Page 12 of Pietro
This job is my lifeline, my disappearing fund, my way out from under my father's shadow.
By noon, I've fielded six more calls. Two from angry suppliers, three from customs, one from someone who hangs up when I answer. The office looks almost professional. Pietro's actually using his computer instead of glowering at it. For now.
"Eat." He drops a sandwich on my desk.
"I brought lunch."
"Save it for tomorrow."
It's not kindness. It's practical. Can't have his secretary passing out from hunger.
But when I bite into the sandwich I almost cry. God. Fresh mozzarella, prosciutto, basil. I have to suppress a moan. I've been living on ramen and bodega coffee for two weeks.
The afternoon passes too. More calls, more files, more of Pietro's tests. He criticizes my font choice on a letter. I change it without argument. He complains about my filing system. I adjust. Each accommodation costs me a piece of pride, but pride doesn't pay rent.
"Go home."
I look up from the manifest I'm reviewing. "It's only four."
"I said go home."
Not hostile this time. Almost... protective? No. That's projection. Men like Pietro Sartori don't protect women like me. They use us up and discard us.
"Eight tomorrow?"
"Seven. We have an early shipment."
I gather my things, acutely aware of him watching me.
PIETRO
My phone buzzes. Liam.
"She's arrived home safely," he says without preamble. "No stops, no detours. Straight to that apartment in Lincoln Park."
I grunt acknowledgment. The office feels different already. Organized. Functional. Less like the chaos in my head.
"You want to tell me why we're having her followed?" Liam's voice carries that particular British tone.
"She's handling sensitive information." I swirl the remnants of whiskey in my glass. "Need to make sure she's not reporting to anyone."
"And the real reason?"
I clench my jaw. Liam knows me too well. Ten years at my side has given him an annoying ability to see through my bullshit.
"She seems like the right person at the moment," I admit, the words scraping my throat. "To help me through everything. The business, the Murphy situation, O'Sullivan's moves."
"And the surveillance for the next few days?"
"Just a precaution. Making sure she's who she claims to be."
The silence on the other end stretches long enough that I know what's coming.
"You're lying, sir."
"Fuck you, Liam."
I end the call, tossing the phone onto my desk. It skids across the polished surface, nearly toppling my empty glass.
