Page 45 of Pietro
I lean over her shoulder to see better. My chest brushes her back. She stiffens, then relaxes into me just slightly.
"You're right." My voice comes out rough. "That's our window. Someone offloaded product during that stop."
She turns her head, and suddenly we're inches apart. Her breath catches. Mine stops entirely.
"I need air." She says and I know she means‘I don’t want you close to me. Leave me alone.’
I nod and I leave her standing there. The elevator ride to the parking garage feels endless. My car's where I left it, but I bypass it, heading for the stairwell instead.
The Sartori compound gym is empty at three a.m. Perfect.
I strip off my shirt and wrap my hands, not bothering with gloves. The bag hangs like an accusation, and I lay into it with everything I've got.
Jab. Cross. Hook.
Again.
Uppercut. Cross. Jab.
Again.
Hook. Jab. Cross.
My knuckles split. Blood spots the canvas. I don't stop.
"Fuuuuck!" The word tears from my throat as I land a particularly vicious combination.
Women have always been simple for me. Beautiful distractions. Temporary pleasures. I fuck them, they leave, everyone understands the rules. No feelings. No complications. No risk.
But Nora...
I slam my fist into the bag hard enough to send it swinging.
Nora doesn't look at me like I'm the dangerous Sartori son. She looks at me like I'm just a man. Like I could be more than the monster I've become.
My hands throb. Blood drips onto the mat. I keep punching.
The truth I've been avoiding crashes over me with each impact: I've never loved anyone. Not the women I've fucked. Not even the ones who stayed longer than a night. Love requires something I don't have—the ability to let someone in, to be vulnerable, to risk loss. A heart maybe.
Pablo was the last person I loved without reservation, and look how that ended.
The bag splits. Sand pours onto the floor.
I stand there, chest heaving, knuckles raw, staring at the destruction. This is what I do. This is who I am.
But when I think of Nora, a different ache blooms in my chest. Not for violence. Not for control. It's a hollow longing that a bullet couldn't fix, and that terrifies me more than death because she doesn’t want me. She might not see me as a monster but she can’t see me as anything else than just her boss.
The office building feels like a tomb when I return. My hands are wrapped now, white gauze already spotted with red. Four a.m. and she should be gone. Should have left hours ago.
I find her slumped over her keyboard, one hand still on the mouse, the other pillowing her head. The security footage plays on loop on her screen—she found something, was probably waiting to show me.
Her face in sleep loses its careful guard. The fierce line of her jaw softens. She looks younger, the fight gone from her, leaving only a peace that makes my chest ache.
A strand of hair falls across her cheek, and my hand moves without permission, tucking it behind her ear.
She stirs but doesn't wake.
I should leave her. Should maintain this distance I've fought so hard to create since she pushed away from that kiss.
