Chapter 9 #2
"Natural talent." He reloads the magazine with swift efficiency. "Or more practice than you're admitting."
I turn to face him, finding him closer than expected. "Does it matter?"
"Everything matters." His eyes search mine. "Every secret, every lie, every truth you're not telling me. It all matters."
Time slows. He knows I'm hiding something. Maybe multiple somethings. But he's keeping me close anyway.
"Again." He nods toward the target. "This time on your own."
I shoot until my arms ache, until my ears ring despite protection, until the target is nothing but shredded paper. Pietro watches in silence, occasionally correcting my stance, fingers grazing my hip or shoulder.
Each touch burns through clothes, leaving invisible marks.
When we're done, when I've proven I can protect myself if needed, he locks the weapons away and leads me back upstairs. But instead of returning to the office, he stops at his door.
"The Irish won't stop. Yesterday was just the beginning."
I know.
I don't talk.
He rounds the desk, stopping just outside my personal space. "I don't think you understand what it means to be under my protection. What I'll do to keep you safe."
"I didn't ask for your protection."
"No." His hand rises, fingers ghosting over the fading bruises on my throat. "But you have it anyway."
The touch is barely there, but my skin ignites. I freeze..
"Pietro—"
"Go home. To the compound." His hand drops, but the heat remains. "Liam will drive you."
"I have work—"
"Not today." He returns to his desk, dismissal clear. "We'll try again tomorrow."
PIETRO
My phone buzzes. Liam.
"She's at the compound," he says without preamble.
"Good. Find anything at her place?"
A pause. "Nothing suspicious. Bag had the usual—clothes, toiletries, a book."
"What book?"
"Some thriller. Nothing interesting."
I take a sip, letting the burn ground me. "And the apartment?"
"Clean." Liam's voice drops lower. "But I talked to her neighbor. Said a man was looking for her last night. Knocked on doors asking questions."
My grip tightens on the glass. "Description?"
"Average height, dark hair. Nothing distinctive. Neighbor thought it might be an ex."
"Could be." The whiskey doesn't taste as good anymore. "What did Vittoria find?"
"Everything checks out. Employment history at a Boston firm, college records, social media. Sparse but consistent. Looks like she's exactly what she claims: woman starting over after leaving an abusive relationship."
The pieces fit, but something still feels off.
"You don’t trust her," Liam says, reading my silence.
"I don't trust anyone."
"That's not what I meant."
I know exactly what he means. I can't stop looking at her, my body gravitates toward hers without conscious thought.
"How bad do you want her, Pietro?"
The question lands like a punch. "I don't."
"Bullshit."
"Watch yourself, Liam."
"I'm watching you throw away years of caution over a woman you've known for days." His voice remains steady, professional. "A woman who appeared right when the Irish started making moves."
"You think she's connected?"
"I think coincidences make me nervous."
I drain my glass, setting it down harder than necessary. "Keep digging. And find out who was asking about her."
"Already on it."
I hang up, turning to the window.
Liam's right. I want her. And that makes her the most dangerous person in the world.
NORA
I lock the bathroom door at the Sartori estate, my hands trembling as I pull out the burner phone. The marble and gold fixtures mock me with their opulence while I dial the only number I've memorized.
Three rings. Four.
"Hello?" Uncle Finn's voice, rough with sleep or whiskey or both.
"It's me." I keep my voice low, running water in the massive sink to mask the conversation.
"Jesus Christ, Nora. Are you okay? Why didn't you call?"
"Am I okay?" I hiss into the phone. "You sent me to work for Pietro fucking Sartori. The Sartoris who are at war with Connor O'Sullivan. Your brother and my father. You knew that and you still told me to do so. And I couldn’t call because I’m terrified by the idea that they might have put microphones in my apartment. "
Silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken truths.
"Half-brother," he finally says. "And we haven't spoken in fifteen years."
"That's not the point." I press my forehead against the cool mirror. "Why, Finn? Why not just give me money to disappear? Why send me straight into the lion's den?"
Water circles the drain, like my options, like my sanity.
"Because money runs out, Nora. And Declan would never stop looking." His voice softens. "The Sartoris are the only family in Chicago powerful enough to keep you safe if Declan finds you."
"Safe?" I laugh, the sound brittle even to my own ears. "A man held a gun to my head yesterday. If Pietro hadn't been there—"
"But he was there, wasn't he?" Finn interrupts. "And now you're under his protection."
My fingers touch the fading bruises on my throat. "How did you know that?"
"I have my sources." He pauses. "Listen to me, Nora. I have a plan, but it takes time. For now, you're safer with the Sartoris than anywhere else."
"What plan? Tell me."
"Not yet. Not over the phone." His voice drops lower. "Trust me, little fox. Have I ever let you down?"
The childhood nickname hits me like a punch. Mom used to call me that—her clever little fox. After she died, Finn was the only one who kept it alive.
"No," I admit. "But you've never thrown me to the wolves before either."
"Pietro Sartori isn't a wolf." Finn's tone changes, becomes something I can't quite read. "He's something else entirely."
"What does that mean?"
"It means stay close to him. Let him protect you." A door closes on his end. "I have to go. I'll contact you when I can."
"Finn, wait—"
But the line goes dead.
I stare at the phone, fighting the urge to hurl it against the marble wall. Instead, I remove the battery and SIM card, crushing the latter under my heel before flushing it down the toilet.
The battery I'll dispose of elsewhere. The phone itself I'll smash and scatter across different trash cans.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to clear my thoughts. Why couldn't Finn just help me disappear? Why the elaborate scheme involving the Sartoris?
My uncle isn't a man who acts without purpose. He left the family business years ago, cutting ties with my father and the Irish mob.
But he never completely abandoned me, appearing at graduations, sending birthday cards, offering quiet support from the periphery of my life.
After Mom died, he became more present. Still distant, but watchful. And when I called him three weeks ago, desperate and bleeding, he didn't hesitate to help.
But this? Sending me to the Sartoris? There has to be more to his plan than just keeping me safe.