Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
NORA
My fingers scream. Bent at wrong angles, agony shooting up my arm. Declan's voice is a venomous echo against the concrete.
"He's not coming for you."
I try to speak, but my throat is a knot of terror. The chains rattle. The air is thick with the stench of mold and blood. His footsteps circle, a predator's lazy pace. I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't—
"Nora."
Pietro's voice shears through the nightmare. His arms are around me before my eyes open, pulling me hard against his chest. I gasp, fingers clawing at empty air, the phantom weight of chains still on my wrists.
"You're safe. You're home." His lips press against my temple. "Breathe with me, tesoro."
I force myself to focus on his heartbeat. A steady, solid drum beneath my ear.
Real.
One. Two. Three. Four.
My own pulse, a frantic bird trapped in my throat, begins to slow. The bedroom sharpens into focus: soft morning light through the curtains, sheets tangled around our legs.
"I'm sorry." The words are broken shards. "I woke you again."
"Stop." Pietro's hand cradles the back of my head, his fingers threading through my hair. "Don't ever be sorry for this."
I press my face into the curve of his neck, breathing him in. Safety. Home.
My splinted fingers ache, a dull, throbbing reminder that the nightmare was a memory. But that was two weeks ago. Declan is dead.
"What time is it?" I pull back enough to see the exhaustion etched around his own eyes. He hasn't been sleeping either.
"Almost nine." His thumb brushes over a fading bruise on my cheekbone, a ghost of a touch. "Giulia's making breakfast. Hungry?"
My stomach growls, a raw, embarrassing sound that makes him smile. That rare, unguarded expression that still steals my breath.
"Come on." He shifts, helping me sit up. "Let me do your hair."
It’s our new routine. My useless fingers can't manage buttons or zippers, let alone a hair tie.
His hands, are surprisingly steady as they work through my hair. The movements are clumsy, unlearned, but the pressure is a careful weight against my scalp. He's trying so hard not to hurt me.
"Too tight?"
"It's perfect."
He secures the braid, then helps me into one of his sweaters. The cashmere drowns me, sleeves falling past my splints, but it smells of him. It’s like wearing his protection. I need big sweaters because it still hurts on my ribs.
The walk to the kitchen is a slow shuffle, each step a negotiation with protesting muscles. Pietro hovers, his hand a warm brand on my lower back, ready to catch a stumble that never comes.
Giulia looks up from the stove, her smile instant and warm. "Cara mia, how did you sleep?"
"Better." The lie slips from my tongue before I can catch it. No need to add to her worry.
She clicks her tongue, her sharp eyes telling me she doesn't believe a word, but turns back to her pancakes. "Sit. Coffee's fresh."
Pietro guides me to the breakfast nook, settling me against the cushions before pouring our coffee.
The kitchen door swings open, and Vittoria enters with Ava at her side. My spine straightens automatically, that familiar awkwardness settling over me like a scratchy blanket.
Ava. The woman who lost everything while I... what? Found love with Pietro in the middle of chaos? The guilt tastes bitter on my tongue.
"Morning," Vittoria chirps, guiding Ava to the table. "We smelled pancakes from the hallway."
"Plenty for everyone." Giulia's already setting out more plates, her movements efficient and warm.
Ava's eyes find mine, and I force myself not to look away.
"Nora." She actually smiles. Small, tentative, but real. "How are your fingers?"
"Getting better." I lift my splinted fingers slightly. "The doctor says another two weeks."
Pietro's hand finds my thigh under the table, a silent reminder that I'm not alone in this discomfort. He and Ava have their own complicated history. She was Riccardo's everything, and Pietro still carries the weight of not being the brother Riccardo needed.
Vittoria pours coffee for them both, her attention never straying far from Ava. The care between them is obvious—the way Vittoria anticipates what Ava needs, how Ava leans slightly toward her like a plant seeking sun.
"You look better," Pietro says to Ava, his voice carefully neutral.
"I'm trying." Ava wraps her hands around her mug. "Some days are harder than others, but..." She glances at Vittoria. "Having people who understand helps."
The words sting. I don't understand. Not really. My mother died when I was young but I still search her like somehow she will appear in front of me.
Giulia sets a stack of pancakes between us, the sweet smell filling the kitchen. "Eat. All of you. You're too thin."
"She says that to everyone," Vittoria teases, but she's already loading Ava's plate.
We eat in relative quiet for a few minutes, the only sounds the clink of forks and Giulia humming at the stove. Then Ava sets down her coffee and looks directly at me.
"Nora, can I ask you something?"
My throat tightens. "Of course."
"What's happening with your fathers? Both of them?"
"I..." The words stick. How do I explain how I feel?
"It's complicated," I finally manage.
Ava's laugh is soft, understanding. "Everything in our world is."
"They helped rescue you," Vittoria points out gently.
"They did." I stare at my coffee. "They've been calling. Fiin keeps saying that he wants to meet, to explain more about my mother, about why he stayed away. I just... I don't know if I'm ready."
"Grief is strange," Ava says quietly. "Sometimes it's not about death. Sometimes it's mourning the life you thought you had, the people you thought you knew."
Her words hit deeper than she probably intended. That's exactly what this is—grief for the father I thought Connor was, for the family I believed in, for the identity that was never real.
"How do you move forward?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
Ava reaches across the table, her fingers barely brushing mine above the splints. "One step at a time. I suppose. We'll figure it out together. If you want to."
"I do. Thank you Ava. And Vittoria. It means a lot to me."
PIETRO
I push back from the table, the familiar weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders. "I need to get to my office. Shipments don't manage themselves."
"Pietro." Giulia's voice stops me at the doorway. "Could I speak with you? Just for a moment?"
The kitchen goes silent. Everyone knows what this is about. The conversation we've been avoiding for weeks. Giulia knew who Nora was when she brought her into our lives. She kept that secret from me.
"Okay." I say, knowing this must be done.
Giulia wipes her hands on her apron, movements precise despite the tremor in her fingers. We walk to my office in silence, our footsteps echoing through the hallway like a countdown.
I close the door behind us. The study feels too large suddenly, too formal for whatever's about to happen. Giulia stands near the window, her back to me, shoulders drawn tight.
"I think..." Her voice cracks. "I think it's time for me to leave the compound."
"What?" The word punches out of me. "Why would you—"
She turns, and tears stream down her face.
"The only thing that kept me alive after I lost Pablo was you." Her voice breaks completely. "You showed me that my boy would always live among us because we loved him so much. Both of us."
My chest constricts, that familiar ache spreading through my ribs.
"You became my son too, Pietro. Not just Pablo's friend. My son." She presses a hand to her heart. "I love this entire family. Lorenzo with his gentle soul. Nico with his stubborn pride. Vittoria with her brilliant mind. Even Bruno, may he wake soon."
She takes a shuddering breath.
"But you..." Fresh tears spill over. "Knowing that you won't speak to me, that you can barely look at me because of my mistakes, my choices... I can't stand it. I can't live in this house feeling your anger every day."
"Giulia—"
"I should have told you." The words pour out in a rush. "When Finn called, when he asked me to help Siobhan's daughter, I should have told you immediately. But she was so broken, Pietro. So lost. Just like you were after Pablo."
My hands curl into fists, but not from anger. From the effort of holding myself together.
"I thought... I thought maybe she could help you. Maybe you could help each other. I never meant for you to feel betrayed. I never meant—"
"Stop." My voice cracks like ice breaking. "Just... stop."
She covers her face with her hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
The armor I've worn for weeks, the cold distance I've maintained, cracks down the middle.
This woman raised me as much as my own mother did. She held me when I came home covered in Pablo's blood.
She forced me to eat when grief tried to starve me.
She never gave up on me, even when I gave up on myself.
"You're not leaving." The words scrape my throat raw. "You're never leaving this house."
Her hands drop, eyes wide and red-rimmed.
"I was angry." Each word costs me something. "I felt... blindsided. Manipulated. But not by you. Never really by you."
I cross the space between us, my hands finding her shoulders.
"You're my family, Giulia. You've been my mother in every way that matters since Pablo died. Maybe even before that."
"Pietro—"
"I'm sorry." The words I never say to anyone fall easily for her. "I'm sorry I shut you out. I'm sorry I made you feel unwanted here. This is your home. It will always be your home."
She reaches up, her palm warm against my cheek, and I lean into it like I'm thirteen again, seeking comfort after a nightmare.
"My boy," she whispers. "My stubborn, complicated boy."