Page 40 of Pietro
I sink into the leather, crossing my legs, trying to project professional calm. He slides the contracts across the desk surface. Our fingers brush as I reach for them. His hand jerks back like he's been burned.
"Page twelve needs revision." His voice is controlled. "The delivery dates don't align with our warehouse capacity."
I lean forward to study the section he's indicating. "If we shift the second shipment to the following Tuesday?—"
"Show me."
I stand, moving around the desk to point out the specific lines. He doesn't move back, doesn't give me space. I'm standing beside his chair, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. My finger traces the relevant passage.
"Here. If we adjust this?—"
His hand covers mine. A brand on paper. His thumb grazes my knuckle, a slow stroke that sends a jolt straight to my core. My brain shorts out. There is only his hand, his heat. A magneticpull yanks at my center, demanding I lean in. Demanding I close the space. Demanding I give in.
"Pietro." His name escapes as barely a whisper.
His hand tightens for just a moment. Then he pulls away. "Fix the dates." His chair rolls back, the sound sharp as he creates a chasm between us. "Have them ready by tomorrow." he says, sounding frustrated.
I straighten, gathering the contracts with hands that won't stop trembling.
"Of course."
The drive to the compound passes in a blur. Pietro has assigned Josh to be my personal driver and security. By the time the car pulls through the gates, I've almost convinced myself that maintaining distance is the right choice. The smart choice. The safe choice.
Giulia's in the kitchen when I enter, up to her elbows in flour, her face lighting up when she sees me.
"Nora! Perfect timing. Come, come. Tonight we make ravioli."
She hands me an apron and a pair of gloves before I can protest, and soon I'm beside her at the counter, learning to roll pasta dough paper-thin. The repetitive motion soothes something in me.
"You know," Giulia says, her voice casual as she cuts perfect squares of pasta, "Pietro used to help me cook when he wasyoung. He was lighter then. He’d sing in my kitchen—a voice like a dying cat, but full of joy. Before..."
"Before Pablo."
I try to picture it. Pietro young and carefree, singing off-key in this kitchen. The image won't form. I've only known the man weighed down by guilt and responsibility.
"How was he after Pablo?" I ask before thinking about it twice.
Giulia's voice goes soft. "Pietro would disappear for days, come back bloodied. Starting fights he couldn't win. Hoping someone would end it for him."
My hands still. "But he survived."
"Because of Riccardo. His brother wouldn't let him give up. Dragged him back every time, sometimes literally." She shows me how to seal the ravioli edges. "Then Riccardo died, and I thought... I thought we'd lose Pietro too."
"But you didn't."
"No."
I focus on the pasta, pressing the edges with more force than necessary.
"Pablo would have liked you," she continues. "You don't let Pietro intimidate you. You see past the monster he thinks he is."
"I don't?—"
"Bella, I have eyes." She touches my arm gently.
The kitchen door opens before I can respond. Pietro stands in the doorway, still in his work clothes but with his tie loosened, sleeves pushed up further. He stops short when he sees me at the counter, flour dusting my hands, wearing one of Giulia's aprons.
For a moment, his guard drops completely. Then he blinks, and the walls slam back up.
