Page 19 of Pietro
The elevator dings.
My hands pause over the keyboard. It's 9:15. Too early for the mail delivery at 10:30. The lunch meetings don't start until noon. No appointments on the calendar until 2 PM.
The doors slide open with their usual whisper.
Three men step out.
Wrong. Everything about them screams wrong. The tallest one, sandy-haired with a boxer's nose, sweeps the reception area with pale blue eyes.
"Morning, love." His Boston accent hits me like ice water in the veins. "We're looking for Sartori."
I school my features, drawing on years of practice at my father's dinner parties. A polite, empty mask.
The second man moves to my left, blocking the path to the main elevator. Shorter, stockier, with thick fingers that flex and release in a pattern I recognize. He's working himself up for violence.
The third stays by the elevator, ensuring no escape that way. This one I know. Tommy, one of my father's Boston contacts. I don’t think he’s seen me. I only know him because once he had a meeting with my father and saw him from my bedroom window. He has a scar over the left side of his head. Hard to forget.
If he recognizes me though...
"Mr. Sartori is unavailable." My voice comes out steady, professional. "Would you gentlemen like to schedule an appointment?"
"That's really cute." The leader's smile reminds me of Declan's, all teeth, no warmth. "But we're not the appointment type. Sartori's expecting us."
"I'm afraid he's not." I stand slowly, smoothing my skirt with hands that want to shake. The dark blue fabric feels too thin, too revealing. "As I said, Mr. Sartori is?—"
"Actually," the stocky one shifts his weight, cracking his knuckles, "why don't we just go in there and grab?—"
"Shut the fuck up." The leader's voice cuts like a blade. His pale eyes never leave mine, but I catch the way his jaw tightens. "Use your brain for once."
Tommy stays silent by the elevator, but his hand drifts to his hip. The bulge under his jacket isn't subtle.
"The lady asked us to make an appointment." The leader takes a step closer. His cologne is too strong, masking sweat and cigarettes. "But see, we've got business that can't wait."
My fingers find the edge of my desk, grounding me. "I'll be happy to check Mr. Sartori's calendar for his earliest availability."
Behind Pietro's door, a chair scrapes across the floor. The men tense.
"Here's what's going to happen," the leader says, voice dropping low. "You're going to knock on that door and tell Sartori he has visitors. Important visitors who need five minutes of his time."
Everything happens at once.
Boxer Nose lurches for me, his hand closing around my upper arm hard. I twist, using his momentum, but he's ready for it. His other hand goes for my throat.
"Stupid bitch?—"
The door to Pietro's office explodes open.
I've seen Pietro angry. I've seen him cold. I've never seen him like this. Pure violence given form. He doesn't run; he flows across the space like spilled blood, silent and inevitable.
The first punch drops Boxer Nose before the man can finish his threat. The crack of his jaw breaking echoes through the office, followed by his body hitting marble.
The stocky one pulls a gun, but Pietro's already moving. They collide with the force of a car crash, slamming into my desk. Papers scatter. My coffee mug shatters, dark liquid spreading across manifests I spent two hours organizing.
Tommy grabs me from behind, gun pressed to my temple. The metal is cold.
"Back the fuck up, Sartori!" Tommy's arm crushes my windpipe. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. "Or I decorate your office with her brains."
Pietro freezes mid-motion, the stocky attacker's head twisted at an angle that means he won't be getting up. Ever.
