Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
PIETRO
The bedroom door slams. The crack of wood against the frame reverberates through the silence. My jacket lands in a heap on the floor.
I pace to the windows overlooking the lake. Black water stretches to the horizon, reflecting nothing.
Giulia.
Giulia knew. This whole time, she knew exactly who Nora was, where she came from, why she needed the job. She orchestrated the entire thing with Finn O'Sullivan while I played the fool, thinking I was in control.
My palm slams against the window frame. The wood groans but doesn't splinter. Built to last. Like me.
Connor O'Sullivan's daughter. The words replay in my head in Nico's voice, sharp with accusation.
Except she's not. She's Finn's daughter, which makes this whole situation even more twisted.
A woman running from a father who isn't her father, protected by a father she didn't know was her father, placed in my path by a woman I trust like a mother.
Trust. There's a word that's lost all meaning tonight.
I move to the bar cart and pour a glass of whiskey. The burn down my throat does nothing to clarify my thoughts. All it does is remind me of Nora's face when she learned the truth. That complete shattering, like watching a mirror break in slow motion.
But she didn't come to harm me. My family.
The thought cuts through the rage. With my gun to her head, the truth was right there in her eyes. Fucking terror, not deceit.
I let my anger once again control me. I feel sick with myself.
Christ, what does it matter what she thought? She's still an O'Sullivan. Still connected to the family that's been hitting our shipments. Still—
Still what? Still the woman who reorganized my disaster of an office? Who stands up to me when everyone else cowers? Who made me feel something other than guilt and rage for the first time since Pablo died?
I down the whiskey and set the glass down hard enough to crack. Another thing broken. Add it to the list.
The house is too quiet. Even with family scattered through the rooms, it feels empty. Or maybe that's just me. Maybe I've been empty so long I've forgotten what it feels like to be anything else.
Except for those moments with her. In my office, her body beneath mine. In the car, her hand inches from mine. Those moments when the emptiness pulled back, just for a while.
I start pacing again, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. The room feels smaller with each pass, the walls closing in. My shirt sticks to my back with sweat despite the cool air seeping through the windows.
What happens now? Connor will contact us within forty-eight hours, just like I told Finn. He'll want her back, if only for his pride.
Strategic advantage. That's what I should be thinking about. How to use her connection to gain leverage. How to end this war with the Irish. How to protect family interests.
Instead, all I can see is her face in that warehouse.
When did I become this man? When did protecting myself become more important than protecting others?
The answer comes immediately: the day Pablo died. The day I learned that caring about someone is just giving the universe a weapon to use against you.
But Nora makes me believe I could be better.
Nora makes me feel.
That's the truth I've been dancing around all night. She makes me feel things I thought I'd successfully killed. Not just desire, though God knows there's plenty of that.
But softer things. Protective instincts that go beyond territory and possession. The urge to see her smile. The need to know she's safe.
The desire to hold her while she breaks apart and promise that somehow, impossibly, it will be okay.
I'm moving before I decide to. My feet cross the carpet, the thick pile swallowing every sound. Down the dark hall, past Lorenzo's door, a thin line of light visible underneath.
Probably reading, trying to find peace in books the way I try to find it in violence. Nico's room is dark—he'll be at his computer, analyzing patterns, looking for threats.
Vittoria's door is cracked open, the soft glow of multiple monitors visible. She never really sleeps anymore, not since Riccardo died.
Every single one of my siblings, locked in their own world.
The blue guest room sits at the end of the hall, separated from family quarters. Isolated.
Alone.
Like her.
I stop outside the door, my hand raised to knock. What am I doing? What comfort can I offer when I'm part of the reason she's broken? I held a gun on her hours ago. Accused her of betrayal. Threatened her with my voice and my hands and my presence.
But she's also alone in there with grief that has no name. Loss of identity, loss of family, loss of self. I know that particular emptiness. I've lived in it for years.
My knuckles rap against the wood, soft enough not to wake the house. No response. I knock again, slightly harder.
"Nora?"
Still nothing. But there's light seeping under the door.
The handle turns under my hand.
She's sitting in the oversized armchair by the window, knees drawn up to her chest, still wearing the same clothes from the warehouse.
Her hair falls around her face like a curtain, but I can see her reflection in the glass.
"Nora."
She doesn't move. Doesn't acknowledge my presence. Just continues staring out at the darkness like it might swallow her whole if she watches long enough.
I cross the room. Each step soft so I don't spook her. The floorboards are silent under my weight. I stop beside her chair.
"You should sleep."
"Can't." Her voice is hollow, scraped raw. “All I can see when I close my eyes is her. My mother.”
I lower myself to sit on the ottoman in front of her chair. This close, I can see the tear tracks on her cheeks, the way her hands shake where they grip her knees.
"The love was real." The words come out rougher than intended. "Whatever else was lies, the love was real. Has to be."
She finally looks at me. "How do you know?"
"Because she stayed. She could have run, taken you somewhere Connor couldn't find you. But she stayed and played the part to keep you safe. That's sacrifice."
Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. She doesn't wipe them away, just lets them fall.
"I don't know who I am anymore."
The admission hangs in the air, a truth so raw it feels like it could shatter. I reach out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and take one of her hands in mine. Her fingers are ice cold.
"You're Nora. Smart enough to catch accounting errors my own people missed. Brave enough to stand up to me when everyone else runs. Strong enough to survive what would break most people."
She stares at our joined hands like she can't quite process the contact. "Why are you here?"
"Because you shouldn't be alone right now."
"I've been alone my whole life. Just didn't know it until tonight."
I stand, pulling her up with me. She resists for a moment, then allows it, unfolding from the chair like she's forgotten how joints work.
"You're not alone now."
I pull her against my chest, and she breaks.
I hold her through it, one hand tangled in her hair, the other pressed against her back. She's so much smaller than me, fitting against my body like she was designed for this space.
Her tears soak through my shirt, hot against my skin.
My lips press against her hair. "I've got you," I say, the words a low rumble in my chest. "I've got you."
The words feel like a vow. More binding than any business deal, more sacred than any blood oath.
Whatever happens with Connor, with the Irish, with the business—none of it matters as much as this moment.
Minutes or hours pass while she cries out twenty-three years of lies. My legs go numb from standing still, but I don't move. Don't shift. Just hold her and let her break, knowing that sometimes the only way through grief is complete surrender to it.
Eventually, the sobs slow to hiccups, then to shaky breathing. She pulls back slightly, and I let her, though my arms stay loosely around her waist.
"I'm sorry." Her voice is barely a whisper.
"Don't."
"Your shirt—"
"Fuck the shirt."
That startles a tiny laugh out of her, more exhale than sound, but it's something.
She looks up at me, and for a moment, we just exist in this space. Her eyes are puffy, her face blotchy from crying, and she's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Not because of how she looks, but because of what I see in her—strength that refuses to shatter completely, even under the worst revelations.
"What happens now?" she asks.
"Now you rest. Tomorrow we deal with whatever comes."
She nods, sagging against me again. This time, I guide her to the bed, pulling back the covers.
"Stay." The word is a whisper, her hand locking on my wrist. "Just stay. I don't want to be alone."
I toe off my shoes and stretch out on top of the covers, my back against the headboard. She curls into my side immediately, her head on my chest, her arm across my stomach. I can feel her breathing, the rise and fall becoming steadier as exhaustion finally wins.
"Pietro?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
I press my lips to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo mixed with tears and the faint lingering smell of the warehouse.
"Sleep, tesoro. I'll be here."