Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
NORA
Iwake to two things at once: the solid wall of a man’s chest under my cheek, and a deep, pulsing ache between my legs.
Pietro.
His arm is a heavy bar across my waist, caging me. Last night wasn't a dream. The soreness in my body is a raw, physical reminder of how he took me, claimed me, put me back together only to leave me wondering if I'm more broken than before.
His breathing shifts, no longer the steady rhythm of sleep. The arm around me tightens fractionally before relaxing.
"You're awake." His voice rumbles through his chest, rough with morning.
I don't move. Can't decide if I want to burrow deeper into his warmth or pull away entirely. "What time is it?"
"Early. Seven, maybe."
Pietro shifts, propping himself on one elbow to look down at me.
"Nora." His voice is a low rumble that vibrates through my bones. "I need to say something."
I stay still, watching the war on his face. A muscle leaps in his jaw. His eyes, usually so certain, are clouded with something that looks like self-loathing.
"The gun," he says, the words rough. "Putting my gun to your head. Accusing you..." He swallows hard. "I'm sorry."
"You thought I was a snake in your house. I can't blame you for wanting to cut its head off."
"Don't say that."
"It's true." I push myself to sit, the sheet pooling around my waist. "You had every right to be furious."
"Were you going to tell me?" The question hangs between us, weighted with more than curiosity. "You said you were going to confess something that morning. Was it about who you really are?"
My throat tightens. "Yes."
He watches me, waiting.
"I was making coffee, planning the words in my head. How to explain that Nora Kelly doesn't exist, that I'm Connor O'Sullivan's daughter—or thought I was." A bitter laugh escapes. "Then Nico appeared when I was making coffee and everything exploded before I could say anything."
Pietro sits up fully, the mattress dipping under his weight.
"We should go downstairs." He runs a hand through his dark hair, making it stand at odd angles. "The family will want to see you're okay."
"I'm not sure I can face them."
"They won't judge you."
"Giulia—"
"That's between Giulia and me." The coldness that enters his voice makes me flinch. "But hiding in this room won't help anything. You need food. Coffee. Some sense of normal."
Normal. As if anything about this situation could be called normal. But he's right. Isolation will only make the voices in my head louder, the questions about who I am more insistent.
"I'm not sure they'll want me in their house," I say, wrapping my arms around myself. "Especially Nico. He looked ready to put a bullet in my head yesterday."
Pietro's expression hardens. "Nico will keep his opinions to himself."
"That's not the point." I shake my head. "Your family has every reason to distrust me."
"You're not responsible for Connor's actions."
"But I'm connected to them. I worked for you under false pretenses. I had access to everything." My voice rises with each word. "How can your family possibly want me here?"
"This family might be all muscles and guns," he says, his voice low and certain, "but we don't behave unfairly or cruelly to people who have nothing to do with our problems."
I look up at him, searching his face. "You can't know that's how they'll see it."
"I know my family."
"We still don't know who's leaking information about your shipments," I point out. "The hits were too perfect. Someone's feeding information to the Irish."
Pietro's eyes narrow. "Is it you?"
The question should hurt, but there's no accusation in his tone.
"No." I meet his gaze steadily. "I never betrayed you, Pietro. Not once."
His lips curve into the barest hint of a smile. "See? Then it's not your goddamn problem."
I blink at him, surprised by the simplicity of his logic. "It can't be that easy."
"It is." His thumbs trace small circles on my shoulders.
The kitchen smells of fresh bread, coffee, something savory simmering on the stove. Giulia moves between counter and stove.
Vittoria sits at the breakfast table, still in pajama pants and an oversized Columbia University sweatshirt. She looks up as we enter, and her face transforms with relief.
"Nora!" She's out of her chair and crossing to me before I can react, pulling me into a fierce hug. "Lorenzo told me everything. Are you okay? That's a stupid question, of course you're not okay, but—"
"Vittoria." Lorenzo's voice carries gentle warning from his spot by the coffee machine. "Let her breathe."
She pulls back but keeps her hands on my shoulders, dark eyes searching my face. "I'm just glad you're here. That you're safe."
The genuine warmth in her voice makes my eyes burn.
"Thank you." The words come out rough.
"Sit." She guides me to the table, claiming the chair beside me. "Giulia made fresh cornetti. And there's fruit, yogurt, whatever you want."
Pietro takes the seat on my other side, his thigh brushing mine beneath the table. The casual contact grounds me, reminds me I'm not facing this alone.
Nico enters from the hallway, stopping short when he sees me. We stare at each other across the kitchen, the memory of his gun pointed at my face hanging between us.
He clears his throat, shifts his weight. "I shouldn't have pulled a weapon on you."
Coming from Nico, it's practically a speech. His dark eyes flick to mine, then away, discomfort written in every line of his body.
"You were protecting your family." I keep my voice steady despite the tightness in my chest. "I understand."
He nods once, sharp and final, then moves to pour himself coffee.
The silence in the kitchen is a physical weight. Giulia sets a plate in front of me, her smile not reaching her eyes.
When she moves around the table, she gives Pietro's chair a wide berth, a careful distance that makes the air crackle. He doesn't look at her, just stares into his coffee cup like it holds the answers.
Every clink of silverware sounds like a gunshot. This is my fault. I'm the fracture in this family, the lie that broke their trust. Because Giulia helped Finn place me here, kept the secret from Pietro.
"The coffee's good this morning." Vittoria fills the silence, her voice bright. "Lorenzo actually made it right for once."
"I make excellent coffee." Lorenzo settles into his chair with natural grace. "You just have no appreciation for proper extraction time."
"You make it strong enough to strip paint."
"That's how Papa taught us to drink it."
I pick at the cornetti, flaky pastry dissolving on my tongue, but my appetite has vanished. Pietro's hand finds my knee under the table, a brief squeeze of reassurance.
"You don't have to stay here today." His voice drops low enough that only I can hear. "If you need space, time to process we can arrange something—"
"I want to go to the office," I tell Pietro, my voice low.
He turns, his eyes searching mine. "You don't have to."
"I do." I meet his gaze. "If I stay here, I'll drown in it. I need... spreadsheets. Problems with answers. Something I can control."
"Your desk is probably buried under three days of chaos."
"Good," I say, a sliver of my old self returning. "I'm good at fixing disasters."
Something shifts in his expression, too quick to read. He nods. "We'll leave in an hour."
Giulia refills coffee cups, moving around the table with practiced efficiency. When she reaches Pietro, he pulls his cup away.
"I'm done."
The hurt that flashes across her face makes my chest ache. She retreats to the sink, shoulders curved inward.
"Giulia." Lorenzo's voice carries gentle authority. "The sauce needs attention."
She nods, grateful for the excuse to turn away. The sound of a wooden spoon against a pot fills the silence.
"So." Vittoria tears a piece of bread, determined to maintain conversation. "The Ferretti meeting is tomorrow. Are we still moving forward with that?"
Pietro's expression hardens. "That's not breakfast conversation."
"Everything is breakfast conversation in this family." Nico's voice carries rare humor. "Or have you forgotten Papa's morning strategy sessions?"
"Papa's dead." The words drop like stones into water.
Silence expands, filling every corner of the kitchen. Vittoria's hand stills on her coffee cup. Lorenzo's goes still. Even Giulia pauses at the stove.
"We should go." Pietro stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the tile. "Nora needs to get ready."
I set down my barely touched breakfast, my throat too tight to swallow anyway. "Thank you for the food."
Giulia turns from the stove, and for a moment our eyes meet. Hers shine with unshed tears, but she manages a small nod.
"Nora." Vittoria catches my hand as I pass. "If you need anything, even just to talk..."
"Thank you." I squeeze her fingers, grateful for this unexpected alliance.
Pietro waits at the kitchen entrance, his posture rigid, every muscle coiled tight. As we climb the stairs to gather my things he talks.
"You don't have to defend Giulia to me." His voice carries a warning.
"She was trying to help."
"She lied."
"To protect me."
"That wasn't her call to make."
We reach the blue guest room, and I turn to face him. "Are you going to stay angry at her forever?"
"That's not your concern."
"It is when I'm the cause."
He backs me against the wall, his hands planting on either side of my head, caging me in. "Listen to me," he says, his voice a low command. "Your mother made her choice. Finn made his. Giulia made hers. Their decisions are not your sin to carry. You didn't lie to me. Giulia did."
"But—"
"No." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "We all made our choices. Now we live with them."
"Even me?"
"Especially you." Something dark and possessive flashes in his eyes. "You chose to stay. To face my family. To go to work today despite everything. Those are your choices."
"What if I make the wrong choice?" The question is a raw whisper.
His thumb brushes my bottom lip, a touch that is both a promise and a threat. "There are no wrong choices, tessoro. Only choices you can live with and choices you can't. You chose to stay. That's all that matters to me."
I lean into his touch, letting his certainty anchor me. "Okay."
"Get dressed." He steps back, hands dropping away. "We leave in thirty minutes."