Page 41 of Pietro
"You never ask for help."
"Nora's learning to make ravioli." Giulia's voice carries a note of challenge. "She's a natural. And I love showing our culture to others, Pietro."
He moves into the kitchen, going to the wine rack. I watch him select a bottle, his movements precise, controlled. When he turns back, our eyes meet. Hold.
"Stay for dinner," he says. Not a question. Not quite an order. Something in between.
"I am staying." I turn back to the pasta. "Someone has to make sure Giulia doesn't work herself to death feeding all of you."
Giulia laughs, the sound warm and rich. "This one understands family."
Pietro's still watching me. I can feel it like a physical touch. When I glance over, he's leaning against the counter, wine glass in hand, that intense gaze tracking my movements.
"What?"
"Nothing." But he doesn't look away. "Just... the flour. In your hair."
I reach up, trying to find it. He sets down his glass and steps closer, too close, his fingers brushing the spot near my temple. The touch is gentle, barely there, but it unsettles me.
"There." His hand drops but he doesn't step back. We're inches apart, the counter edge pressing into my hip, his body heat wrapping around me.
Giulia clears her throat. "Pietro, go set the table. Let us finish here."
He backs away slowly, gathering plates from the cabinet. But his eyes keep finding me as he moves between kitchen and dining room. Each glance feels like a caress.
"That boy," Giulia mutters once he's gone. "Thirty-six years old and acts like a teenager with his first crush."
"It's not?—"
"Mmm-hmm." She hands me a pot of boiling water. "Help me with the pasta."
I sit at the vanity in the guest room, brushing my hair with slow, methodical strokes. The estate is quiet now, dinner long over. My fingers still smell faintly of basil and flour despite the gloves and scrubbing them clean. Unless it’s just stuck in my nose.
The brush catches on a tangle, and I wince, the sharp pain triggering a memory I've tried to bury.
The night I ran.
I set the brush down, my hands trembling. The hairbrush isn't the only thing that can snag on painful memories.
That night, after I'd struck Declan with the lamp and fled our apartment, I'd moved six blocks with the taxi before realizing my phone was still in my back pocket. The same phone Declan could track. The same phone that could lead him straight to me.
But before I ditched it, I needed to make one call.
My father's number. The only person who could help me.
"Nora? It's late. What's wrong?" His voice had been gruff with sleep.
"Dad, it's Declan." My voice broke on his name. "He's working with the Murphys. He's been feeding them information for months. I found proof—recordings, photos of meetings. He tried to kill me when I confronted him."
Silence stretched across the line. Then, "Where are you?"
"I don't know exactly. I ran. I'm somewhere downtown."
"You're sure about this? About Declan?"
"Yes! Dad, I heard him on the recordings. He's been planning this for years. He only got close to me to get to you, to get inside information."
Another long pause. When he spoke again, his voice had hardened. "This is your fault, Nora."
