Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
NORA
Istep into the executive floor's reception area. No one else arrives this early. Which is exactly the point. I need the quiet. Time to mortar the cracks he put in my walls last night.
My hands shake as I unlock my desk drawer. Last night replays in my mind. His mouth on mine. The desperate hunger in that kiss.
I focus on the familiar ritual of organizing. Files sorted by priority. Calendar updated. Coffee brewing in the small kitchen down the hall. If I can just maintain professional distance, pretend nothing happened, maybe we can navigate through this without destroying everything.
The elevator chimes at six-fifteen.
Pietro steps out, and a crack runs through my composure.
My breath hitches. My hands freeze over the keyboard.
He's wearing a suit, the jacket already discarded somewhere, white shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair falls across his forehead.
His eyes find mine immediately, holding for one charged second before sliding away.
My tone is flat, the words clipped. "Good morning, Mr. Sartori."
He pauses at my desk, jaw working. "Nora."
Just my name, but the way he says it sends heat pooling low in my belly. I force my attention back to the computer screen, typing nonsense just to have something to do with my hands.
"Your nine o'clock with the dock supervisors has been moved to nine-thirty. The Torrino contracts are on your desk for review. And Lorenzo called—something about the restaurant permits."
Pietro's fingers drum once on my desk. "Thank you."
He walks past. My fingers stumble on the keyboard. The door to his office closes with a soft click.
I breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth. Professional. Controlled. Unaffected.
The kiss burns on my lips like a brand. Every time I lick them, I taste him.
It was just adrenaline.
Had to be. Bodies flooded with fear chemicals, seeking release after almost dying. Nothing more.
I can't kiss my boss. He can't kiss his secretary. Simple workplace boundaries that exist for exactly this reason. To prevent complications that destroy everything.
My fingers pause over the keyboard. Pietro Sartori is my father's enemy. Connor O'Sullivan would put a bullet in Pietro's head without hesitation if given the chance. The thought shouldn’t disturb me that much, but it does.
Dad has so many enemies I've lost count. The Murphys, the Ferrettis, half the Russian bratva. Pietro is just another name on a long list of men who want my father dead.
None of that matters anyway. I have a plan. Work here, save every penny of my salary, then disappear properly this time. Somewhere Declan and dad will never find me. Maybe Canada. Maybe further.
The kiss was a mistake. A moment of weakness after nearly dying. It won't happen again.
I tell myself this even as my treacherous heart races every time his door opens.
The phone rings, saving me from my spiraling thoughts. I throw myself into work. Anything to avoid thinking about the way his hands felt in my hair, the growl he made when I bit his lip, the—
"Get Liam on the line." Pietro's voice crackles through the intercom, making me jump. "And bring the August shipping manifests when you have them."
The manifests. They’re in his office. I gather my composure and knock twice before entering.
He's standing at the windows, hands in his pockets, shoulders straight.
"The manifests." I move behind his desk, hyperaware of him tracking my movements in the window's reflection. I pull out the correct folder, but as I turn, my heel catches on the rug’s edge. The folder flies from my grasp, papers scattering under his desk. "Shit."
I crouch down, reaching under the heavy mahogany, my fingers chasing loose sheets. The tight fit of my skirt makes it awkward, forcing me to bend lower, closer to him.
When I straighten, papers in hand, I find him watching me. Not in the window's reflection anymore. He's turned fully, and his stare is a physical weight. The air in my lungs turns to lead. My next breath won't come.
"Your captains will be here in twenty minutes." My voice wavers.
"I know."
Neither of us moves. The space between us hums with electricity, with memory, with want. His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second before jerking away.
"Leave the files." The words come out rough. "Go."
I set them on his desk and escape. Twenty minutes until his meeting. Twenty minutes to reconstruct my shattered control.
The captains arrive in a cluster. Tony, Sal, and two others whose names I haven't learned. They're all business, serious faces and darker suits, filing into Pietro's office with barely a glance my way.
The door stays open. Pietro's new policy since I started—everything transparent. Or maybe he just wants me to hear, to understand his world.
"The Irish are getting bolder." Tony's voice carries clearly. "After last night's ambush, we need to—"
"I'm handling it." Pietro cuts him off. "Double the security on all shipments. No one moves alone."
I focus on my computer screen, but I feel his eyes on me through the doorway. When I glance up, he's staring. The men around his conference table fade into background noise. There's just him and me.
I lift my water bottle to take a sip, then pause. Slowly, I run my tongue along my lower lip, catching a drop of water.
Pietro's jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle jump from across the room. His hands flatten on the table, and Sal stops mid-sentence to follow his boss's gaze.
"Is there a problem?" Sal's voice is cautious. He glances from Pietro to me, then back again.
"No." Pietro's voice could cut glass. "Continue."
But his eyes stay on me for three more seconds before he forces his attention back to his men. I turn back to my screen. The power to affect him like this it's intoxicating. Dangerous and completely stupid.
The meeting drags for another hour. Every time I look up, he's watching. Every time he looks away, I watch him.
When they finally file out, Pietro remains seated, his eyes fixed on me through the doorway.
"We need to review the Torrino contracts."
It's not a request. I gather my tablet and enter his office, the door closing behind me with finality. The space suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker.
"Sit." He gestures to the chair across from his desk.
I sink into the leather, crossing my legs, trying to project professional calm. He slides the contracts across the desk surface. Our fingers brush as I reach for them. His hand jerks back like he's been burned.
"Page twelve needs revision." His voice is controlled. "The delivery dates don't align with our warehouse capacity."
I lean forward to study the section he's indicating. "If we shift the second shipment to the following Tuesday—"
"Show me."
I stand, moving around the desk to point out the specific lines. He doesn't move back, doesn't give me space. I'm standing beside his chair, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. My finger traces the relevant passage.
"Here. If we adjust this—"
His hand covers mine. A brand on paper. His thumb grazes my knuckle, a slow stroke that sends a jolt straight to my core. My brain shorts out. There is only his hand, his heat. A magnetic pull yanks at my center, demanding I lean in. Demanding I close the space. Demanding I give in.
"Pietro." His name escapes as barely a whisper.
His hand tightens for just a moment. Then he pulls away. "Fix the dates." His chair rolls back, the sound sharp as he creates a chasm between us. "Have them ready by tomorrow." he says, sounding frustrated.
I straighten, gathering the contracts with hands that won't stop trembling.
"Of course."
The drive to the compound passes in a blur. Pietro has assigned Josh to be my personal driver and security. By the time the car pulls through the gates, I've almost convinced myself that maintaining distance is the right choice. The smart choice. The safe choice.
Giulia's in the kitchen when I enter, up to her elbows in flour, her face lighting up when she sees me.
"Nora! Perfect timing. Come, come. Tonight we make ravioli."
She hands me an apron and a pair of gloves before I can protest, and soon I'm beside her at the counter, learning to roll pasta dough paper-thin. The repetitive motion soothes something in me.
"You know," Giulia says, her voice casual as she cuts perfect squares of pasta, "Pietro used to help me cook when he was young. He was lighter then. He’d sing in my kitchen—a voice like a dying cat, but full of joy. Before..."
"Before Pablo."
I try to picture it. Pietro young and carefree, singing off-key in this kitchen. The image won't form. I've only known the man weighed down by guilt and responsibility.
"How was he after Pablo?" I ask before thinking about it twice.
Giulia's voice goes soft. "Pietro would disappear for days, come back bloodied. Starting fights he couldn't win. Hoping someone would end it for him."
My hands still. "But he survived."
"Because of Riccardo. His brother wouldn't let him give up. Dragged him back every time, sometimes literally." She shows me how to seal the ravioli edges. "Then Riccardo died, and I thought... I thought we'd lose Pietro too."
"But you didn't."
"No."
I focus on the pasta, pressing the edges with more force than necessary.
"Pablo would have liked you," she continues. "You don't let Pietro intimidate you. You see past the monster he thinks he is."
"I don't—"
"Bella, I have eyes." She touches my arm gently.
The kitchen door opens before I can respond. Pietro stands in the doorway, still in his work clothes but with his tie loosened, sleeves pushed up further. He stops short when he sees me at the counter, flour dusting my hands, wearing one of Giulia's aprons.
For a moment, his guard drops completely. Then he blinks, and the walls slam back up.
"You never ask for help."
"Nora's learning to make ravioli." Giulia's voice carries a note of challenge. "She's a natural. And I love showing our culture to others, Pietro."
He moves into the kitchen, going to the wine rack. I watch him select a bottle, his movements precise, controlled. When he turns back, our eyes meet. Hold.
"Stay for dinner," he says. Not a question. Not quite an order. Something in between.
"I am staying." I turn back to the pasta. "Someone has to make sure Giulia doesn't work herself to death feeding all of you."
Giulia laughs, the sound warm and rich. "This one understands family."
Pietro's still watching me. I can feel it like a physical touch. When I glance over, he's leaning against the counter, wine glass in hand, that intense gaze tracking my movements.
"What?"
"Nothing." But he doesn't look away. "Just... the flour. In your hair."
I reach up, trying to find it. He sets down his glass and steps closer, too close, his fingers brushing the spot near my temple. The touch is gentle, barely there, but it unsettles me.
"There." His hand drops but he doesn't step back. We're inches apart, the counter edge pressing into my hip, his body heat wrapping around me.
Giulia clears her throat. "Pietro, go set the table. Let us finish here."
He backs away slowly, gathering plates from the cabinet. But his eyes keep finding me as he moves between kitchen and dining room. Each glance feels like a caress.
"That boy," Giulia mutters once he's gone. "Thirty-six years old and acts like a teenager with his first crush."
"It's not—"
"Mmm-hmm." She hands me a pot of boiling water. "Help me with the pasta."
I sit at the vanity in the guest room, brushing my hair with slow, methodical strokes. The estate is quiet now, dinner long over. My fingers still smell faintly of basil and flour despite the gloves and scrubbing them clean. Unless it’s just stuck in my nose.
The brush catches on a tangle, and I wince, the sharp pain triggering a memory I've tried to bury.
The night I ran.
I set the brush down, my hands trembling. The hairbrush isn't the only thing that can snag on painful memories.
That night, after I'd struck Declan with the lamp and fled our apartment, I'd moved six blocks with the taxi before realizing my phone was still in my back pocket. The same phone Declan could track. The same phone that could lead him straight to me.
But before I ditched it, I needed to make one call.
My father's number. The only person who could help me.
"Nora? It's late. What's wrong?" His voice had been gruff with sleep.
"Dad, it's Declan." My voice broke on his name. "He's working with the Murphys. He's been feeding them information for months. I found proof—recordings, photos of meetings. He tried to kill me when I confronted him."
Silence stretched across the line. Then, "Where are you?"
"I don't know exactly. I ran. I'm somewhere downtown."
"You're sure about this? About Declan?"
"Yes! Dad, I heard him on the recordings. He's been planning this for years. He only got close to me to get to you, to get inside information."
Another long pause. When he spoke again, his voice had hardened. "This is your fault, Nora."
Hearing that was like a knife to the heart.
"What? No—"
"You brought him into our lives. Into our family. Into our business."
"That's not true! You wanted him on your crew. You said he had potential. You're the one who made him your second!"
"Because you vouched for him! Because you were sleeping with him!"
I'd pressed myself against the car seat. "Dad, please. I need help. He's trying to kill me."
"And now the Murphys know everything. Our shipments, our contacts, our safe houses. Everything's compromised because you couldn't keep your legs closed."
The cruelty had stolen my breath. This was my father—the man who'd taught me to ride a bike, who'd kissed my scraped knees, who'd once threatened a boy who made me cry at prom.
"Dad—"
"Fix your own mess, Nora. You're not dragging me down with you."
The line went dead.
I'd stared at the phone, disbelief numbing me more than the cold rain. Then survival instincts kicked in. I'd pulled out the SIM card, threw it out the window, and tossed the pieces down separate storm drains before throwing the phone itself too.
My father had abandoned me. Blamed me. For loving someone who'd only pretended to love me back.
I blink, returning to the present. My reflection stares back at me from the vanity mirror.
I set the brush down with a decisive click.
That night changed everything. The daughter who'd always sought her father's approval died in that car