Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
PIETRO
The penthouse is quiet when I return, city lights painting shadows across the walls. I loosen my tie, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension from hours of reviewing shipping manifests with Lorenzo.
Then I hear it.
A soft sniffle from the living room.
My hand moves to the gun at my back before I catch myself. Nora's safe here. She's always safe here.
I round the corner and stop.
She's curled on the couch in one of my t-shirts and sleep shorts, a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream balanced on her knee. Her splinted fingers make holding the spoon awkward, but she manages. Tears stream down her face as she stares at the television.
"Nora?"
She jumps, nearly dropping the ice cream. "You're home early."
"It's past midnight." I move closer, studying her face. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, the one without broken fingers. "Just watching a show."
On screen, a woman runs through rain-soaked streets, looking over her shoulder.
"You're crying over Netflix again."
Her chin lifts, defiant even with tears on her cheeks. "It's a good show."
"Uh-huh." I can't stop the smile pulling at my mouth. "This feels familiar."
"Don't start."
"That Sunday." I sit on the arm of the couch, looking down at her. "I thought someone had hurt you. Nearly tore your apartment apart looking for threats."
"You were ridiculous." But her lips twitch, fighting a smile. "Barging in like some avenging angel because I was emotional over a TV show."
She takes another bite of ice cream, and I watch the spoon disappear between her lips. The simple act shouldn't affect me, but everything about her does.
"You know what else I remember about that day?" I slide off the couch arm, kneeling beside her.
"Pietro—"
"You told me I didn't have the right to invade your privacy." My hand finds her ankle, thumb stroking the delicate bone. "That working for me didn't give me ownership."
"I was right."
"You were." My hand slides higher, over her calf. "But things have changed since then, haven't they?"
"My ribs are still healing."
"I'll be very careful." My fingers hook into the waistband of her shorts. "But you're going to regret teasing me about that day."
"I wasn't teasing."
"No?" I pull the shorts down slowly, watching her face. "Sounded like teasing to me."
She lifts her hips, letting me slide the fabric over her thighs, past her knees, off completely. My t-shirt falls to mid-thigh, covering her.
For now.
"You're impossible," she breathes.
I push her shirt up, revealing bare skin inch by inch. "Were you hoping I'd come home early?"
"Maybe."
I spread her thighs, settling between them on my knees. Her bruised ribs make me gentle, careful not to press against the healing bones. But her pussy is perfect, already glistening in the low light.
"Tell me if anything hurts." I kiss the inside of her thigh, feeling her muscles tremble.
"Pietro—"
"Tell me." I look up, meeting her eyes. "Promise me."
"I promise." Her good hand tangles in my hair. "Please."
I lower my mouth to her, tasting her on my tongue.
Her fingers tighten in my hair as my tongue finds her clit. I steady her hip with my hand, careful not to press on her still-healing ribs.
A low moan spills from her lips, and her thighs tremble around my head. She arches up, trying to get more of my mouth. I pull back slightly, making her whimper.
Control.
I need to maintain control. Her body isn't ready for this, no matter how much she begs.
"Pietro," she gasps. "Please."
I slide a finger inside her instead, crooking it against that spot that makes her cry out.
She's so fucking wet, so ready for me. Another finger joins the first, stretching her. I watch her face—eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, panting.
Beautiful. Broken. Mine.
"Use your good hand," I order roughly. "Touch yourself."
She obeys immediately, fingers circling her clit. I watch her work herself, my fingers thrusting deep. Her breaths come faster, sharp little gasps.
"Look at me."
Her eyes fly open, locking with mine. That's it. I want to see everything. I want to watch her come apart.
"Now. Come for me, Nora."
She shatters with a cry, her body tightening around my fingers. I press my mouth to her again, drinking her down as she trembles. I don't stop until she's pushing weakly at my shoulder.
"Too much," she pants. "Sensitive."
I lift my head, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Her eyes are glazed, satisfied. But I see the challenge in them. "Now you."
"Your ribs—"
"Fuck my ribs." She hooks her good hand behind my neck, pulling me up. "I need you inside me. Now."
The demand in her voice goes straight to my cock. I'm already painfully hard. I kiss her, letting her taste herself on my tongue. "We should—"
"No." Her teeth sink into my bottom lip, sharp. "No condom. Just you."
It's the last thread of my control snapping. I push my pants down my hips just enough to free my cock. I guide myself to her entrance, pressing against her pussy. She's still pulsing from her orgasm.
Wet. Hot. Tight.
I slide in slowly, gritting my teeth against the sensation.
"All the way," she demands, wrapping her legs around my hips. "Now."
The movement presses her ribs against my chest. I freeze. "Your—"
"I don't care." Her splinted fingers press into my back, clumsy but firm. "Pietro, I need to feel you. All of you. Please."
The please undoes me.
I bury myself to the hilt in one smooth thrust. She cries out.
I brace my weight on my elbows, trying to stay off her injuries. My hips begin to move. Slow, deep strokes meant to be gentle. To cherish. But she shakes her head, digging her heels into my ass.
"Harder." Her voice is ragged. "Don't treat me like glass."
"I'm not—"
"Then fuck me like you mean it." Her eyes blaze, daring me. "Like you need it."
I can't deny her. Not when I need it just as much. I snap my hips forward, driving hard into her.
A gasp tears from her throat. I do it again. And again. Her body accepts me, taking every brutal thrust.
Her cries sharpen. She's meeting me stroke for stroke, arching up despite the ribs she insists don't matter.
"Yes," she pants. "Like that. Don't stop."
My control is fraying. The feel of her. The sounds. The way she clenches around me. I'm getting close. Too close.
I bury my face in her neck, breathing in her scent. My thrusts grow erratic, desperate. I can feel her tightening again around my cock, her body climbing toward another peak.
"Pietro," she whimpers. "I'm— Oh God!"
Her second orgasm hits her, pulsing around me. It drags me over the edge. Pleasure explodes through me, white-hot and blinding. My hips jerk forward once. Twice. I push in deep—
And pull out at the last second, spilling hot onto her belly. My body shakes with the force of it. My forehead presses against her shoulder as I gasp for air.
NORA
He pulls me against his side, careful of my ribs. I curl into him, my splinted hand resting on his chest. His heartbeat thunders beneath my palm, gradually slowing.
"You're going to hurt yourself one of these days," he murmurs into my hair. "Being so stubborn."
"Says the man who got shot two weeks ago and refuses to take it easy."
"That was barely a graze."
I tilt my head back to look at him. "It required twelve stitches."
His lips quirk. "Still barely a graze."
We fall into comfortable silence. The television plays quietly in the background, forgotten. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my shoulder, over the t-shirt I'm still wearing.
I want to know him. Really know him. Not just the Don, or the dangerous man who kills without hesitation. I want the pieces he keeps hidden.
"Tell me something," I say softly.
"About what?"
"You. Your life." I shift slightly, trying to see his face better. "Something important that I don't know. Something you think I should know."
His hand stills on my shoulder. I watch his jaw work, that muscle ticking the way it does when he's thinking too hard.
"You already know everything," he says finally.
"I know about Pablo." My voice is gentle. "And Bruno. Riccardo. Your mother living in Italy with your aunt."
"Then you know what matters."
"Pietro—"
"There's nothing else." He sounds almost defensive. "My life is the family. The business. That's it."
I prop myself up on my elbow, ignoring the twinge in my ribs. "There has to be something. A memory. A moment that shaped you."
He stares at the ceiling, his expression unreadable. Minutes pass. The silence stretches between us, not quite comfortable anymore.
"I don't have anything," he admits quietly. "Everything that matters, you already know."
The admission hurts more than it should. Not because he's holding back, but because I believe him. His entire existence has been consumed by duty, by loss, by survival.
"Okay," I whisper. "Then what about you? What do you want to know?"
"Your mother—"
"The years when she was alive were good." The memory aches, but it's a familiar pain now. "But after? It was just surviving. Becoming what my father—what Connor wanted. Playing the perfect daughter."
"And now?"
"Now I want to make memories." The words surprise me as I say them. "Real ones. Things I've never done before."
His fingers resume their gentle path along my shoulder. "Like what?"
"I don't know yet. But I want to find out. I want to do things that are mine. Not because someone told me to, or because I'm hiding, or running."
"You're not running anymore."
"No." I press my lips to his chest, right over his heart. "I'm not."
His arm tightens around me, pulling me closer. "Then we'll make new memories. Both of us."
"You mean that?"
"I don't say things I don't mean, Nora."
I believe him.
"What would you want?" I ask. "If you could do anything. Be anyone."
He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. Then: "I'd want this."
"This?"
"You. Here. Safe." His voice roughens. "I'd want to keep you."
It's not a declaration of love. Pietro doesn't do those. But it's close. Closer than I expected.
"Then keep me," I whisper.
His hand cups the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. "I intend to."
I trace the outline of his ribcage through the thin fabric of his shirt. My splinted fingers make the movement awkward, but I don't stop.
"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask quietly. "What you did to Declan?"
His body goes rigid beneath me. Not with tension, exactly. More like he's bracing for impact.
"No."
"Pietro—"
"He got what he deserved." His voice is flat. Final. "That's all there is to say."
I know what he means. I heard the whispers from Lorenzo. Saw the blood on Liam's boots when he came to check on me at the clinic. Pietro made Declan suffer. Made him scream. Made him beg.
I should be horrified.
But I am not.
"Okay," I say simply.
He shifts beneath me, surprise flickering across his features. "That's it? No questions?"
"What would you want me to ask?"
"Most people would want details. Or they'd tell me I went too far."
"I'm not most people." I meet his gaze steadily. "And you didn't go far enough, as far as I'm concerned."
Something dark and satisfied crosses his face. "Careful, Nora. You're starting to sound like me."
"Maybe I am." I don't look away. "Declan broke my fingers. Cracked my ribs. Tried to strangle me. He deserved whatever you gave him."
"He got worse than that."
"Good."
The word hangs between us. Pietro searches my face, looking for something. Disgust, maybe. Fear. He won't find either.
I know what he is. Know the monster that lives beneath the expensive suits and careful control. I've seen it unleashed, watched him break men without hesitation.
But I've also seen the other side.
He's both. Monster and angel. Killer and protector.
And I love him for all of it.
"You have layers," I say softly. "More than most people see."
"Layers." He sounds almost amused.
"You can be brutal. Violent. Terrifying." I press my palm flat against his chest. "But you can also be gentle. Kind. You try to make the right choices, even when it's hard."
"I'm not a good man, Nora."
"I never said you were." I lean up to kiss his jaw. "But you're mine. And that's what matters."
His hand cups the back of my neck, holding me close. "You shouldn't accept what I am so easily."
"Why not? You accepted me. An O'Sullivan. The daughter of your enemy."
"That's different."
"How?"
He doesn't have an answer for that.
We lie together in the quiet, his fingers stroking through my hair. I'm nearly asleep when he speaks again.
"I need to see Bruno tomorrow."
I blink, trying to focus. "Your brother?"
"Yes." His voice is careful. Measured. "I need to go to the facility. And I need you with me."
"Me?" I push up on my elbow again, ignoring my protesting ribs. "Why?"
"Because I need you there." He meets my gaze. "Will you come?"
There's something vulnerable in the question. Something that tells me this matters more than he's saying.
"Of course," I say. "Whatever you need."
His hand slides to my cheek, thumb brushing my skin. "Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me for being there."
"Yes," he says quietly. "I do."