Page 93 of Pietro
Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. She doesn't wipe them away, just lets them fall.
"I don't know who I am anymore."
The admission hangs in the air, a truth so raw it feels like it could shatter. I reach out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and take one of her hands in mine. Her fingers are ice cold.
"You're Nora. Smart enough to catch accounting errors my own people missed. Brave enough to stand up to me when everyone else runs. Strong enough to survive what would break most people."
She stares at our joined hands like she can't quite process the contact. "Why are you here?"
"Because you shouldn't be alone right now."
"I've been alone my whole life. Just didn't know it until tonight."
I stand, pulling her up with me. She resists for a moment, then allows it, unfolding from the chair like she's forgotten how joints work.
"You're not alone now."
I pull her against my chest, and she breaks.
I hold her through it, one hand tangled in her hair, the other pressed against her back. She's so much smaller than me, fitting against my body like she was designed for this space.
Her tears soak through my shirt, hot against my skin.
My lips press against her hair. "I've got you," I say, the words a low rumble in my chest. "I've got you."
The words feel like a vow. More binding than any business deal, more sacred than any blood oath.
Whatever happens with Connor, with the Irish, with the business—none of it matters as much as this moment.
Minutes or hours pass while she cries out twenty-three years of lies. My legs go numb from standing still, but I don't move. Don't shift. Just hold her and let her break, knowing that sometimes the only way through grief is complete surrender to it.
Eventually, the sobs slow to hiccups, then to shaky breathing. She pulls back slightly, and I let her, though my arms stay loosely around her waist.
"I'm sorry." Her voice is barely a whisper.
"Don't."
"Your shirt?—"
"Fuck the shirt."
That startles a tiny laugh out of her, more exhale than sound, but it's something.
She looks up at me, and for a moment, we just exist in this space. Her eyes are puffy, her face blotchy from crying, and she's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Not because of how she looks, but because of what I see in her—strength that refuses to shatter completely, even under the worst revelations.
"What happens now?" she asks.
"Now you rest. Tomorrow we deal with whatever comes."
She nods, sagging against me again. This time, I guide her to the bed, pulling back the covers.
"Stay." The word is a whisper, her hand locking on my wrist. "Just stay. I don't want to be alone."
I toe off my shoes and stretch out on top of the covers, my back against the headboard. She curls into my side immediately, her head on my chest, her arm across my stomach. I can feel her breathing, the rise and fall becoming steadier as exhaustion finally wins.
"Pietro?"
