Page 152 of Pietro
PIETRO
Isit behind my desk, watching the three men who've just entered my office. The Feretti brothers and their enforcer. Damiano Feretti takes the chair directly across from me, his presence commanding even in stillness.
His dark hair shows threads of silver at the temples, but it only makes him look more distinguished, more dangerous.
Enzo Feretti remains standing, positioning himself slightly behind his brother's right shoulder. Younger but no less lethal. Where Damiano projects controlled power, Enzo radiates barely contained violence. His eyes constantly scan the room, assessing threats, escape routes. I recognize the behavior because I do the same thing.
Daniel Hayes stands by the door, arms crossed over his broad chest. The former military man doesn't pretend to be anything other than what he is. A weapon. His buzz cut and rigid posture scream discipline, but the cold calculation in his eyes tells me he's killed more men than most soldiers see in combat. He watches me like I might be his next target.
"Pietro." Damiano's voice breaks the silence, smooth as aged whiskey. "It's been too long."
"Damiano." I nod, keeping my expression neutral. "Circumstances haven't exactly been ideal."
"Riccardo was a good man." His face shows genuine regret. "And Bruno... how is he?"
"Still in the coma." The words taste bitter. "Doctors say there's brain activity, but..." I shrug, not needing to finish.
Enzo shifts his weight, impatient. Damiano shoots him a look that immediately stills him.
"And how are things going?" Damiano asks, leaning forward slightly. "The transition can be... challenging."
I consider my words carefully. The Ferettis aren't enemies, but they aren't exactly friends either. He was with Riccardo though. Alliances in our world shift like sand.
"Thankfully, we're starting to have some moments of peace," I say, my fingers drumming once on the desk before I force them still. "But you know how it is in this life. Calm waters usually mean there's a storm brewing somewhere."
Damiano's mouth quirks in understanding. "The Irish situation?"
"Handled." I don't elaborate on how Declan's body will never be found or how Connor O'Sullivan now walks with a permanent limp courtesy of his own brother. Some details aren't meant for sharing, even with tentative allies.
"And the girl?" Damiano asks, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "I heard there was... an incident."
My jaw tightens involuntarily. I'm not trusting myself to speak about Nora with these men. The urge to protect her, to keep her name out of their mouths, burns in my chest.
"Marriage changes things," Damiano says, studying me. "Gives a man something to fight for beyond territory and respect."
"I've always had something to fight for," I reply, thinking of my family, of Lorenzo and Vittoria. Of Bruno lying in that hospital bed.
"But now you have something to live for," Damiano counters, and the knowing look in his eyes makes me wonder if he speaks from experience.
Daniel shifts slightly by the door, his eyes meeting mine for a brief moment. There's recognition there. The look of a man who also understands what it means to find something worth surviving for in this life.
"We should discuss the shipping routes," I say, changing the subject. "With the Irish situation resolved, I think it's time we revisited our arrangement."
Damiano nods, a small smile playing at his lips. He knows exactly what I'm doing, but he allows the deflection.
"Of course," he says. "Business first. We must see the casino thing too."
NORA
I step off the elevator, my heels clicking against the floor as I approach Pietro's office.
Through the glass walls, I spot three unfamiliar men with Pietro. My hand freezes on the door handle.
The man seated across from Pietro commands attention without effort. Dark hair threaded with silver at the temples,sharp features that could've been carved from marble. Everything about him screams power, control, danger.
Behind him stands another man, younger but equally lethal. Jet black hair styled in a precision undercut. Tattoos peek from beneath his collar, crawling up his neck. He shifts his weight, and I catch the coiled energy in his movements. A predator waiting to strike.
By the door, a third man stands like a sentinel. Tall, broad-shouldered. Buzz cut, steely blue eyes that assess me in a single sweep. His arms cross over his chest, and I recognize the stance of someone who's killed and won't hesitate to do it again.
