Chapter 4
PIETRO
Iwas far more my father’s son than I liked to admit.
Not that this was entirely a bad thing. Alessandro Benetti was many things, but he had never been a poor example of strength, loyalty, or conviction. Still, I was forced to acknowledge that the story of how he and my mother came together would raise more than a few eyebrows outside our world.
I had met my mother because my father kidnapped her, after all.
Admittedly, there was context. She had witnessed him kill a man, which rather limited his options. In a more rational universe, he should have killed her too.
He took her to the island instead.
In our world, women heard the story and sighed as if it were the stuff of legend. In the real world, it would have ended in a restraining order and at least one very expensive therapist.
That thought should probably have stopped me from doing what I did next.
It did not.
I caved faster than dignity should have allowed and got Derek’s number from Olivero.
By the time I stepped off the plane in Boston, I knew most of what I needed to know about Emily Hart.
Twenty-five. PhD candidate in history at Hawthorne. Teaching assistant. Originally from Seattle.
And, more interestingly, not born Emily Hart at all.
She had changed her surname from Gallagher.
That, Derek had informed me, was still being looked into.
I read the line twice. Then I set the phone face down on my knee and looked out the window for a moment.
There was a particular kind of man who tracked a woman's movements because he felt entitled to know them.
I told myself this was different—that I was being careful, not controlling, that information was protection and protection was reasonable.
I spent thirty seconds constructing that argument before I recognized it for what it was.
The same lie, dressed in better clothes.
I picked the phone back up anyway, which told me something I did not enjoy knowing about myself.
I did not like unknowns.
Especially not where she was concerned.
Emily Hart.
Even in my own head, the name had started to settle too easily.
Derek’s summary had been concise, which I appreciated. It gave me the basic facts first: age, academic record, employment, address, limited social media presence, and no obvious romantic attachments.
It was the missing pieces that caught my attention more than the information itself.
People did not change their names at twenty-five for no reason.
I read the line twice, then once more, as if Derek had hidden the answer elsewhere in the report and I simply missed it the first time.
Gallagher to Hart. It was not because of marriage.
There was no record of one, and no obvious family connection that explained the change either.
That alone was enough to interest me, but what unsettled me more was how quickly my interest had become personal.
I had spoken to Emily exactly once. One conversation in a library should not have made me sit in the back of a car reading through details of her life. And yet they mattered to me more than was reasonable.
What I found most irritating, however, was the sharp and immediate sense of relief that came with the line stating there were no obvious romantic attachments.
I stared at that part of the screen longer than I care to admit before locking my phone and leaning back against the seat, thoroughly unimpressed with myself.
There was a part of me—one I chose not to examine too closely—that briefly wondered whether I would have to make anyone disappear if some boyfriend appeared out of nowhere.
That thought was a joke. Mostly. At least I was fairly certain it was.
In any case, the fact I could even think it should probably have been enough warning to leave her alone.
Instead, it only made me more certain that I wanted to see her again.
I wanted to know whether she always pushed her glasses back up her nose when she was thinking, whether she always sounded that dry and matter-of-fact when she was amused, whether she would look pleased to see me again or simply surprised.
Outside the window, the city passed in a blur of steel, traffic, and late afternoon gray. Usually, coming back to Boston felt faintly bittersweet. Hawthorne offered freedom I would not have had at home, but it also meant distance from my family.
This time, however, something about the return felt different.
Less like obligation, less like routine.
There was a charge under my skin that came dangerously close to anticipation.
Boston was no longer just where I studied.
It was where Emily Hart was. And whether I liked it or not, that had made the city feel entirely different.
Things felt even more absurd the following morning when I walked out of my apartment after changing my clothes five times and hating myself enough to ask Olivero for his opinion.
The grin he gave me in response was immediate and so annoying that I regretted the question at once.
Still, my options for advice were limited.
If I asked my uncle Hoka, he would tell my aunt Violet.
Violet would tell my mother. My mother would then deploy guilt, affection, and persistence in equal measure until I admitted everything.
Not that I particularly minded telling my mother. As ridiculous as it sounded, she had been my closest confidante from the day I met her. But at present I was not convinced there was anything worth confessing, and even I could admit that saying it out loud would sound clinically concerning.
Yes, Ma, there is this girl. I spoke to her for perhaps thirty minutes in total. We exchanged a book. I am now obsessed with her. Does she think about me too? Hopefully. I had a hacker check the library CCTV and she came back to the same table three days in a row, which must mean something.
I winced at my own thoughts.
Olivero let out a low chuckle as he grabbed the car keys.
“So where to now?” he asked. “Somewhere the girl who doesn’t exist might happen to be?”
I gave him the finger without looking at him properly, but did not bother denying it. We both knew that would have been a waste of time.
“I’m getting coffee first,” I said as we headed for the door. “Then I’m going to study. I’ve lost enough time as it is.”
Olivero snorted but, mercifully, offered no further comment. I was grateful for that. There were limits to how much humiliation a man should be expected to endure before nine in the morning.
Derek's report had included details about Emily I had no business finding useful and yet had committed to memory anyway.
Her coffee order. Her library borrowing history for the past three months — almost exclusively political history, church history, and primary sources on Florentine merchant families.
The titles of the books she had requested from the archive and not yet collected.
That last detail stayed with me longer than the rest.
She had requested those books weeks before she arrived in Boston. Before the program even started. Before she had a desk, a library card, a supervisor. She came here already knowing what she was looking for — and she had gone looking for it before anyone told her she could.
I grew up in a world that treated preparation as strategy, as advantage, as the difference between surviving a thing and steering it. I recognized the instinct immediately. It was simply the last place I had expected to find it.
Then there was her coffee order.
Vanilla latte. Double shot. Double pump.
Strange, slightly offensive, and probably enough to have my father question whether she had been raised properly. Even so, I remembered it.
The plan, if it could be called that, was still taking shape. Perhaps I could pretend they had given me the wrong order and fate, in all its wisdom, had accidentally handed me her favorite drink.
No. That was pathetic.
I joined the queue and immediately revised the idea. Maybe I could simply order it for her, then act mildly surprised when I turned out to know exactly what she liked. That was somehow worse. Since when had I started thinking in terms of fate? Was I becoming a sixteen-year-old girl?
I let out a low groan and then glared when the man in front of me turned halfway around at the sound.
Turn back around, idiot. There is nothing to see here except a man behaving far beneath his usual standards.
The irony was not lost on me. I never once hesitated before a raid with my father.
I was not nervous the first time I killed a man.
My hand had been steady then. My pulse had barely sped up.
And yet here I was, on the verge of giving myself an aneurysm over the prospect of speaking to a PhD student in a library.
How the mighty had fallen.
I exhaled, turned slightly to the side, and then stopped dead.
She was there.
Sitting at a table toward the back, half hidden behind a stack of books, pink headband in place, glasses low on her nose.
For one ridiculous second, I actually thought, fate.
Then I stepped out of the queue without a second thought and started toward her. I had only gone a few paces before I noticed the jacket draped over the back of the chair opposite hers.
A man’s jacket.
I slowed, my anticipation cooling into something sharper. Well. That was unfortunate for him.
Emily looked up before I reached the table, and whatever she saw on my face made her blink once, then push her glasses back up her nose in that small, distracted way I liked far too much.
“Pietro.”
There was surprise in her voice, but not displeasure. That alone improved my mood slightly.
“Emily.” My gaze dropped briefly to the empty chair across from her, then to the jacket. “Am I interrupting something tragic?”
Her fingers tightened slightly around her phone. “I’m just having coffee.”
I inclined my head. “Alone?”
Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “Was that subtle in your head?”
“Not especially.”
Despite herself, the corner of her mouth moved. “Then no. Not alone.”
“With a friend?”