Chapter 7 NORA
NORA
The smell of bleach and copper hangs in the night air after the bodies are dragged away.
Two men in dark coveralls scrub the terrace stones with stiff brushes, cleaning the blood off the marble like it is just spilled paint.
Adrian digs his fingers hard into the muscle above my elbow, steering my weight forward off the patio and straight into the massive living room with gold molding and a lit fireplace.
I spin on my heel as Luca stalks down the hallway, barking into a radio. "Three men just died right outside those glass doors. Three men with rifles. And you guys are sitting here like someone dropped a plate on the floor."
Matteo sinks deeper into a velvet armchair. He presses a cloth full of ice to his bruised jaw and winces. "Things happen around here."
I pace back and forth across the rug with my fists clenched tight. "Gunfights are not normal, Matteo."
Enzo folds his arms in the doorway. "We're not normal people. In case you forgot the car ride over here."
"I didn't forget. You shoved me into an SUV and hauled me onto a jet.
" I turn around, glaring at every single one of them, even Sofia, who curls on the sofa with a pillow like this is movie night.
"You're killers. Cold killers. There's blood on the patio, and you treat it like an annoyance. You're monsters in expensive suits."
Nobody flinches. That rattles me more than the gunfire did. Even Sofia, the soft, gentle girl I assumed was an innocent bystander in this nightmare, just adjusts the hem of her oversized sweater without batting an eye. Not a single person in the room looks bothered.
Matteo shifts the ice over his cheek. "Say that again. Slower this time. I want to hear it again."
I stop dead in the center of the rug. "You like being called a monster?"
Nonna Lucia marches in from the kitchen, drying her hands on an apron. She takes in my shouting with one quick sweep and drops a heavy silver tray onto the low table. Then she points a wooden spoon straight at my nose like a furious magistrate. "Sit."
"I don't want your damn espresso," I snap, hand waving off the tiny white cup. "I want someone to tell me why you all act like killing people is normal."
Enzo shrugs, fingers drumming against his arm. "Because it is to us."
"That is crazy. Do you hear yourself?" I throw my hands in the air.
Enzo steps toward me. "I hear myself fine. You look shocked that men who shot at us got killed. What did you expect us to do, write them a letter?"
I open my mouth to fire something back and Sofia, who has been quiet in the corner with her knees tucked up on the sofa like she's trying to take up less space than she's allowed, finally speaks.
"Can I say something?" she asks, and the whole room actually goes dead quiet, every single one of them stopping instantly to give her the floor.
"Go ahead," I mutter, folding my arms across my chest because at least someone in this house seems capable of talking without a shrug or a smirk.
Sofia uncurls slowly and sets both feet flat on the floor.
Her voice carries none of the swagger her brothers put on.
"You keep calling us monsters. I get why.
You saw something today most people never see, and I am sorry.
But do not stand in our living room and act like we picked this life because we wanted to. "
"Nobody forced you to live like this, Sofia." My voice is quiet, the hot edge of my anger already starting to fade.
"No." Sofia looks down at her lap. "Someone held a gun to my parents twenty years ago.
And to Matteo's. And Enzo's. We didn't choose this mess, Nora.
We got handed it. Just like you got handed your business by people who loved you.
But our family gave us a pile of graves before we even knew what that meant. "
I don't have a fast answer to that. It's rare enough that it throws me.
"Luca was eleven," Sofia goes on, pulling at the wool of her sweater.
"Eleven years old, and he had to look after three little kids while people tried to kill us.
He never got a normal life. None of us did.
So yes, we are tough. Yes, people die. But every bad thing done in this house is to keep the people in this room alive.
That isn't evil. That is just trying to survive. "
Matteo has gone very still with his ice pack, which for him is basically a full stop.
Nonna Lucia sets a cup down in front of me without asking, which by now I recognize as her love language, and says nothing, which for her is loud.
"You didn't get a childhood," I whisper, mostly to myself.
Sofia lifts her chin to look straight at me. "None of us did. Call us monsters if you want. But we became this because dying quietly was the only other choice. I would rather be hard and breathing than sweet and dead in the ground."
The room stays quiet after that in a way that feels less like tension and more like everyone giving her space to have said it.
I rub the back of my neck as all the fight drains out of me. "That was quite a speech."
I glance down at Sofia, then over at Nonna Lucia standing beside the table with her hands under her apron. "I'm sorry. For yelling at you."
Sofia gives me a soft nod. Nonna doesn't utter a word, but her mouth relaxes slightly as she slides the warm cup an inch closer to my hand.
Enzo clears his throat, clearly hating how quiet the room has become. "Whatever. Coffee is getting cold."
"Nobody cares about the coffee, Enzo," Matteo groans from his chair.
"I care. Nonna made it. You drink Nonna's coffee," Enzo mumbles back.
Nonna Lucia glares at him with a look that could curdle milk from across the room, and he shuts up to gulp down his coffee immediately, revealing the actual power structure in this house.
My knees buckle slightly, so I drop onto the edge of the low armchair before anyone notices the wobble.
When I reach for the tiny porcelain cup, the ceramic clatters against the saucer.
I wrap both hands tight around the rim to steady the tremor, bringing the dark liquid to my lips.
It burns my tongue, thick and tar-bitter, but the heat gives my fingers something solid to anchor against.
Across the rug, Sofia shifts to the far corner of the sofa. She smooths the wool cushion beside her, leaving an open space right at her side. Her eyes stay fixed on her lap, giving me room without staring, and the quiet gesture hits harder in my ribs than a room full of condolences.
I set the empty cup down with a sharp clink, pushing myself up from the cushions before the heat in my eyes turns into water. "I need some air," I murmur to the floorboards, already turning toward the archway before anyone can answer.
I make it down the carpeted hallway and into the guest bedroom, clicking the heavy oak door shut until the iron latch drops into place.
Leaning back against the solid timber, I press my palms flat against the cold wood as my breath comes in short, ragged gasps.
My face burns hot and blotchy, my hair is a tangled mess, and the borrowed silk shirt hangs loose on my frame with the cuffs rolled up too high.
No tailored blazer, no phone buzzing in my palm, no spreadsheet to balance the board.
My legs give out completely. I stumble two steps and sink onto the edge of the heavy mattress, digging my fingernails into the quilted bedspread until the threads strain.
My father would have made a joke by now.
My mother would have already started narrating this like it's the opening chapter of her next book, some line about danger and desire dressed up in Italian marble.
I don't have either of them here. I have a locked door, a family of very polite killers down the hall, and a man whose thumb is still, somehow, the last thing my skin remembers clearly.
The tears come without permission, which is the part I hate most. I don't cry pretty. I cry ugly and fast and furious at myself for doing it at all, hand pressed hard against my mouth so the sound doesn't carry, shoulders shaking in a way I would never, ever let a client see.
There's a knock. Two knuckles, unhurried.
"Go away." I wipe my nose with the heel of my palm as my voice breaks.
The heavy lock turns with a quiet click. The door glides open anyway.
Luca stands in the doorway, tall, dark, and still wearing his suit. A dark smudge of dry blood coats his right cuff, but he does not bother hiding it. His dark eyes fix on my face, cold and completely unblinking, like he is examining a broken glass on the floor.
I swipe the back of my hand across my wet cheeks to hide the tears. "I said get out."
"I heard you." He doesn't raise his voice. He walks right into the bedroom, pushing the door closed behind his back.
I pull my legs up on the mattress, glaring at him. "Then why are you standing in my room?"
"This is my house," he points out, his voice smooth and cold. "All of it. And you look ridiculous crying on that bed."
"Go to hell," I bark, jaw clenched tight.
Luca stops right by the bed. "You stood out there and called my whole family monsters. You think three dead men gives you the right to fall apart in here? Dead men happen, Nora. Deal with it or break."
I point a trembling finger at the wood door. "Get away from me."
"Try to make me." He stands completely still.
I let out a shaky breath, shaking my head. "You are crazy."
He takes one step closer. "I am the man keeping you alive right now."
He reaches out and grabs my chin, his long fingers cold and merciless as he tilts my face up into the light. He stares into my wet eyes without an ounce of warmth, studying my weakness like a predator checking an injury on its prey.
I hold his stare without flinching. "Let go of me. I don't want your pity."
His fingers hold firm. "I don't give pity. And I won't watch you sob like a scared kid in my house. You want to fight me? Then get on your feet and do it."
"I hate you," I spit, staring straight into his dark eyes. "I hate you and everything in this house."
Luca runs his thumb over my cheek, brushing the wet trail away. "Good. Hate makes you sharp. Crying just makes you easy to kill."
I jerk my face away from his hand, breathing hard. "You think you can break me?"
He smooths down his dark cuff. "I don't need to break you, Nora. The people outside are going to do that for me."
I hold my chin high. "I am getting out of here. And when I do, I will tear down everything you have."
Luca tilts his head, a tiny smirk touching his mouth. "I would love to watch you try."
I pull back until my spine hits the headboard. "You're insane."
"I am breathing," he replies, his voice dropping low. "That is the only thing that counts."
He turns around slowly, walking toward the doorway with effortless predator grace. He pauses right at the threshold, looking back over his broad shoulder.
"Wipe your face, Nora," he commands softly.
I glare at him in the dark, curling my hands into fists on the blanket.
His eyes harden in the dim light. "Tomorrow, the real fight starts. And I don't have room for people who quit."
He steps out into the dark hallway and pulls the door shut, locking it with a sharp, metallic snap. I sit alone in the heavy quiet of the room, my heart hammering against my ribs while the faint, sharp sting of gunpowder and cold skin lingers on my jaw where his fingers were.