Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
PIETRO
Thirty-six hours since she walked into his hands.
The office is a tomb of stale coffee and emptied bottles.
She managed to make me love someone except my family, in only two months.
"Pietro." Finn O'Sullivan sits in the leather chair across from my desk, exhaustion carved into every line of his weathered face. "Connor will call soon."
I pour another three fingers of whiskey, not offering him any. It might be a trigger for him right now, and part of me wants to hide any bottle but I can’t control it. I’m weaker than ever
"Your brother better have something useful."
"He's been negotiating with Declan for the past twelve hours." Finn shifts forward, elbows on his knees. "Whatever Connor's faults, he won't let Declan keep hurting her."
"He already let it happen." The whiskey burns down my throat. "Where was his fatherly concern when she fled Boston with bruises around her throat?"
Finn goes still. "That's between them."
"No." I slam the glass down hard enough to crack the crystal. "Everything about Nora is between me and whoever threatens her. Including your brother."
The secure line rings before Finn can respond. I stare at the phone for three rings, gathering what remains of my control. Can't let Connor hear how close I am to losing it completely.
"Sartori."
"Pietro." Connor O'Sullivan's voice carries that distinctive South Boston edge, rougher than his brother's educated tones. "We need to discuss terms."
"The only terms I'm interested in involve Declan’s corpse."
A pause. Static crackles across the line. "On that, we agree."
I straighten in my chair. This isn't what I expected. "Talk."
"Declan believes he holds all the cards. He's demanding I reinstate him as my lieutenant and approve his marriage to Nora. In exchange, he'll broker an alliance between our families."
"Marriage." The word tastes like ash and broken glass. "To a woman he's been torturing."
"He spent a day trying to get your business out of her," Connor says, his voice tight. "Shipping, security, who’s on your payroll."
I grip the edge of the desk, the wood groaning. "And?"
"She told him to go to hell. So he got rough."
The whiskey glass explodes in my fist. Shards bite into my palm. I don't feel it. "How rough?"
"Broke her fingers. Cracked her ribs. Busted up her face. At least that’s what he told me." The words are clipped, but the rage underneath is pure acid. "I need to speak with her. Verify she's alive before we proceed."
"Proceed with what?"
"Killing the bastard who touched my daughter."
He finally cares now.
Asshole.
I meet Finn's eyes across the desk. He nods once—his brother means it.
My hand tightens on the phone as I hit the speaker button. Just as another call comes through from , Connor's voice fills the room. "Declan. I've considered your proposal."
"About time." Declan sounds smug, riding high on perceived victory. "I knew you'd see reason."
"I need proof of life first."
"She's alive."
"Put her on."
Shuffling sounds. A door creaking. Footsteps on stairs. Then—
"Hello, dad."
Nora's voice drives a spike through my chest. Hoarse. Exhausted. But underneath the pain, that core of steel that made me fall for her still rings clear.
"Nora. Are you—"
"I'm exactly where I chose to be." She coughs, wet and painful. "Don't make any deals for me."
"This isn't your choice anymore, princess." Declan's voice carries that casual cruelty I'm going to carve out of him piece by piece. "Your father and I are discussing your future."
"My future doesn't include you."
A sharp crack echoes through the speaker. Flesh hitting flesh.
I lunge to my feet, the chair crashing to the floor behind me. My hand goes to the Glock at my back. I'd kill everyone in this room to get to him.
"Enough!" Connor's voice is a whip crack, pulling me back from the brink. "Declan, we'll meet tomorrow. Noon. The old Southside warehouse on 43rd."
"Bring the marriage documents," Declan says. "And prepare to discuss territory divisions with Sartori."
"Understood. Keep her alive until then."
The line goes dead. For ten seconds, nobody moves. Then Connor's voice returns, just for us.
"He'll have six men with him. Former Murphy soldiers who sided with him over family loyalty. The warehouse has three entrances—main loading dock, side personnel door, and roof access."
"You're feeding me intelligence on your own lieutenant?" I keep my voice neutral despite the adrenaline flooding my system.
"Former lieutenant. The moment he laid hands on her in violence, he ceased being family.
" Connor pauses. "I may be many things, Sartori, but I'm not a man who lets anyone torture his kids. Even if she’s not my real daughter. I raised her, I love her and I want what’s best for her. Even if she's chosen you over us."
"She didn't choose me over family. She chose life over the death sentence you handed her when you blamed her for Declan's betrayal."
"Perhaps." Connor's admission surprises me. "I've had thirty-six hours to reconsider many things. Finn has been... clear about my failures as a father."
Finn shifts in his chair but stays silent.
"What do you need from me?" I ask.
"Eight of your best soldiers. Men who can move quiet and kill clean. I'll bring the same. We go in from two sides. Your team from the loading dock, mine from the roof. No one walks out except Nora."
"And Declan?"
"Declan dies slowly enough to understand his mistakes but quickly enough that we're gone before cops arrive."
I pour another whiskey, this time filling two glasses. Slide one across to Finn. "Why should I trust you?"
"Because right now, I want Declan dead more than I want you dead. That's the only truth that matters."
Lorenzo appears in the doorway, having heard enough to understand. His expression asks the question silently. I nod.
"Tomorrow. Eleven-thirty arrival. We coordinate on encrypted channels." I drain the whiskey in one burning swallow. "Connor—if this is a setup—"
"It's not." For the first time, Connor O'Sullivan sounds tired. Old. "Despite what you might think, I do love my daughter. I failed her when she needed me most. It's not enough, but it's what I can do."
The line disconnects. I stare at the phone, processing this shift in the game board.
"He means it," Finn says quietly. "Connor never admitted a mistake in his life until today."
"Lorenzo." I turn to my brother. "Get Liam. Tell him to pick eight men. Former military if possible. Full tactical gear."
"You're really doing this? Trusting O'Sullivan?"
"I'm trusting that his rage matches mine." I move to the window, staring out at the compound grounds. "Call Nico. I want building blueprints for that warehouse. Every entrance, every window, every rat hole."
Lorenzo disappears down the hall. Finn stands, preparing to leave.
"She chose you," he says softly. "That means something."
"She chose sacrifice. That's what O'Sullivans do, isn't it? Bleed for family?"
"No." Finn meets my eyes. "She chose love. That's what Siobhan's daughter would do."
He leaves me alone with my rage and my whiskey and the phantom of Nora's broken voice.
I press my palms flat on the desk, feeling the blood from my shredded knuckles seep into the Italian wood. Declan thinks he's won. He's wrong.
The desk phone rings. Lorenzo's voice comes through the intercom. "Liam's here."
"Send him up."
I straighten my tie, roll my shoulders back.
Time to plan a war.
Liam enters with his tablet, already pulling up satellite images. Nico arrives a moment later, arms full of paper blueprints. We spread them across the desk, the smell of ink and old paper mixing with whiskey.
"Giulia wants to know if you'll eat," Lorenzo says. "You haven't had a meal in two days."
"After."
"Pietro—"
"After I have Nora back." I turn back to the blueprints. "Liam, I want our men in position by eleven. Full communication blackout until we're ready to breach."
"The O'Sullivans?"
"Will do what they came to do—kill Declan's men. We focus on extraction. Getting Nora out clean is the only priority."
"What about Declan himself?" Nico asks.
I pull my father's old Beretta from the desk drawer, check the action with practiced ease. "Declan's mine."
My mind keeps circling back to Nora's voice. The pain threaded through her defiance. Three snapped fingers. For me.
"Pietro." Finn reappears in the doorway, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand. "You should know something."
I wave him in, too exhausted for more revelations.
"Connor called again. Privately." Finn sets the coffee on my desk. "He wanted me to tell you something off the record."
"What?"
"She never broke. Twenty-four hours of Declan's worst, and she gave him nothing about your operations. Connor respects that. Respects you for earning that kind of loyalty."
"She's not loyal to me. She's stubborn."
"Same thing, in our world." Finn moves to leave, then pauses. "Connor also said... he understands now why she chose you. Said maybe she saw something he was too blind to notice."
"Which is?"
"That you'd burn the world for her. Not for what she represents or who her father is. Just for her."
The truth of it settles into my bones like cement. "Yes."
"Good." Finn's smile carries years of regret. "Siobhan would have liked you, I think. Would have wanted this for her daughter—a man who sees her as Nora, not as an O'Sullivan."
He leaves me with that thought and the coffee and the weight of tomorrow's violence.
I'm coming baby.
NORA
Drip.
A single drop of water. A hammer blows in the concrete silence.
Drip.
Another second of my life I’ll never get back.
My fingers throb in time with the dripping. A sick fucking orchestra. Middle, ring, pinky. He snapped them back until bone scraped and I screamed myself raw.
I test the chains again. Metal teeth bite into my wrists. Fresh blood, warm and slick, trickles over my palms. I breathe, and fire lances through my ribs. A gift from his boot. Yesterday? The day before? Time is a smear of pain and darkness.
The basement door creaks open. Light spills down the stairs. Then his tread.
The sound of a man savoring his power. The bastard is enjoying this. He appears with a plastic bottle and what might generously be called bread.
"Morning, princess." He sets the items on the floor just out of reach. "Though I suppose it's afternoon now. Hard to tell down here, isn't it?"
I keep my eyes forward, focusing on the water stain shaped like Ireland on the far wall. My mother used to trace Ireland's outline on maps, telling me stories of counties she'd never seen.
"Silent treatment today?" Declan circles my chair, trailing fingers across my shoulders. A shudder wants to race up my spine. I lock my muscles, refusing to give him the satisfaction. "That's fine. You'll need to save your voice for the wedding vows anyway."
The laugh escapes before I can stop it—hoarse, cracked, but genuine.
His hand fists in my matted hair, yanking my head back. "Something funny?"
"You still think there's going to be a wedding." Blood from my split lip reopens as I smile.
The slap rocks my head sideways. Stars explode across my vision.
Declan releases my hair, moving to lean against the wall where I can see him. "Your father already agreed. Documents are being drawn up as we speak."
"Connor O'Sullivan agreed to hand his daughter to the man who tortured her?" I work my jaw, testing for new damage.
"He agreed because he's practical. This marriage ends the war between our families. Unites the Irish front. Makes us strong enough to take on the Italians properly." He picks up the water bottle, uncaps it, and takes a long drink while I watch. "Plus, he knows what you really are now."
"And what's that?"
"A whore who spread her legs for the enemy."
His word is acid. My mind recoils, scrambling for an antidote, and finds one. Pietro’s voice, rough velvet against my throat. “Tessoro,” he’d whispered, the endearment falling from his lips like absolution.
"You can call me whatever you want." I open my eyes, meeting Declan's glare.
Doesn't change the fact that Pietro's coming for me.
"Enjoy your hunger strike." He kicks the bread closer but still out of reach. "You'll need your strength for tonight."
"Tonight?"
"The big meeting. Where ownership officially transfers." His smile is a crack in a tombstone, promising nothing but rot underneath.
He climbs the stairs, whistling an off-key tune. The door slams. The lock engages.
I stare at the bread—moldy at the edges, probably three days old. My stomach cramps with hunger, a hollow ache that echoes the emptiness of this cell. The loneliness is a cold weight, and in the darkness, a memory of warmth surfaces. My mother.
“Little fox,” she used to whisper when nightmares woke me. Her cool hands would smooth my hair back, her voice lifting in the old songs her grandmother taught her. “Close your eyes, beloved of my heart."
I miss her so much.
Footsteps overhead pull me from the memory. Declan's voice carries through the floorboards—animated, planning. I catch fragments: "warehouse," "noon," "South Side."
My pulse quickens. They're planning the meeting. The handover.
More footsteps. Multiple sets now. Irish accents thick with South Boston. Declan's muscle, probably. The men who'll die tonight without knowing it.
Because Pietro won't just come for me. He'll paint that warehouse red with their blood.
The thought should horrify me. The woman I was before would have been appalled at finding comfort in promised violence.
That woman died in Boston. Declan's hands were her eulogy.
Everything hurts. Three fingers broken, ribs cracked, face swollen beyond recognition. I probably look like tenderized meat.
But I'm alive.
And Pietro's coming.
I think of him in his office that first day, dangerous and beautiful behind that massive desk. The way he looked at me when I didn't cower, when I demanded higher pay. Like I was a puzzle he needed to solve.
The water drip continues its relentless countdown. My throat burns with thirst but I won't beg. Won't give Declan anything he can use.
Instead, I think about after. About Pietro's hands gentle on my bruises. About Giulia fussing over me in the kitchen. About Sunday dinners where I actually belong at the table.
About Finn, who'll finally be able to claim me as his daughter.
And Connor—I don't know what happens with Connor. The man who raised me, who loved me in his broken way. Who blamed me for Declan's betrayal because admitting his own failure would have destroyed him.
Maybe we find a way forward. Maybe we don't.
But that's tomorrow's problem.
Today, I just have to survive.