Page 22 of Pietro
I nod, leaning my head against the window.
My mind goes to Declan. I hate how easily he sneaks in my head. I hate him.
God, I was naive back then. Twenty years old and sheltered despite growing up in Boston's Irish mob. Declan walked in with a bottle of whiskey and a smile that lit up the room.
Tall, with sandy hair and eyes the color of a winter sky. He kissed my mother's hand, complimented my father's taste in scotch, and looked at me like I was the only woman in the world.
That's the worst part. Declan was sweet at first. Brought me coffee exactly how I liked it. Remembered little details about books I'd mentioned. Called just to hear my voice.
For our first date, he took me ice skating at Frog Pond, then to dinner at a tiny restaurant where the owner knew him by name.
The car slows at a red light. Outside, a couple walks hand-in-hand, laughing at some private joke. Normal people with normal lives.
"Nora." Pietro's voice cuts through my thoughts. "We need to talk."
I keep my eyes on the window. "About?"
"About what you've already figured out. About what my family really does."
My pulse quickens. This is it. The moment where he either trusts me or decides I'm a liability. I turn to face him, letting genuine nervousness show. It's not hard. Despite growing up around this life, being on the receiving end of a mob confession feels different.
"I don't know what you mean." The lie comes out weak, exactly as intended.
Pietro's laugh is humorless. His eyes bore into mine. "You're too smart not to have connected the dots."
I wrap my arms around myself, a gesture that's both calculated and real.
"I suspected..." My voice trails off. I bite my lip, looking away. "The money doesn't add up for just import/export. The way everyone's afraid of you."
"And yet you stayed."
"I needed the job." Truth wrapped in deception. "I need the money."
"My family controls most of Chicago's South Side." His voice is matter-of-fact, like he's discussing quarterly reports. "We run shipments through the docks—drugs, weapons, whatever pays. The restaurants, the construction company, they're fronts for washing money."
I let my eyes widen, pressing back into the leather seat. "You're telling me you're?—"
"A crime family. Yes." He watches my reaction with those dark eyes that miss nothing. "My father built this empire. My brother expanded it. Now it's mine."
"Oh God." I cover my mouth with a shaking hand. The tremor is real. My body's still processing the adrenaline from the attack. "Those men today. They were?—"
"Competition. The Irish are trying to muscle in on our territory." His jaw tightens. "Which is why what happened today can't happen again."
"I won't tell anyone." The words rush out. "I swear, I won't?—"
"I know you won't." The certainty in his voice makes my blood chill. "Because you're smart enough to understand what that would mean."
The threat hangs between us, unspoken but clear. My father would say the same thing, would make the same implications. The similarity makes my chest tight.
"Why are you telling me this?" I whisper.
"Because you're already in it. You work for me, which makes you a target. Today proved that."
"I should quit." The words come out small, scared. "I should leave Chicago."
"No." The word cracks like a whip. Pietro's hand closes over mine where it rests on the seat. "You don't run. Not now."
I don't respond to that. What can I say? That I don't have a place to run to?
