Page 134 of Pietro
"A whore who spread her legs for the enemy."
His word is acid. My mind recoils, scrambling for an antidote, and finds one. Pietro’s voice, rough velvet against my throat.“Tessoro,”he’d whispered, the endearment falling from his lips like absolution.
"You can call me whatever you want." I open my eyes, meeting Declan's glare.
Doesn't change the fact that Pietro's coming for me.
"Enjoy your hunger strike." He kicks the bread closer but still out of reach. "You'll need your strength for tonight."
"Tonight?"
"The big meeting. Where ownership officially transfers." His smile is a crack in a tombstone, promising nothing but rot underneath.
He climbs the stairs, whistling an off-key tune. The door slams. The lock engages.
I stare at the bread—moldy at the edges, probably three days old. My stomach cramps with hunger, a hollow ache that echoes the emptiness of this cell. The loneliness is a cold weight, and in the darkness, a memory of warmth surfaces. My mother.
“Little fox,”she used to whisper when nightmares woke me.Her cool hands would smooth my hair back, her voice lifting in the old songs her grandmother taught her.“Close your eyes, beloved of my heart."
I miss her so much.
Footsteps overhead pull me from the memory. Declan's voice carries through the floorboards—animated, planning. I catch fragments: "warehouse," "noon," "South Side."
My pulse quickens. They're planning the meeting. The handover.
More footsteps. Multiple sets now. Irish accents thick with South Boston. Declan's muscle, probably. The men who'll die tonight without knowing it.
Because Pietro won't just come for me. He'll paint that warehouse red with their blood.
The thought should horrify me. The woman I was before would have been appalled at finding comfort in promised violence.
That woman died in Boston. Declan's hands were her eulogy.
Everything hurts. Three fingers broken, ribs cracked, face swollen beyond recognition. I probably look like tenderized meat.
But I'm alive.
And Pietro's coming.
I think of him in his office that first day, dangerous and beautiful behind that massive desk. The way he looked at mewhen I didn't cower, when I demanded higher pay. Like I was a puzzle he needed to solve.
The water drip continues its relentless countdown. My throat burns with thirst but I won't beg. Won't give Declan anything he can use.
Instead, I think about after. About Pietro's hands gentle on my bruises. About Giulia fussing over me in the kitchen. About Sunday dinners where I actually belong at the table.
About Finn, who'll finally be able to claim me as his daughter.
And Connor—I don't know what happens with Connor. The man who raised me, who loved me in his broken way. Who blamed me for Declan's betrayal because admitting his own failure would have destroyed him.
Maybe we find a way forward. Maybe we don't.
But that's tomorrow's problem.
Today, I just have to survive.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
PIETRO
