
The elevator dings.
My hands pause over the keyboard. It's 9:15. Too early for the mail delivery at 10:30. The lunch meetings don't start until noon. No appointments on the calendar until 2 PM.
The doors slide open with their usual whisper.
Three men step out.
Wrong. Everything about them screams wrong. The tallest one, sandy-haired with a boxer's nose, sweeps the reception area with pale blue eyes.
"Morning, love." His Boston accent hits me like ice water in the veins. "We're looking for Sartori."
I school my features, drawing on years of practice at my father's dinner parties. A polite, empty mask.
The second man moves to my left, blocking the path to the main elevator. Shorter, stockier, with thick fingers that flex and release in a pattern I recognize. He's working himself up for violence.
The third stays by the elevator, ensuring no escape that way.
This one I know. Tommy, one of my father's Boston contacts. I don’t think he’s seen me.
I only know him because once he had a meeting with my father and saw him from my bedroom window.
He has a scar over the left side of his head. Hard to forget.
If he recognizes me though...
"Mr. Sartori is unavailable." My voice comes out steady, professional. "Would you gentlemen like to schedule an appointment?"
"That's really cute." The leader's smile reminds me of Declan's, all teeth, no warmth. "But we're not the appointment type. Sartori's expecting us."
"I'm afraid he's not." I stand slowly, smoothing my skirt with hands that want to shake. The dark blue fabric feels too thin, too revealing. "As I said, Mr. Sartori is—"
"Actually," the stocky one shifts his weight, cracking his knuckles, "why don't we just go in there and grab—"
"Shut the fuck up." The leader's voice cuts like a blade. His pale eyes never leave mine, but I catch the way his jaw tightens. "Use your brain for once."
Tommy stays silent by the elevator, but his hand drifts to his hip. The bulge under his jacket isn't subtle.
"The lady asked us to make an appointment." The leader takes a step closer. His cologne is too strong, masking sweat and cigarettes. "But see, we've got business that can't wait."
My fingers find the edge of my desk, grounding me. "I'll be happy to check Mr. Sartori's calendar for his earliest availability."
Behind Pietro's door, a chair scrapes across the floor. The men tense.
"Here's what's going to happen," the leader says, voice dropping low. "You're going to knock on that door and tell Sartori he has visitors. Important visitors who need five minutes of his time."
Everything happens at once.
Boxer Nose lurches for me, his hand closing around my upper arm hard. I twist, using his momentum, but he's ready for it. His other hand goes for my throat.
"Stupid bitch—"
The door to Pietro's office explodes open.
I've seen Pietro angry. I've seen him cold. I've never seen him like this. Pure violence given form. He doesn't run; he flows across the space like spilled blood, silent and inevitable.
The first punch drops Boxer Nose before the man can finish his threat. The crack of his jaw breaking echoes through the office, followed by his body hitting marble.
The stocky one pulls a gun, but Pietro's already moving. They collide with the force of a car crash, slamming into my desk. Papers scatter. My coffee mug shatters, dark liquid spreading across manifests I spent two hours organizing.
Tommy grabs me from behind, gun pressed to my temple. The metal is cold.
"Back the fuck up, Sartori!" Tommy's arm crushes my windpipe. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. "Or I decorate your office with her brains."
Pietro freezes mid-motion, the stocky attacker's head twisted at an angle that means he won't be getting up. Ever.
"Let her go." Pietro's voice drops to something subhuman, dangerous. Blood drips from his split knuckles onto the marble. "Your issue is with me."
"Our issue is with your entire fucking family." Tommy's breath reeks of cigarettes and mint. "But your secretary will make a nice message since I’ve heard that she is clever enough."
The gun barrel digs harder into my temple. My vision tunnels, but muscle memory takes over. Three years of self-defense training after mom died, my father insisting I learn to protect myself.
“Scared women die. Smart women survive.”
My elbow drives back into Tommy's solar plexus. His grip loosens for a heartbeat—enough. I drop my weight, twist, and crawl as fast as I can. The movement is ugly, desperate, but it works.
Tommy's gun swings toward me, but Pietro's already there. His hand closes over Tommy's wrist, and the sound of bones breaking fills the air like popcorn. The gun clatters across marble.
Pietro's fist connects with Tommy's face once, twice, three times. Blood sprays across my white blouse. Tommy crumples, his face a ruin of split skin and shattered bone.
The office door bursts open. Liam enters first, weapon drawn, followed by four more security guards I recognize from the building. They flow into space, checking corners, securing weapons.
I try to stand but my legs give out.
Pietro catches me before I hit the floor again, his arms closing around me.
"You're hurt." His fingers ghost over my throat where bruises already bloom purple-red.
"I'm fine." The words come out rasped, painful.
"You're not fine." His thumb traces my jaw, and I realize I'm shaking. Full-body tremors like I'm freezing, even though the office runs warm. "Cristo, look at you."
"Sir." Liam appears at Pietro's shoulder, professional and calm despite the bodies decorating the office. "Cleanup crew is en route. Should I call the clinic?"
"No hospitals." The words escape before I can stop them. Hospitals mean questions, records, trails Declan could follow.
Pietro's eyes narrow, studying my face. "Liam, handle this. I'm taking her home."
"I don't need—" Standing seems like a good way to prove I'm fine. Instead, the room tilts sideways, and Pietro's arms tighten around me.
"You're going into shock." His voice softens. "Liam, have the car brought around. Back entrance."
"Pietro." I grab his shirt, expensive fabric bunching in my fists. "The papers, the manifests—they'll need to be re-done."
He stares at me like I've lost my mind. "We just fought off three armed men, and you're worried about paperwork?"
"It's my job."
Tommy groans from the floor, still alive if barely, and Pietro's attention shifts.
"Keep him breathing," Pietro tells Liam. "I want answers about who sent them."
"I can help with that." The words slip out, and I curse myself. Stupid. So stupid. "I mean, I heard them mention Boston. The accent—"
"You are from Boston too huh?" His voice carries an edge now, suspicious.
"I went to school in Boston. Briefly. Before transferring." Lies layered on lies, each one building a house of cards that threatens to collapse.
Pietro studies me for a long moment. Behind us, Liam's team works, zip-tying Tommy's wrists, checking the other two for signs of life. The stocky one’s eyes are wide, unseeing. A dark stain spreads on the marble beneath him. Boxer Nose gurgles, a wet, broken sound. My stomach churns.
"Marco," Pietro calls to one of the guards. "Take them to warehouse three. Make sure they stay breathing until I get there."
The guards drag Tommy toward the service elevator, leaving streaks of blood across the marble. Someone else arrives with cleaning supplies, moving around us like we're furniture while they begin erasing evidence of violence.
"Can you walk?" Pietro asks, his arm still around my waist.
I test my legs. They hold, but a tremor runs through them. "Yes."
He doesn't let go, guiding me toward his private elevator. He leaves me there and grabs my purse and phone.
When we enter in he looks at me carefully.
"You moved like you've done it before." His words fill the silence as we descend. "The way you broke his hold. That's not something you learn in a weekend self-defense course."
My throat burns when I swallow. "You'd be surprised what they teach these days."
"I don't like surprises, Nora." The elevator stops at the parking garage. "Especially not when they involve my employees knowing combat techniques and recognizing Boston accents."
His hand presses against my lower back, guiding me toward a black SUV where a driver waits. The touch burns through my blouse, a reminder that despite his suspicions, his instinct is still to protect me.
"I told you—"
"You told me what you wanted me to hear." He opens the door for me, those dark eyes seeing too much. "But everyone has secrets, don't they, Miss Kelly?"
The way he emphasizes my last name makes my blood run cold. He knows something's off. Maybe not what, exactly, but he knows I'm lying.
I slide into the leather seat, my body finally stopping its trembling. Pietro rounds the car, settling beside me with controlled grace. He pulls out his phone, typing something quick.
"Where are we going?" My voice sounds foreign, rough from Tommy's chokehold.
"Compound. It's secure." He doesn't look up from his phone. "Those bruises need ice, and you need somewhere safe until we know why they came for me."
"They said you were expecting them."
His fingers stop moving across the screen. "I wasn't."
"Then how did they get past security? The building has—"
"Someone let them in." His jaw clenches. "Someone who wanted them to reach me."
"Pietro." My hand moves toward his before I can stop it, fingers brushing his knuckles where the skin split open. "Your hands."
He looks down like he's just noticing the damage. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing." Without thinking, I pull tissues from my purse, pressing them against the worst of the cuts. His hand is massive under mine, capable of such violence, yet he holds perfectly still as I tend to him.
"You weren't afraid." His voice drops low, intimate in the back of the SUV. "When they grabbed you, when he had the gun to your head. You were calm."
"I was terrified."
"But you still fought."
Our eyes meet. His hand turns under mine, fingers interlacing with my blood-sticky ones.
Pietro's phone buzzes. He pulls his hand away to answer, leaving mine cold and empty.
"Talk to me." He listens, expression darkening. "How many? When?" A pause. "Double the security at all locations. Nobody gets in without my direct approval."
He ends the call, his jaw a hard line. "This was coordinated." He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't have to.
His gaze drops to my throat, to the darkening map of Tommy's fingers. "They sent their best team. For what?" he asks, more to himself than to me. "No shipments. No meetings." His dark eyes lift, pinning me in place. "Nothing worth hitting."
The unspoken question hangs between us: Then what were they after?
"You should rest," Pietro says, breaking the silence. "We'll be at the compound in twenty minutes."
I nod, leaning my head against the window.
My mind goes to Declan. I hate how easily he sneaks in my head. I hate him.
God, I was naive back then. Twenty years old and sheltered despite growing up in Boston's Irish mob. Declan walked in with a bottle of whiskey and a smile that lit up the room.
Tall, with sandy hair and eyes the color of a winter sky. He kissed my mother's hand, complimented my father's taste in scotch, and looked at me like I was the only woman in the world.
That's the worst part. Declan was sweet at first. Brought me coffee exactly how I liked it. Remembered little details about books I'd mentioned. Called just to hear my voice.
For our first date, he took me ice skating at Frog Pond, then to dinner at a tiny restaurant where the owner knew him by name.
The car slows at a red light. Outside, a couple walks hand-in-hand, laughing at some private joke. Normal people with normal lives.
"Nora." Pietro's voice cuts through my thoughts. "We need to talk."
I keep my eyes on the window. "About?"
"About what you've already figured out. About what my family really does."
My pulse quickens. This is it. The moment where he either trusts me or decides I'm a liability. I turn to face him, letting genuine nervousness show. It's not hard. Despite growing up around this life, being on the receiving end of a mob confession feels different.
"I don't know what you mean." The lie comes out weak, exactly as intended.
Pietro's laugh is humorless. His eyes bore into mine. "You're too smart not to have connected the dots."
I wrap my arms around myself, a gesture that's both calculated and real.
"I suspected..." My voice trails off. I bite my lip, looking away. "The money doesn't add up for just import/export. The way everyone's afraid of you."
"And yet you stayed."
"I needed the job." Truth wrapped in deception. "I need the money."
"My family controls most of Chicago's South Side." His voice is matter-of-fact, like he's discussing quarterly reports. "We run shipments through the docks—drugs, weapons, whatever pays. The restaurants, the construction company, they're fronts for washing money."
I let my eyes widen, pressing back into the leather seat. "You're telling me you're—"
"A crime family. Yes." He watches my reaction with those dark eyes that miss nothing. "My father built this empire. My brother expanded it. Now it's mine."
"Oh God." I cover my mouth with a shaking hand. The tremor is real. My body's still processing the adrenaline from the attack. "Those men today. They were—"
"Competition. The Irish are trying to muscle in on our territory." His jaw tightens. "Which is why what happened today can't happen again."
"I won't tell anyone." The words rush out. "I swear, I won't—"
"I know you won't." The certainty in his voice makes my blood chill. "Because you're smart enough to understand what that would mean."
The threat hangs between us, unspoken but clear. My father would say the same thing, would make the same implications. The similarity makes my chest tight.
"Why are you telling me this?" I whisper.
"Because you're already in it. You work for me, which makes you a target. Today proved that."
"I should quit." The words come out small, scared. "I should leave Chicago."
"No." The word cracks like a whip. Pietro's hand closes over mine where it rests on the seat. "You don't run. Not now."
I don't respond to that. What can I say? That I don't have a place to run to?