Page 141 of Pietro
"I should have told you." The words pour out in a rush. "When Finn called, when he asked me to help Siobhan's daughter, I should have told you immediately. But she was so broken, Pietro. So lost. Just like you were after Pablo."
My hands curl into fists, but not from anger. From the effort of holding myself together.
"I thought... I thought maybe she could help you. Maybe you could help each other. I never meant for you to feel betrayed. I never meant?—"
"Stop." My voice cracks like ice breaking. "Just... stop."
She covers her face with her hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
The armor I've worn for weeks, the cold distance I've maintained, cracks down the middle.
This woman raised me as much as my own mother did. She held me when I came home covered in Pablo's blood.
She forced me to eat when grief tried to starve me.
She never gave up on me, even when I gave up on myself.
"You're not leaving." The words scrape my throat raw. "You're never leaving this house."
Her hands drop, eyes wide and red-rimmed.
"I was angry." Each word costs me something. "I felt... blindsided. Manipulated. But not by you. Never really by you."
I cross the space between us, my hands finding her shoulders.
"You're my family, Giulia. You've been my mother in every way that matters since Pablo died. Maybe even before that."
"Pietro—"
"I'm sorry." The words I never say to anyone fall easily for her. "I'm sorry I shut you out. I'm sorry I made you feel unwanted here. This is your home. It will always be your home."
She reaches up, her palm warm against my cheek, and I lean into it like I'm thirteen again, seeking comfort after a nightmare.
"My boy," she whispers. "My stubborn, complicated boy."
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
PIETRO
The penthouse is quiet when I return, city lights painting shadows across the walls. I loosen my tie, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension from hours of reviewing shipping manifests with Lorenzo.
Then I hear it.
A soft sniffle from the living room.
My hand moves to the gun at my back before I catch myself. Nora's safe here. She's always safe here.
I round the corner and stop.
She's curled on the couch in one of my t-shirts and sleep shorts, a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream balanced on her knee. Her splinted fingers make holding the spoon awkward, but she manages. Tears stream down her face as she stares at the television.
"Nora?"
She jumps, nearly dropping the ice cream. "You're home early."
"It's past midnight." I move closer, studying her face. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, the one without broken fingers. "Just watching a show."
