Page 13 of Pietro
He's right. I am lying. But I don't know why the fuck I want her followed.
And I don't fucking care to know why.
It is what it is.
CHAPTER FIVE
PIETRO
Seven-thirty, and she's already here. Of course she is. For two weeks, she's been a ghost in my machine, exorcising the chaos. The office doesn't smell like stale coffee and desperation anymore. It smells like her. Clean, floral, and fucking organized.
I walk through the elevator doors, and there she is. Today she's in a green blazer. It makes her eyes a weapon. Not just green, but a shade that looks right through you. She wears the same severe bun like armor, but a few strands of that red hair have broken free, clinging to her neck. A flaw in the system. My fingers twitch with the urge to either fix it or pull more of it loose.
She doesn't look up when I pass her desk. "The Ricci shipment needs your signature. Customs forms are on your desk. Coffee's fresh."
The Ricci forms are on my desk, exactly where they should be. The coffee is next to them. I didn't have to ask. I haven't hadto ask for a goddamn thing in ten days. It should be a relief. It feels like a loss of control.
"Stop staring and sign these."
Her voice cuts through my thoughts. She still hasn't looked up from her computer screen, but she knows. Of course she knows. The woman notices everything. Every shift in my mood, every change in the office rhythm, every drop of blood on Liam's shirt when he reports in.
My last secretary would have fainted at the sight of blood. Last Tuesday, Liam walked in with his knuckles split and his collar stained crimson. Nora slid a box of tissues across her desk toward him without breaking her typing rhythm. Didn't even flinch at the blood spatter.
Who the fuck is this woman?
I move to my desk, pick up the pen. The forms are arranged in order, colored tabs marking where I need to sign. She's even highlighted the relevant clauses in the contracts. Efficient. Thorough. Maddening.
I sign where indicated, but my attention keeps drifting to her through the open door. She's chewing her bottom lip. Always the left side when she's working through a problem. Her fingers pause on the keyboard, then resume their rhythm. The morning light catches the red in her hair, turns it to copper flame.
"The Murphy situation." Her voice pulls me back. "They've been quiet for three days."
"Worried?"
"Observant." She finally looks up, those green eyes meeting mine across the twenty feet between our desks. "Quiet usually means planning."
She's right, but I don't tell her that. Don't tell her that Lorenzo called this morning about increased Irish activity at the North Side docks. Don't tell her that the Murphy family's silence has me on edge too.
"Focus on the legitimate shipments," I tell her instead. "Let me worry about the rest."
She holds my gaze for a heartbeat longer, then returns to her screen. But I catch a slight tightening around her mouth. She doesn't like being shut out. The less she knows about the real business, the safer she is.
Safer. Christ, when did I start caring about keeping my secretary safe?
The morning bleeds into afternoon.
Liam appears around three, and this time the blood is fresh. A spray pattern across his white shirt, still wet enough to glisten.
"Situation handled," he says, setting a folder on my desk.
Nora doesn't react. Doesn't even glance at the blood. But I see her fingers pause for just a fraction of a second on the keyboard. She knows exactly what "handled" means.
"The Morrison shipment?" she asks, not looking up.
Liam's eyebrows rise slightly. He glances at me, and I give him a microscopic nod.
"Delayed." Liam’s eyes flick to me for a fraction of a second. "Complications at the dock."
"I'll adjust the manifest." Her fingers are already moving. "And notify the buyers about the timeline change."
