Page 59 of Pietro
"He found me." My words come out in a strangled whisper. "Dad was at a bakery today. He looked right at me, Finn."
"Slow down, Nora. Take a breath."
I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the cold tile floor, knees pulled to my chest. "Don't tell me to breathe! He's here. In Chicago. In Pietro's territory."
"What exactly did he say?"
"Something about people forgetting where they come from. He asked if I was Irish." My throat tightens. "He said I remindedhim of someone. Pietro was there and he somehow knew that he couldn't say I'm his daughter."
"Alright. Listen to me carefully. You're safe there."
"Safe?" I laugh, the sound brittle even to my own ears. "With the man my father is actively trying to destroy?"
"Yes. Connor won't hurt you, Nora. You're his daughter."
"The daughter he abandoned when Declan tried to kill me," I remind him bitterly.
"He was angry. Hurt. But he wouldn't?—"
"He told me to fix my own mess and hung up on me while I was bleeding." The memory still cuts like glass.
Finn's voice softens. "I know. But now he knows where you are, he'll probably contact you. He'll see this as an opportunity to get inside information on the Sartoris."
My stomach turns. "I'm not going to be part of this. I'm not going to spy on Pietro for him."
"I'm not saying you should. I'm just telling you what he'll want."
A knock at the bathroom door makes me jump. "Nora? Are you in there?" Vittoria's voice calls through the door.
"I have to go," I whisper urgently.
"Be careful, little fox. Call me if?—"
I end the call, yanking out the SIM card and shoving the phone into the back of the vanity drawer. I splash water on my face, trying to erase any evidence of my panic before opening the door.
Vittoria stands there, her dark eyes curious. She's into comfortable clothes, her hair pulled into a messy bun. She looks younger, more vulnerable than the tech genius I've glimpsed around the compound.
"Hey," she says. "Sorry to bother you. I just..." She hesitates. "Do you have some time? Just to talk?"
I blink, surprised by the request. "Talk?"
She nods, looking almost shy. "Pietro mentioned you ran into Connor O'Sullivan today. I thought you might want company. Or distraction. Or..." She shrugs. "I don't know. Someone who understands what it's like to be caught in the middle of all this."
The irony of her words hits me like a physical blow. If she knew who I really was—whose daughter—she wouldn't be offering comfort. She'd be calling for my head.
But the genuine concern in her eyes makes something in my chest ache. I've been so alone since I fled Boston.
"I'd like that," I say, stepping aside to let her in. "I could use a friend right now."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
NORA
The box sits on my bed like a threat wrapped in silver paper.
"Open it." Pietro stands in my doorway, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the hall. His eyes track my movements as I approach the package.
"What is this?"
