Page 20 of Pietro
"Let her go." Pietro's voice drops to something subhuman, dangerous. Blood drips from his split knuckles onto the marble. "Your issue is with me."
"Our issue is with your entire fucking family." Tommy's breath reeks of cigarettes and mint. "But your secretary will make a nice message since I’ve heard that she is clever enough."
The gun barrel digs harder into my temple. My vision tunnels, but muscle memory takes over. Three years of self-defense training after mom died, my father insisting I learn to protect myself.
“Scared women die. Smart women survive.”
My elbow drives back into Tommy's solar plexus. His grip loosens for a heartbeat—enough. I drop my weight, twist, and crawl as fast as I can. The movement is ugly, desperate, but it works.
Tommy's gun swings toward me, but Pietro's already there. His hand closes over Tommy's wrist, and the sound of bones breaking fills the air like popcorn. The gun clatters across marble.
Pietro's fist connects with Tommy's face once, twice, three times. Blood sprays across my white blouse. Tommy crumples, his face a ruin of split skin and shattered bone.
The office door bursts open. Liam enters first, weapon drawn, followed by four more security guards I recognize from the building. They flow into space, checking corners, securing weapons.
I try to stand but my legs give out.
Pietro catches me before I hit the floor again, his arms closing around me.
"You're hurt." His fingers ghost over my throat where bruises already bloom purple-red.
"I'm fine." The words come out rasped, painful.
"You're not fine." His thumb traces my jaw, and I realize I'm shaking. Full-body tremors like I'm freezing, even though the office runs warm. "Cristo, look at you."
"Sir." Liam appears at Pietro's shoulder, professional and calm despite the bodies decorating the office. "Cleanup crew is en route. Should I call the clinic?"
"No hospitals." The words escape before I can stop them. Hospitals mean questions, records, trails Declan could follow.
Pietro's eyes narrow, studying my face. "Liam, handle this. I'm taking her home."
"I don't need—" Standing seems like a good way to prove I'm fine. Instead, the room tilts sideways, and Pietro's arms tighten around me.
"You're going into shock." His voice softens. "Liam, have the car brought around. Back entrance."
"Pietro." I grab his shirt, expensive fabric bunching in my fists. "The papers, the manifests—they'll need to be re-done."
He stares at me like I've lost my mind. "We just fought off three armed men, and you're worried about paperwork?"
"It's my job."
Tommy groans from the floor, still alive if barely, and Pietro's attention shifts.
"Keep him breathing," Pietro tells Liam. "I want answers about who sent them."
"I can help with that." The words slip out, and I curse myself. Stupid. So stupid. "I mean, I heard them mention Boston. The accent?—"
"You are from Boston too huh?" His voice carries an edge now, suspicious.
"I went to school in Boston. Briefly. Before transferring." Lies layered on lies, each one building a house of cards that threatens to collapse.
Pietro studies me for a long moment. Behind us, Liam's team works, zip-tying Tommy's wrists, checking the other two for signs of life. The stocky one’s eyes are wide, unseeing. A dark stain spreads on the marble beneath him. Boxer Nose gurgles, a wet, broken sound. My stomach churns.
"Marco," Pietro calls to one of the guards. "Take them to warehouse three. Make sure they stay breathing until I get there."
The guards drag Tommy toward the service elevator, leaving streaks of blood across the marble. Someone else arrives with cleaning supplies, moving around us like we're furniture while they begin erasing evidence of violence.
"Can you walk?" Pietro asks, his arm still around my waist.
