Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PIETRO
Three days of silence. Of meals eaten in her room. Of sterile notes left on my desk instead of her voice. Pathetic.
I should let her go. Should accept the distance she's creating.
Instead, I'm here like some pathetic teenager, about to suggest grocery shopping.
She steps out of the company building.
"Get in."
She stops short. "What are you doing?"
"You need things for your quarters. The guest room is barely stocked and you lock yourself in there for hours."
"I can handle—"
"Get in the car, Nora."
She crosses her arms, chin lifting in that defiant angle I've memorized. "Are you kidnapping me now?"
"If that's what it takes." I lean across and push the passenger door open. "We're going to the market. You need supplies if you're staying at the compound."
"I told you I'm finding my own new place where none of your enemies will reach me."
"No, you're not."
The standoff stretches between us. A couple walks past, the woman glancing at my car with appreciation. Nora notices, her jaw tightening.
"Fine." She slides into the passenger seat, slamming the door harder than necessary. "But this changes nothing."
I pull into traffic, heading toward Little Italy. The silence in the car is a physical weight. My fingers itch to reach across the console, to touch her hand where it rests on her thigh.
I grab a cart at Gennaro's, the main grocery. Nora walks beside me, maintaining careful distance.
"What do you need?" I ask.
"Basic things. Coffee, milk, some fruit—"
"Real food. Giulia will murder me if she finds out you're living on coffee and fruit."
"I don't need—"
I'm already moving toward the imported goods aisle. "We'll start with olive oil."
"I know how to buy olive oil."
"Not the right kind." I reach for a bottle on the top shelf, Tuscan extra virgin that costs more than most people's weekly groceries. "This one. From my family's region."
Nora takes the bottle, examining the label. "Sixty dollars for olive oil? That's insane."
"It's worth it."
"For salad dressing?"
"For everything. Cooking, bread, even just tasting on its own." I take the bottle back, adding two more to the cart. "You'll understand once you try it."
She shakes her head but I catch the hint of a smile. "You're such a snob."
"I have standards."
We move through the aisles, and something in my chest unknots. Nora starts actually selecting items instead of just following. She reaches past me for pasta, choosing a brand I've never tried.
At the produce section, she takes over completely. I watch her select tomatoes with practiced ease, pressing gently to test ripeness, bringing them close to smell.
"These are terrible." She sets aside the ones I'd grabbed. "Too firm. No scent. They'll taste like cardboard."
"They look fine."
"Looking fine and tasting good are different things." Her fingers brush mine as she takes the last tomato from my hand, and electricity shoots up my arm. "See? This one has given. Smell it."
She holds it up and I lean in, catching her scent along with the fruit's. "Tomato."
"Barely. It should smell rich, almost sweet. Like summer." She selects different ones, building a pile in a bag. "My mother taught me. She said you shop with all your senses, not just your eyes."
Past tense. A crack in her armor, revealing something real.
"Smart woman."
"She was." Nora ties the bag, moving to the herbs. The moment passes, but something warm settles in my chest.
I stop pretending to look at cheese. I watch her.
The way her teeth catch her bottom lip as she scans products.
I want to be the reason she bites that lip.
How she stands on her toes to reach high shelves, too proud to ask for help.
The laugh that escapes when she catches me sneaking expensive prosciutto into the cart.
"Really?"
"It's the good stuff."
"It better cooks itself for that price."
"We need bread," she says, checking her mental list. "Is there a bakery?"
"Best in Chicago." I guide her toward Nonna's.
The bakery welcomes us with warmth and the scent of fresh-baked everything. Glass cases display rows of pastries, cookies, breads. Mrs. Romano, ancient and eternal, stands behind the counter in her flour-dusted apron.
Mrs. Romano’s face lights up. A stream of Italian pours from her, too fast for Nora to follow. "Pietro! Finally, you bring a nice girl to meet me!"
"She's not—we're just shopping," I respond in Italian, but Mrs. Romano waves me off.
She switches to English, addressing Nora. "You want the rosemary focaccia. He pretends he doesn't like it but he does."
Nora glances at me, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Rosemary focaccia it is."
The bell above the door chimes. Three men enter, and every muscle in my body locks up.
Connor O'Sullivan. The Irish lieutenant who's been hitting our shipments for months.
Beside me, Nora turns to stone.
Her face drains of color so fast I think she might faint. Her breathing stops, starts, stops again.
She knows him.
Fuck.
Of course she does.
Connor's eyes scan the bakery and land on us. On her. A flash of recognition, there and gone, before he schools his expression into casual interest.
"Well, well." His Irish accent colors the words as he approaches. "Pietro Sartori. Didn't expect to find you here."
I shift, positioning myself between him and Nora. My hand moves to my hip, fingers grazing the Glock tucked under my jacket.
"Connor." I keep my voice level, bored. "Odd seeing you this far from your territory."
"Man's got to eat. Best bread in the city, they say." His eyes slide past me to Nora. "And who might this be?"
Nora's standing frozen, barely breathing. I feel the tremor running through her where her arm brushes mine.
"No one who concerns you."
Connor’s eyes crawl over her face. My trigger finger burns. "Irish coloring. The eyes, the complexion. You Irish, sweetheart?"
She swallows, her throat working. "Half. Mother's side." The words are steady, but clipped. Weighed.
"Is that so?" Connor tilts his head. "You remind me of someone. Can't quite place it."
The two men with Connor spread out slightly. Not enough to be an obvious threat, but enough that I clock their positions, calculate angles and timing if this goes sideways.
"We're leaving." I pick up the dropped tomatoes, my other hand finding Nora's elbow.
"No need to rush off." Connor's smile could freeze blood. "Just making conversation."
"I don't like talking with you Connor."
We stand locked in silent combat, neither backing down. Connor's men shift restlessly. Nora hasn't moved, hasn't breathed. Her fingers dig into my arm where I'm holding her.
Finally, Connor steps back. "Fair enough. Although we will talk soon again. Enjoy your bread."
They leave, the bell chiming cheerfully in their wake.
Nora sags against me, her breath coming in short gasps. I wrap my arm around her waist, holding her upright.
"We're going. Now."
Mrs. Romano appears with a bag of bread, pressing it into my free hand. "No charge. Go."
I guide Nora out the back exit, my body coiled for attack. The alley is clear. I get her to the car, practically lifting her into the passenger seat.
She's shaking. Full body tremors that rattle her teeth.
I peel out of the alley, taking corners at random, checking mirrors for tails. Only when I'm certain we're clear do I pull over.
"You know him."
"I've seen his picture. In the files." Her voice is flat, each word placed with the care of someone reciting a memorized lie.
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not—"
"Nora." I turn in my seat, studying her face. "Your entire body changed when he walked in. You stopped breathing. You dropped the goddamn tomatoes."
Her hands twist in her lap, knuckles white. "I recognized him from the photos. He's dangerous. I was scared."
The lie sits between us like a live wire. I want to push, to demand the truth. But the terror in her eyes stops me. Whatever Connor O'Sullivan is to her, it's nothing good.
I pull out my phone and text Liam.
I need you to dig deeper into Nora Kelly. Specifically any connection to the O'Sullivan family.
Boston or Chicago? Liam texts back.
Both. Go back as far as you can. Birth records, school, everything.
On it.
The drive back to the compound passes in silence. I help carry the groceries to her quarters, noting how she won't meet my eyes. Won't speak beyond monosyllables.
I don't know what secret she's hiding, or what hold O'Sullivan has on her. But I'll find out. I'll find her secret.
NORA
I lock the bathroom door behind me, hands trembling so badly I nearly drop the burner phone. The walls feel like they're closing in. My father. Here. In Chicago.
The phone rings three times before Uncle Finn answers.
"Little fox?" His voice is cautious.
"He found me." My words come out in a strangled whisper. "Dad was at a bakery today. He looked right at me, Finn."
"Slow down, Nora. Take a breath."
I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the cold tile floor, knees pulled to my chest. "Don't tell me to breathe! He's here. In Chicago. In Pietro's territory."
"What exactly did he say?"
"Something about people forgetting where they come from. He asked if I was Irish." My throat tightens. "He said I reminded him of someone. Pietro was there and he somehow knew that he couldn't say I'm his daughter."
"Alright. Listen to me carefully. You're safe there."
"Safe?" I laugh, the sound brittle even to my own ears. "With the man my father is actively trying to destroy?"
"Yes. Connor won't hurt you, Nora. You're his daughter."
"The daughter he abandoned when Declan tried to kill me," I remind him bitterly.
"He was angry. Hurt. But he wouldn't—"
"He told me to fix my own mess and hung up on me while I was bleeding." The memory still cuts like glass.
Finn's voice softens. "I know. But now he knows where you are, he'll probably contact you. He'll see this as an opportunity to get inside information on the Sartoris."
My stomach turns. "I'm not going to be part of this. I'm not going to spy on Pietro for him."
"I'm not saying you should. I'm just telling you what he'll want."
A knock at the bathroom door makes me jump. "Nora? Are you in there?" Vittoria's voice calls through the door.
"I have to go," I whisper urgently.
"Be careful, little fox. Call me if—"
I end the call, yanking out the SIM card and shoving the phone into the back of the vanity drawer. I splash water on my face, trying to erase any evidence of my panic before opening the door.
Vittoria stands there, her dark eyes curious. She's into comfortable clothes, her hair pulled into a messy bun. She looks younger, more vulnerable than the tech genius I've glimpsed around the compound.
"Hey," she says. "Sorry to bother you. I just..." She hesitates. "Do you have some time? Just to talk?"
I blink, surprised by the request. "Talk?"
She nods, looking almost shy. "Pietro mentioned you ran into Connor O'Sullivan today. I thought you might want company. Or distraction. Or..." She shrugs. "I don't know. Someone who understands what it's like to be caught in the middle of all this."
The irony of her words hits me like a physical blow. If she knew who I really was—whose daughter—she wouldn't be offering comfort. She'd be calling for my head.
But the genuine concern in her eyes makes something in my chest ache. I've been so alone since I fled Boston.
"I'd like that," I say, stepping aside to let her in. "I could use a friend right now."