Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
NORA
The guest bed feels wrong. Too soft. My body refuses to trust the expensive sheets, the quiet that lacks sirens and shouting neighbors. Four-thirty a.m and I'm wide awake.
I slip from bed, bare feet silent on heated floors.
Through windows, Lake Michigan stretches black under pre-dawn sky. Frost patterns the manicured grounds, turning the Sartori empire into a fairy tale of ice and shadow.
If fairy tales included armed guards and bulletproof glass.
Movement catches my eye. Pietro crosses the lawn toward the estate's gym, a separate building I'd noticed yesterday but hadn't explored. He moves through darkness like he owns it, which I suppose he does.
I should go back to bed. Should respect boundaries, maintain distance. Instead, I watch him disappear inside, then see lights flicker on through the gym's windows.
The hallway feels colder than my room. Family photos line the walls. Pietro appears in few of them, always slightly apart, already carrying weight that would eventually crush him.
The kitchen surprises me with warmth and life. Giulia stands at the massive range, already deep in breakfast preparations despite the ungodly hour.
"You're up early." Her voice carries no judgment, just gentle observation.
"Couldn't sleep."
She nods toward the coffee machine. "Help yourself. Grab Pietro’s too."
"I'm not bringing him coffee."
Her knowing smile makes heat crawl up my neck. "Of course not. But if you happen to be walking past the gym with an extra cup..."
Through the kitchen window, I watch Pietro through the gym's glass walls. He's stripped to a tank top and athletic pants, working a heavy bag with focused intensity.
"He goes there when the ghosts get too loud." She doesn't look up from her cutting board. "Been doing it since Pablo died. Some men drink. Some fight. Pietro does both."
I pour two cups of coffee, while Giulia pretends not to notice. The ceramic warms my palms as I slip out the side door into winter morning.
Oh God is cold out here.
My breath clouds white as I cross frozen grass, frost crunching under the boots. The gym door stands partially open, music pounding from within.
I pause at the threshold.
Pietro moves like a dancer, if dancers dealt in destruction. His body flows from strike to strike, muscles rippling under skin that gleams with sweat. The tank top clings, outlining every line of his torso.
He spins, executing a combination that ends with a devastating knee strike to the bag. The chain holding it groans. Power radiates from him, barely leashed, waiting to explode.
This is the man who killed for me yesterday. Who stood between me and death without hesitation.
This is the man I'm lying to with every breath.
The coffee cup shakes in my hand.
Pietro's eyes snap to the doorway, finding me instantly. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Sweat trails down his throat, disappearing beneath his shirt. His chest rises and falls with controlled breaths.
I step inside, extending the coffee like a peace offering. "Giulia said you would like some."
His fingers brush mine as he accepts the cup. A jolt fires up my arm. He drinks deep, then sets it aside, eyes never leaving my face.
"Want to learn?"
"To box?"
"Yep." He moves to a cabinet, pulling out hand wraps.
"I know how to punch."
"Show me." He says.
I set down my coffee, approach the bag he's destroyed. The stance is muscle memory, drilled into me by a father who believed his daughter should be beautiful and deadly in equal measure.
I throw a quick combination—jab, cross, hook. The bag barely moves, but the movements are textbook.
"Again." Pietro circles me, predator studying prey. "Harder this time. Like you mean it."
I picture Declan's face and strike. The bag swings satisfactorily.
"Better." He steps behind me, hands settling on my hips. "But you're telegraphing. See how your shoulder dips before the cross?"
His body heat burns through my clothes. I force myself to focus on technique, not the way his breath warms my neck.
"Try again."
I throw the combination, hyperaware of every place we're connected. His hands guide my hips, correcting my stance. When I land the hook, he makes a sound of approval that pools heat low in my belly.
"Good. You've had training."
"Some." Another half-truth to add to the collection.
The dining room fills gradually. Lorenzo appears first, perfectly put together despite the early hour. He greets me warmly, asking about my sleep with genuine concern.
Nico follows, suspicious gaze cataloging the flush in my cheeks. Vittoria bounces in last.
Pietro enters freshly showered, dark hair still damp. He's changed into a charcoal suit that fits him perfectly, every line designed to intimidate and impress. But I see the exhaustion beneath..
"I need to go to the office today." He doesn't sit, just stands behind his chair. "Check on operations after yesterday's incident."
"You mean after the Irish tried to kill your secretary?" Nico's voice drips acid. "Maybe we should discuss why they're suddenly so interested in your employees."
"Maybe we should discuss why you're suddenly so interested in questioning my decisions." Pietro's tone drops, a layer of ice forming over each word.
Lorenzo intervenes smoothly. "We're all concerned about security. That's natural after recent events."
"Recent events." Vittoria laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You mean Riccardo getting murdered? Bruno lying in a coma? Those recent events?"
Silence slams down on the table.
"I have work to do." Pietro turns to leave, then pauses. "Nora, you're with me. If the Irish are targeting you, you're safer where I can see you."
It's not a request. I stand, aware of every eye tracking my movement.
"Pietro." Giulia appears with a covered plate. "At least take this. You didn't eat."
He accepts the offering with surprising gentleness, fingers brushing the older woman's hand. "Grazie, Giulia."
The moment passes quickly, but I catch it. The softness he allows himself only with Pablo's mother.
The drive to the office is quiet, Pietro navigating Chicago morning traffic with practiced ease. The city looks different from inside his Maserati—smaller, more manageable. Money has a way of shrinking problems to handleable size.
"Nico doesn't trust me." I watch buildings blur past.
"Nico doesn't trust anyone. It's what makes him valuable."
"And dangerous."
Pietro glances at me, something unreadable in his expression. "Everyone in my family is dangerous, Nora. Even Vittoria, when pushed."
I decide to remain silent. I’m tired this morning already.
We pass through Lincoln Park, then into the Loop. The Sartori building rises ahead, all black glass and sharp edges. Pietro pulls into the underground garage, past security checkpoints that part before him.
"Thank you." I say, realising I never did tank him properly.
"Don't thank me yet." He turns to face me fully. "After yesterday, things change. You're not just my secretary anymore. You're under Sartori protection, which means you follow Sartori rules."
"Which are?"
"You go nowhere alone. Ever. You report anything suspicious immediately. And you learn to defend yourself properly." His eyes bore into mine. "Starting today."
Perfect. That’s exactly what was missing from my life right now. But I won’t argue. I need to play this along until I am ready to leave.
The elevator ride to the executive floor feels longer than usual. Pietro stands close enough that I could touch him by only stretching my fingers.
The office hasn't changed, but everything feels different. My desk, which yesterday seemed like a sanctuary, now feels exposed. Pietro's door stands open, that massive space beyond both invitation and threat.
"Your things." He indicates a duffel near my desk. "Liam didn't go through them, if that's what you're worried about."
But someone will, eventually. In this world, privacy is a luxury no one can afford.
I spend the morning catching up on correspondence, fielding calls from people whose names I recognize from files I shouldn't have read. Pietro works with his door open, and I catch glimpses of him—pouring whiskey before noon, staring out at the city like he's planning its destruction.
Just before lunch, he appears at my desk. "Come on."
"Where?"
"If you're going to be around here, you need to know how to shoot. Properly."
The range is in the building's basement, which shouldn't surprise me but does. Of course the Sartoris have a private gun range in their legitimate business headquarters.
Pietro unlocks a cabinet, revealing an arsenal that would make law enforcement weep. He selects a Glock 19, checking it with practiced efficiency.
"You've shot before." Not a question.
"Target shooting. Years ago." True enough. Dad started teaching me at ten, said a woman should never depend on a man for protection.
Pietro loads the magazine, movements efficient and precise. "This isn't target shooting. This is survival."
He hands me the weapon. The metal feels heavier than memory, weighted with implications.
"Safety." He indicates the switch. "Sight picture." He stands behind me, arms coming around to guide my hands. "Trigger discipline."
His chest presses against my back. I forget how to breathe.
"The key is not to pull." His voice drops low, intimate in the enclosed space. "You squeeze. Like you're pressing something delicate."
His hands cover mine, warm and steady.
Oh shit, I’m shivering.
"Breathe in." His instruction whispers past my ear. "Hold." A pause that lasts forever. "Now."
I squeeze.
The paper rips, a perfect bullseye.
"Again."
I empty the magazine, each shot finding its mark. Pietro's approval radiates from behind me, his hands never leaving mine.
"Good girl."
The praise shoots straight through me, pooling heat between my thighs. I'm grateful he can't see my face, the flush spreading down my chest.
He steps back, taking his warmth, leaving me cold and aching.