Chapter 12
PIETRO
“Ineed to go for now.”
That was all she said before she got up and left.
I kept my promise and let her.
For her sake, I hoped I hadn’t just made the worst mistake of both our lives.
I was not a child. I knew exactly what the consequences of that revelation could be.
At some point Matteo would find out. Men like him always did.
There would come a day when I would have to stand in front of him and explain my choice, explain why I told an outsider the truth before she belonged to us in any formal sense, and if Emily was not standing beside me when that day came?—
I cut the thought off before it could finish.
The look she gave me on her way out stayed with me anyway. There had been too much in it to name cleanly—regret, doubt, something I wanted very badly to believe was still care. Whether I truly saw it or only imagined it occupied my mind for the rest of the day.
I went to my lecture and retained almost nothing.
I sat in front of my laptop for two hours and managed one paragraph of an economics essay that would have embarrassed me under ordinary circumstances.
Every time I tried to force my attention back to the screen, my thoughts drifted straight to her.
The expression on her face. The way her body stilled when I said the word mafia.
The silence after I told her I loved her.
That silence stayed with me most.
As if she had reached the edge of something and still had not decided whether to step forward or back.
“Ridiculous,” I muttered under my breath as I checked my phone for what had to be the twentieth time in a shamefully short span.
It was not a small secret to hand someone and expect them to carry without hesitation. And yet some irrational part of me had hoped what lay between us would count more. I didn't yet know if it did.
With a low curse, I slammed the laptop shut and walked into the living room. Olivero was sprawled in one of the armchairs, reading as if he had not spent the last twenty-four hours witnessing the steady collapse of my dignity in real time.
He didn’t look up when I entered.
I stopped in front of him and stared.
Nothing.
“Want to spar?” I asked.
“No.”
He turned the page.
My irritation, already healthy, sharpened instantly. “No?”
“No.”
“You didn’t even think about it.”
“I did.” He flipped another page. “My answer remains no.”
I folded my arms. “What, are you scared of the cripple?”
That got his attention.
Olivero looked up slowly, snorted once, and shut the book on a finger to keep his place.
“Nice try.” He leaned back in the chair and gave me a long, unimpressed look.
“There is nothing crippled about you, and I saw you spar with your uncle, the head of the yakuza, three nights ago. Thank you, but no. I like my ribs exactly where they are.”
I stared at him. “You recover quickly from cowardice.”
“And you recover badly from being in love. We all have our strengths.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Careful.”
He smiled without warmth. “You’re the one asking people to hit you because a girl hasn’t texted back.”
“I did not say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” He lifted the book again. “Your face did.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
I exhaled through my nose and dropped onto the sofa opposite him. “If you say one more thing, your funeral will need a closed casket.”
“That’s fair,” he said mildly. “But perhaps consider the radical possibility that she didn’t run because she hated you. She ran because you told her you were mafia and in love with her in the same conversation.”
I went still.
Olivero lifted one shoulder. “That was a lot for a Monday. Give her time.”
“Oh yes?” I said. “And now you’re a relationship expert? Maybe you should start a column. Mafia Weekly. Advice for the emotionally compromised.”
He closed his book softly. “Maybe I should. With you around, I’d never run out of material.”
I gave him the finger.
Unfortunately, I also hated that he was right. If Emily needed time, then time was what she would have. And if I was going to sit with that without losing my mind entirely, I needed to do something useful.
The port problem in Jersey came back to me at once.
One of the possible solutions was a secondary route, but that was exactly the sort of thing Killian Doyle handled best. Logistics, infrastructure, leverage, and whatever dark magic he used to make impossible things appear legal on paper.
If anyone knew how to solve it cleanly, it was Doyle.
I stood, went to my room, and changed.
When I came back out dressed to leave, Olivero looked up from his chair and arched a brow.
“Oh good. So we’re done moping?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I’m going to see Doyle.”
Olivero nodded as if this confirmed some private theory. “Respectable. I was worried you were about to seek emotional healing in one of his clubs. I would not have taken you for?—”
“Can you stop?” I cut in. “As if I would ever.”
I wasn’t judging the men and women who used Doyle’s clubs across the country.
The Rabbit Hole and its various siblings catered to a very specific kind of wealthy appetite, and discretion was part of the service.
But the idea of Olivero suggesting I go there to work through heartbreak was enough to make violence feel briefly restorative.
He smiled, entirely unrepentant. “Just offering options.”
“Offer other ones.”
He rose at last and pocketed the book. “Fine. Doyle it is. Though if this turns into another conversation about port authority while you secretly check your phone under the table, I reserve the right to judge you.”
“You reserve the right to do many things,” I said. “Most of them should be revoked.”
“Are you not going to tell your father?” Olivero asked once we were in the car.
I glanced at him. “Why would I?”
He started the engine. “Because you’re not sotto capo yet.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thank you for your concern, but I learned from my father long ago that it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission.”
Olivero snorted. “For you, maybe. You’re his heir. There’s the tacit understanding that he won’t kill you.”
“How comforting.”
“Me, on the other hand?” He pulled away from the curb and gave me a pointed look. “If I knowingly take you into Irish territory without saying a word, I become significantly more disposable.”
I waved a hand dismissively. “We both know you couldn’t stop me.”
“No,” he said. “But I could absolutely rat you out.”
That gave me pause. It was true. He could, and in all honesty, he probably should.
I looked at him more carefully. “Why haven’t you?”
He drove in silence for a minute before shaking his head. “I thought you were smart.”
I leaned back in my seat. “I am smarter than you.”
“Recently?” He glanced at me. “Debatable.”
I opened my mouth, but he kept going.
“And I also would have thought,” he said, “that in the last three years you might have realized I’m not your father’s man.
I’m not just your bodyguard either, which, by the way, is probably the least satisfying job in the world given that you’ve never actually needed saving from anything in your life. ”
He turned the wheel one-handed, expression unreadable in the passing streetlight.
“I’m your friend, you idiot,” he said. Then, after a beat, a little gruffer, “Or I’d like to think so.”
That left me feeling oddly foolish and speechless all at once.
Friendship had never come easily in my world.
Most men my age in the outfit had grown up differently enough that the gap between us was perspective, not just years, and the men in power belonged more naturally to the category of mentor or future rival.
So the word “friend” caught harder than it should have.
I looked out the window, then said, “Don’t worry about my father and Doyle. We’ve had an understanding with the Irish for a long time. There are ties.”
Olivero snorted softly. “Ties because Doyle’s wife is friends with Jude Montanari, and because your father made a deal with him over a decade ago.”
I shrugged. “It’s enough. And nothing will happen to you. I won’t allow it. I…” I paused, aware of how that sounded, then added more dryly, “I protect my friends.”
The small smile at the corner of his mouth was immediate.
I rolled my eyes and sat up straighter as the red neon glow of The Rabbit Hole came into view in the distance, bleeding through the dark like a warning sign.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Olivero asked as he turned off the engine.
Absolutely not. “Yes,” I said instead.
The Rabbit Hole had not changed. The same air of managed vice, the same promise of discretion bought at a very high price. From the outside it looked like any upscale members-only venue. Inside, everyone knew better.
We stepped into a wash of red light, low music, and money.
The hostess at the front desk looked up with professional calm that did not quite hide how quickly she assessed both of us. Well dressed. Armed, though not visibly. Not clients here for indulgence.
“I’m here to see Doyle,” I said.
Her expression did not change. “And who should I tell him is here?”
“Pietro Benetti.”
That got the smallest flicker from her.
She picked up the phone, spoke quietly into it, listened, then lowered it again and rose from her chair. “This way.”
Olivero and I were escorted down a corridor lined in black lacquer and smoked mirrors, the sort of decor that tried very hard to look decadent and ended up looking faintly expensive instead.
At the end of it sat a heavy door that the hostess opened without knocking before stepping aside for us to enter.
Killian Doyle was behind the desk.