Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
NORA
The box sits on my bed like a threat wrapped in silver paper.
"Open it." Pietro stands in my doorway, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the hall. His eyes track my movements as I approach the package.
"What is this?"
"The gala we talked about is tonight. You can't wear your work clothes there."
I lift the lid. Emerald silk spills across tissue paper. The fabric slides through my fingers, cool and expensive. I check the label—Valentino. My stomach drops.
"Pietro, this dress costs more than—"
"Than what?" He’s inside my room in two strides, his presence shrinking the space. "Than you think you're worth?"
My skin prickles, a betraying warmth crawling up my neck. "Than most people make in months."
"You're not most people." His fingers brush mine where I hold the fabric. "You're with me. That means you dress the part."
"As your secretary?"
His jaw tightens. "As my associate. Everyone who matters will be there tonight. They need to see you belong."
The word ‘belong’ makes my chest ache. If he knew the truth that dress would burn before it touched my skin.
"I can't accept this."
"You can and you will." He pulls the dress from the box, holding it against me. "Green. Like your eyes when you're angry."
"I'm not angry."
"Liar." His thumb grazes my jaw. "Seven o'clock. Vittoria will help you get ready."
He leaves before I can protest, the dress heavy in my arms. I sink onto the bed, the silk cold against my legs.
Terror is a block of ice in my stomach. This dress isn't a gift; it's a collar.
A beautiful, expensive collar. And a traitorous pulse beats in my throat.
The thrill of being the one he wants to put it on.
Vittoria arrives at five-thirty with an arsenal of makeup and determination.
"Finally, I get to play dress-up with someone who isn't related to me." She dumps cosmetics across my vanity. "Strip. We're starting with your hair."
"Vittoria, I can do my own—"
"Not for a Sartori gala, you can't." She spins me toward the mirror. "These events are blood sport disguised as charity. Every woman there will be evaluating you. Deciding if you're worthy of being there."
I look in the mirror and see a ghost. My eyes are too wide, my skin stretched tight over my cheekbones. The woman staring back at me is a fraud, and I have a sick feeling everyone there will know it. "And if they decide I'm not?"
"Then Pietro will make them reconsider." She starts sectioning my hair with practiced efficiency. "He's never brought a woman to one of these before."
The curling iron pauses mid-twist. "Never?"
"Not since Nina. And that was... different."
I’ve never heard of that name. He did have a girlfriend then.
"Different how?"
Vittoria's eyes meet mine in the mirror. "She was chosen for him. Family alliance, political move." She resumes curling.
I want to ask what happened but I don’t want to show how much I care about it.
Each strand she styles is another piece of armor she's forging for me. The updo takes shape. Elegant but not overdone, leaving the vulnerable line of my neck and the pulse fluttering there bare to the room. She lines my eyes with precision, making the green stand out against dark lashes.
"There." She steps back. "Now the dress."
The silk whispers against my skin as I step into it. The bodice hugs my curves before flowing to the floor. The back dips low, leaving my spine bare. To touches.
"Madonna." Vittoria’s voice is a stunned whisper. "Pietro isn't going to know what hit him."
I study my reflection. I really like myself tonight.
"Ready?" Vittoria squeezes my shoulder.
"No."
"Good. That means you understand what you're walking into."
The click of my heel on the floor is a sharp crack in the silence.
Each step on the main staircase echoes in the foyer.
Pietro waits at the bottom, adjusting his cufflinks.
Black tuxedo tailored to perfection, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, the narrow taper to his waist. Power wrapped in Italian wool.
He looks up.
His hands freeze on his cufflinks. His control shatters for a heartbeat.
"Cazzo." The word escapes on an exhale.
I descend the last steps, hyperaware of his eyes tracking every movement. "Is that good or bad?"
"You know exactly what it is." He extends his hand, helping me down the final step. His thumb strokes across my knuckles. "Every man there will want you."
"I don't care about every man."
"No?" He pulls me closer. "Who do you care about?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with everything we haven't said. Can't say.
"We should go." I pull back, but his grip tightens.
"Not yet." He produces a velvet box from his jacket. "You need these."
Diamond earrings. Teardrops that match the dress perfectly. "Pietro, no. The dress is already too much."
"The dress is the beginning." He removes one earring, his fingers brushing my ear as he fastens it. "Hold still."
He secures the second earring, his breath warm against my neck. "Perfect."
Liam appears in the doorway. "Car's ready, sir."
Pietro's hand finds the small of my back, skin meeting skin where the dress dips low. The touch brands me as surely as any mark.
"Don't leave my side tonight," he murmurs as we walk to the car. "Not for a second."
The Palmer House Hotel rises against Chicago's skyline, golden light spilling from its windows. Photographers cluster at the entrance, their flashes creating a constellation of light. Pietro's hand tightens on my waist.
"Smile," he says against my ear. "Look like you own the world."
"I can barely afford groceries."
"Tonight, you're with me. That makes you royalty."
We step from the car into chaos. Cameras flash. Voices call Pietro's name. He guides me through with practiced ease, his body shielding mine from the worst of the crush. The lobby opens into a ballroom that steals my breath.
Crystal chandeliers cast golden light across marble floors.
Towering arrangements of white roses and orchids perfume the air.
Women in designer gowns float past on the arms of men whose suits cost more than cars.
An orchestra plays from an elevated stage, the music weaving through conversations in multiple languages.
"Breathe," Pietro murmurs.
"I'm trying."
"Mr. Sartori." A silver-haired man approaches, his wife draped in sapphires. "How wonderful to see you."
"Judge Morrison." Pietro shakes his hand, the grip firm but brief. "This is Nora Kelly."
The judge's eyes assess me with sharp intelligence. "Lovely to meet you, my dear. And what do you do?"
"She keeps me from destroying everything I touch," Pietro answers before I can speak.
The judge laughs, but his wife's gaze sharpens. She sees through the deflection, recognizes the claim Pietro just made. I'm not just an employee. I'm his.
We move through the room in a careful dance. Pietro introduces me to business associates, city councilmen, people whose names I recognize from newspaper headlines. Each introduction carries weight. He's establishing my place in his world, making it clear I'm under his protection.
"Pietro Sartori." A smooth voice cuts through the classical music. "And the mysterious Miss Kelly."
A man approaches with the confidence of a man who's never been told no. His smile reveals too many teeth, his eyes lingering on the dip of my neckline.
"Thomas." Pietro's voice drops an octave.
"I was hoping to ask your lovely companion for a dance." Thomas extends his hand toward me. "If you don't mind sharing."
The temperature around Pietro plummets. "I mind."
"Just one dance. I promise to return her unharmed."
Pietro steps between us, his back to me, facing Thomas. "Find someone else to entertain you."
Thomas's smile finally falters. He nods, backing away with raised hands. "Message received."
I didn’t want to dance with him either way.
As soon as he's gone, Pietro turns to me. "Dance with me."
"That wasn't a question."
"No, it wasn't."
He leads me onto the floor as the orchestra begins a waltz. His hand spans my lower back, warm through the silk. Our joined hands create a circuit of electricity.
"You didn't have to be so territorial."
"Yes, I did." He spins me, pulling me back against his chest. "Every man in this room needs to understand you're off limits."
"I'm not property, Pietro."
"No. You're more dangerous than property." His eyes burn into mine. "Property can be stolen. You?" Another spin, another pull closer. "You could destroy me by choice."
"What are you saying?"
"You're in my head, Nora," he says, the words rough, torn from him. "I close my eyes, and you're there. I wake up, and my hand is reaching for your side of the bed. A hundred women, Nora. Faceless. Not one of them—" His jaw works.
"Not one of them what?" I whisper.
His eyes burn into mine. "Not one of them made me want to see the sunrise. I was a dead man after Pablo. Walking, breathing, but dead. Then you. You walked into my office, all fire and defiance, and for the first time in years, I wanted tomorrow to come."
My heart cracks open. "You barely know me."
"I know enough." He dips me, his face inches from mine. "I know you're brave and brilliant. I know you see through everyone's masks, including mine. I know you make me want impossible things."
"Like what?"
"Like keeping you." He pulls me upright, our bodies aligned.
The word hangs between us, too big for what we are. What we can't be. Not with my truth buried between us like a knife waiting to twist.
Over Pietro’s shoulder, a man walks in.
Jimmy Brennan. My father's man.
Pietro senses the change immediately. "What is it?" he asks, his voice low.
"Nothing," I lie, forcing a smile that feels like cracking glass. "Someone just stepped on my foot."
My mind races. He's watching. Cataloging exits, security, who Pietro talks to. My father sent him.
The music is a dull roar in my ears.
I spot another familiar face near the bar. Sean. Another of my father's men. Panic claws at my throat. "I need some air."
His grip tightens. "I told you not to leave my side."
"I'm going to the ladies room, not fleeing the country." I snap, the panic making me sharp. "Two minutes."
He releases me reluctantly, his eyes narrowed. I weave through the crowd, my legs unsteady.
In the lavish, empty ladies' lounge, I brace my hands on the counter. I fight for breath.
They're here. They're in his world. What should I do? Tell him? Tell him and watch the kindness in his eyes turn to hate?
When I return to the ballroom, Pietro materializes instantly.
“Something happened."
"Everything's fine."
"Don't." He cups my face, forcing me to meet his gaze. "Don't shut me out. Not tonight."
The concern in his eyes nearly breaks me. I want to tell him everything. I want to warn him about the spies, about my father's reach into his world. Want to confess every lie before they destroy us.
Instead, I kiss him.
It's soft, barely a brush of lips, but he inhales sharply. His hands tighten on my face.
"Nora—"
"Take me home."
"The gala—"
"Please." I press closer, feeling his control fracture. "I need to be alone with you."
He studies my face for a long moment. Then he takes my hand, leading me through the crowd. People call his name, trying to stop us, but he ignores them all. Nothing exists but his hand in mine and the promise of privacy ahead.
In the car, he pulls me against his side. "Tell me what happened."
"Tomorrow." I rest my head on his shoulder, breathing him in. "Tonight, can we just... not be who we are? Can we just be Pietro and Nora?"
His lips press against my hair. "We can be whoever you want."
Tomorrow, I'll tell him everything. Tomorrow, I'll risk his rage for the chance at forgiveness.
Tonight, I'll pretend the morning will never come.