Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
NORA
Sean drives in silence, taking random turns through Chicago streets. I stare out the window, watching the city blur past, wondering how my life collapsed so completely in just a few hours.
After twenty minutes of evasive driving, we pull into a rundown motel on the outskirts of the city. The neon sign flickers pathetically, several letters burnt out.
"Wait here," Sean instructs, disappearing inside the office.
When he returns, he escorts me to room 112 at the far end of the building. Before he can knock, the door swings open.
Uncle Finn.
I launch myself into his arms, burying my face against his chest like I did when I was a little girl. His familiar scent of tobacco and mint envelops me as his strong arms wrap around my trembling body.
"You're safe now, little fox," he murmurs against my hair. "You're safe."
I pull back, wiping tears I didn't realize were falling. "Am I? For how long, Finn? Is this my life now? Hiding in seedy motels, running from the Sartoris?"
The reality crashes down on me as I look around the dingy room with its peeling wallpaper and stained carpet.
"And it's not just Pietro," I continue, pacing the small space. "Dad saw me with him. He knows I've been working for the Sartoris. I'm dead to both families now."
Finn guides me to sit on the edge of the bed. "Your father loves you, Nora."
I laugh bitterly. "Right. That's why he told me to fix my own mess when Declan tried to kill me."
"Connor's complicated," Finn sighs, sitting beside me. "He wasn't always like this."
Memories surface unbidden—Dad teaching me to ride a bike, his strong hands steady on the seat as I wobbled forward. Dad reading bedtime stories, doing different voices for each character while Mom laughed from the doorway.
"He was different when Mom was alive," I admit quietly. "He used to smile."
"Your mother was everything to him," Finn says. "When she died, something in him died too."
I remember the funeral. Dad standing like stone, not shedding a tear while I sobbed beside him. After that day, he retreated into his work, leaving me with a rotating cast of nannies who never lasted long under his cold scrutiny and harsh demands.
"He loved her more than me," I say, the childhood hurt still fresh. "But that doesn't make it fair. I lost both parents that day."
Finn rubs his weathered hand over his face. "Connor loved your mother with a poisonous kind of love, Nora. It consumed him."
"What does that even mean?" I ask, frustrated by his cryptic words.
Finn shakes his head. "There'll be time to discuss all that later, little fox. Right now, we need to plan our next move."
He stands, pulling out a map of the city. "Sean will take you to a safe house later tonight. We need to get you out of Chicago as soon as possible."
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts. "What about Declan? What's he doing now? Do you know anything?"
Finn's face darkens at the mention of Declan's name. He sits back down beside me, his weight making the cheap mattress sag.
"After that day, Declan left the city too. Disappeared like smoke." Finn rubs his jaw. "I managed to detect him out of chance because I have some contacts in New York. They spotted him there about a month ago."
My stomach twists at the thought of Declan walking free, living his life while I'm trapped in this endless nightmare of running and hiding.
"Is he still working with the Murphys?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.
"Seems that way," Finn nods. "Though he's keeping a lower profile now."
I stand up, unable to sit still with this new information churning inside me. "How come that both Murphy and dad are hitting the Sartoris?"
Finn leans back, his eyes following me as I pace the small room. "This is something that has been happening for years now, little fox. When the Don changes, the rivals always try to push things because it's the best timing to earn bigger territory."
"So it's just... business?" I ask, disgust creeping into my voice. "My father and the man who tried to kill me are both attacking Pietro's operations because it's convenient?"
"The underworld has its own rules, Nora. You know that."
I stop pacing, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that vaguely resembles Ireland's coastline. "I understand it, but I never truly liked whatever mafia families were doing to claim more blooded money."
"You sound like your mother," Finn says quietly.
I turn to face him. "She hated it too?"
"Siobhan was a practical woman. She understood the life she married into, but she never glorified it." Finn's eyes grow distant with memory. "She used to say the same thing—'blooded money.' That's her phrase."
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the stuffy room. "I didn't know that."
"There's a lot about your mother you don't know," Finn says. "Connor made sure of that after she died."
I sink back onto the bed, overwhelmed by everything.
"What happens now?" I ask, feeling smaller than I have in years.
Finn reaches over and takes my hand. "Now we get you somewhere safe. And then we figure out our next move."
I nod, too exhausted to argue or question further. For now, I'll follow Finn's plan. But I know one thing for certain—I'm done being a pawn in other people's games.
The door clicks shut behind Finn, leaving me alone in the motel room with my thoughts.
He brought me a change of clothes an hour ago—jeans, a plain t-shirt, shoes and a hoodie—along with a paper bag of sandwiches and bottled water.
The clothes aren't my style, but they're clean and they fit well enough.
I sit on the edge of the bed, Pietro's oversized shirt still hanging from my frame, his scent clinging to the fabric. My fingers trace the collar absently as memories flood back—his hands on my skin, his lips against mine, the way he looked at me this morning before everything fell apart.
Enough.
What Finn told me about my parents keeps circling in my mind.
A "poisoning kind of love," he called it.
I try to piece together my fragmented memories of them together.
They never argued in front of me—at least not that I can recall.
Dad was always respectful around Mom, almost reverent.
She was the one who could make him laugh, who could touch his arm and instantly defuse his temper when business calls made him tense.
After she died, that softness vanished. The father I knew disappeared, replaced by a cold, demanding man.
I get up from the bed, my bare feet sinking into the threadbare carpet. I need to wash away the last twenty-four hours.
The bathroom is small and dingy, with cracked tiles and a shower curtain that's seen better days. I turn on the tap, letting the water run until steam fills the small space. I enter in.
The hot water stings my skin, but I welcome the pain. It grounds me, reminds me I'm still here, still fighting. I scrub every inch of my body with the cheap motel soap, as if I could wash away not just Pietro's touch but the last two months of my life.
I open the bathroom door, letting out a cloud of steam.
I freeze, clutching the thin motel towel to my body.
OH FUCK.
Pietro stands in the middle of the room, gun pointed directly at my chest. His eyes are black ice. Gone is the man who held me last night. In his place stands a predator.
"Hello, Nora." His voice is deadly quiet.
My mouth goes dry. I grip the towel tighter, suddenly aware of how exposed I am—naked but for this flimsy barrier between us.
"Pietro, please—" I start, but he cuts me off.
"Don't." He steps closer, the gun never wavering. "Don't speak unless I tell you to."
Steam still billows from the bathroom behind me, but I'm freezing. Goosebumps rise across my skin as Pietro circles me slowly, like a wolf stalking wounded prey.
"You played me perfectly, didn't you?" He trails the cold barrel of the gun along my collarbone, making me flinch. "The innocent secretary. The woman running from her past."
The metal slides down my arm, leaving a trail of ice in its wake.
"Please," I whisper, "I can explain—"
The gun presses harder against my skin. "I said don't speak."
Tears burn behind my eyes. I blink them back, refusing to let them fall.
"Every shipment hit. Every schedule leaked." He traces the gun across my shoulder blades, making me shudder. "Was it worth it? Spreading your legs for information?"
My cheeks burn with humiliation and rage. I open my mouth to defend myself, but the look in his eyes stops me cold.
"Your father must be so proud," he continues, circling back to face me. "His daughter, the perfect little spy."
The gun moves to my throat, pressing just beneath my jaw, forcing my chin up.
"How many men died because of what you told them?" His voice drops lower, more dangerous. "How many of my people bled out while you sat at my desk, smiling?"
I shake my head frantically, trying to deny it without words. I never gave my father information. I never betrayed Pietro's business. But the words stick in my throat as the barrel presses harder.
"All those nights working late. All those questions about shipments." His face twists with fury. "I handed you everything you needed to destroy me."
A tear escapes, sliding down my cheek. I didn't do this. I never betrayed him. But even if I could speak, would he believe me? The evidence looks damning—Connor O'Sullivan's daughter working in the heart of Sartori operations while Irish crews hit their shipments.
"You know what happens to traitors in my world, Nora?" The gun moves down to rest between my breasts.
I can't breathe. Can't think. Can only stare into those merciless eyes that once looked at me with hunger and something close to tenderness.
"Please," I manage to whisper, the word barely audible.
"Shut up!" he roars, making me flinch violently. "You don't get to beg. You don't get to speak. You lost that right when you sold me out to your father."
The towel slips slightly, and I clutch it desperately, feeling more naked than I ever have in my life.
"Did you laugh about it?" he asks, voice dropping to a whisper that terrifies me more than his shouting. "When you were in my bed? Did you think about how you were going to destroy everything I've built?"
PIETRO
"You want to know how I found you?" My voice comes out cold, controlled. Nothing like the chaos raging in my chest. "I saw you, Nora."
I need to say this. Need her to understand exactly how stupid she thinks I am.
"I was searching for you. Had every man I own combing the streets." I circle behind her, keeping the gun trained on her spine. "Then I see you walking with some Irish fuck toward a beat-up Honda. Real cozy, weren't you?"
Her shoulders tense. Good. She should be scared.
I press the gun harder against her chest, feeling her heartbeat racing beneath the barrel. My finger twitches on the trigger. One pull. That's all it would take to end this betrayal, to punish the O'Sullivan family for their sins against mine.
Do it. Fucking do it.
But I can't.
Her eyes stare back at me, wide with fear but still defiant.
"You were supposed to be different," I growl, my voice barely recognizable to my own ears. "I let you in."
The towel slips slightly, revealing the curve of her breast where my mouth was just hours ago.
"I trusted you." The words taste like poison on my tongue.
Her lips part, trembling slightly. A tear slides down her cheek, and I hate myself for wanting to wipe it away. For wanting to believe there's some explanation that could make this right.
I move the gun to her temple, pressing the cold metal against her damp hair. This close, I can smell the soap on her skin, can see the pulse hammering in her throat.
Pull the trigger. End it.
But my finger won't move. My hand actually shakes.
Cazzo.
I've killed men for less. I've ordered deaths without blinking. Why can't I do this?
"You made me weak," I hiss, circling behind her, pressing my body against her back while keeping the gun at her temple. "You made me want things I can't have."
Her body trembles against mine, and I hate how my own responds, even now. Even knowing who she is. What she's done.
I lean in close, my lips brushing her ear. "I should kill you right here," I whisper, "but that would be too merciful. Instead, I'm going to use you to destroy your father. I'm going to make him watch as I dismantle everything he loves, piece by piece, starting with you."
The door crashes open.
I spin, shoving Nora behind me instinctively, gun raised toward the intruder.
Connor O'Sullivan stands in the doorway, flanked by two armed men. His face is a mask of cold fury as he takes in the scene—his daughter in nothing but a towel, my gun now pointed at his chest.
"Sartori," he says, his Boston accent thick with contempt. "Step away from my daughter."
I don't move.