Page 37 of Pietro
This is what addiction feels like. One taste and I'm gone, craving more before we've even stopped. Every kiss I've had before this feels like rehearsal, preparation for the real thing.
For her.
Reality crashes back when she shoves against my chest, breaking the kiss with a gasp.
We stare at each other, both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, hair wild where my fingers tangled it. She looks wrecked. I probably look worse.
Her voice shakes, but her eyes are like green glass. "Don't," she breathes against my swollen lips.
The words land like ice water. "Nora?—"
"No." She slides back to her seat, rebuilding distance.
The rejection stings more than it should.
I start the engine without responding, pulling back into traffic with careful precision. The drive to the compound passes in charged silence, both of us processing what just exploded between us.
When we reach the gates, she speaks again. "I should go to my apartment."
"No."
"Pietro—"
"They might know where you live. You're staying at the compound until we figure out our next move."
She doesn't argue further. I park in the garage, the automatic lights harsh after growing darkness. She's out before I can open her door, already walking toward the house.
"Nora."
She pauses but doesn't turn.
"This isn't over."
Her shoulders tighten. Then she's gone, disappearing into the house without looking back.
The whiskey burns but doesn't help. Neither does the second glass. Or the third.
I sit in my study, replaying every second of that kiss. The way she responded, giving as good as she got. The fire in her that matched mine. The perfect way she fit against me, like she was made for my hands.
Dangerous thinking. Catastrophic thinking.
Pablo died because I was distracted. Because I chose family dinner over watching his back. I can't afford another distraction, another weakness for enemies to exploit.
But Christ, the way she looked at me. Not with fear or calculation like every other woman in my orbit. With heat and challenge and something else, something that might have been recognition. Like she saw through all my bullshit to whatever's left underneath.
A knock interrupts my spiral. "Come in."
Vittoria enters, already in pajamas, looking younger than her twenty-three years. "You missed dinner again."
"Wasn't hungry."
She sits across from me, pulling her legs up under her. "Giulia says Nora's here again. In the guest room."
"She stays. She needs protection."
"Is that all she needs?"
I pour another drink instead of answering.
