Chapter 42
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
NORA
The private dining room at Bella Notte glows with candlelight. Pietro chose this place specifically. Tucked away from prying eyes, intimate enough that we can actually talk without his men hovering nearby. Well, they're probably outside, but at least I can pretend we're normal for once.
"You're doing it again," Pietro says, twirling his wine glass.
"Doing what?"
"That thing where you cut your food into perfect little squares." His lips twitch. "Like you're performing surgery on that chicken."
I look down at my plate. He's right. I've sectioned everything into neat, even pieces. "It's called being civilized."
"It's called being obsessive." He reaches across with his fork and steals one of my perfectly cut pieces. "See? Tastes the same even when it's stolen."
"Thief." I try to stab his hand with my fork, but he's too quick.
"You work for a thief, baby. What did you expect?"
"I expected dinner without harassment."
He leans back in his chair. "When have I ever given you anything without harassment?"
"Good point." I take a sip of wine. "Remember that day? You threw a coffee mug at the wall because I was organizing your disaster of an office."
"You were touching my things."
"Your things were covered in three inches of dust and what I'm pretty sure was blood."
"It was definitely blood." He grins at the memory. "You didn't even flinch."
"I was too tired to flinch. Running from psychotic ex-boyfriends takes a lot out of a girl."
His expression shifts slightly. That protective edge creeping in whenever Declan comes up. I reach across the table and touch his hand.
"Hey. That was a joke. Sort of."
He turns his palm up, interlacing our fingers. "You know what I remember from your first day?"
"My excellent typing skills?"
"Your eyes." His thumb traces circles on my palm. "Green like broken glass. Like you'd been shattered but were too stubborn to fall apart."
"Pietro—"
"I threw that mug because you scared the shit out of me." He's not looking at me now, focused on our joined hands. "This girl walks into my office, sees the blood, sees the violence, sees exactly what I am. And doesn't run."
"I needed the job," I say softly.
"Bullshit. You needed something to fight for. Someone who wouldn't treat you like glass." His grip tightens. "And I needed..."
He trails off.
"What did you need?" I prompt gently.
He looks at. "I needed someone who could see past the monster."
"You're not a monster."
"I am." There's no self-pity in it, just fact. "I've done things that would make you run if you knew. Killed people. Tortured them. Enjoyed it sometimes."
"I know who you are, Pietro."
"Do you?" He releases my hand and runs his fingers through his hair—that nervous tell he doesn't know he has. "Because sometimes I look at you and think... fuck, how did this happen? How did you happen?"
The waiter appears to clear our plates. Pietro waves him off. Once we're alone again, he stands abruptly, moving to my side of the table.
"Come here." He pulls me to my feet, hands framing my face. "I'm shit at this."
"At what?"
"Words. Feelings. All of it." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "But you... Christ, Nora. You walked into my life and suddenly I gave a damn about tomorrow. About living past the next shipment, the next hit, the next whatever."
"Pietro—"
"I'm not done." His forehead presses against mine. "I don't know how to do this right. Don't know how to be the man you deserve. But I..."
The words catch in his throat. I can feel him fighting years of walls, of trained emotional distance.
"I love you," he says roughly. "I'm so fucking in love with you it terrifies me."
My heart stops.
Then starts again.
I pull back slightly, just enough to see his face properly.
"You know," I say, keeping my voice light, "sometimes a girl needs to talk without being interrupted."
His eyes narrow. "I just—"
"See? You're doing it again." I press my finger to his lips. "My turn."
He goes completely still.
"You terrify me too," I admit. "Not because of what you do or who you are. But because of how much I need you. How much space you take up in my head, my heart, my everything."
His hands tighten on my waist.
"When I walked into your office that first day, I was running. I wasn't looking for anything except survival. Definitely wasn't looking for a bossy Italian who can't organize paperwork to save his life."
"I organize fine—"
"Shh." I press my finger to his lips again. "Still my turn."
He bites my finger gently in retaliation, but stays quiet.
"You want to know what I remember from that first day? You looked at me like I was a puzzle you couldn't solve. Like I didn't fit into any category you understood. And for someone who'd spent her whole life being exactly what everyone expected was..."
I search for the right word.
"Revolutionary," I finally say. "You saw me as me. My broken parts but also me. "
"You're not broken," he says against my finger.
"Neither are you." I move my hand to cup his cheek. "We're both a little cracked, maybe. But that's how the light gets in, right?"
He makes a sound that's half laugh, half something else. "Quoting Leonard Cohen at me now?"
"Would you prefer Dante? I know you have that book hidden in your office."
"How do you—never mind. Of course you know."
"I know everything about you, Pietro Sartori." I lean in closer. "I know you touch Pablo's tattoo when you think no one's looking. I know you can't sleep without checking the locks three times."
"Stalker."
"I know you're terrified of being happy because you think you don't deserve it. Because you think Pablo should be here instead of you."
His whole body tenses.
"I know you think loving me is another way to get me killed. That everyone you care about ends up hurt or dead." I frame his face with both hands now, forcing him to look at me. "But here's what you don't know—I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me."
"Nora—"
"I love you too. I love your stupid temper and your overprotective bullshit and the way you pretend you don't care when you care too much. I love that you're violent and gentle and broken and whole all at once. I love you, Pietro. All of you. Even the parts you think are monsters."
He crashes his mouth to mine, and it's not gentle. It's desperate and possessive and full of everything we can't say. His hands tangle in my hair.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Say it again," he demands.
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you, you controlling bastard."
Click HERE to read Lorenzo’s Story.