Page 24 of Pietro
Giulia appears in the doorway with an armful of clothing and a bag of ice wrapped in a kitchen towel.
"These are Vittoria's, but you're close to the same size." She sets the clothes on the bed. Jeans, a soft gray sweater, undergarments still in their packaging. "Pietro, give us privacy."
He looks ready to argue, then thinks better of it. "I'll be in my study. Dinner's at seven."
When he's gone, Giulia presses the ice against my throat with practiced gentleness. "Sit. Let me look at you properly."
I sink onto the bed's edge, the mattress embracing me like a cloud. Everything here feels expensive, substantial, permanent. So different from my cramped studio with its mattress on the floor and hot plate kitchen.
"You're not his usual type." Giulia's observation carries no judgment, just curiosity.
"I'm his secretary. It's not—we're not?—"
"A man like Pietro doesn't bring his secretary home for protection unless she means something." Her fingers tilt my chin, examining the bruising. "These men who attacked you, did Pietro hurt them?"
I nod carefully.
"Hmm." She doesn't press, but intelligence gleams in her eyes. "A gun to the head... and you are not broken. Good."
"I didn't have much choice."
"There's always a choice. You chose to fight." She adjusts the ice pack. "Pietro... he carries too much. He needs a foundation, not another stone to carry."
The words hang between us, weighted with meaning I'm not ready to examine. She pats my shoulder and stands.
"Rest. Change. I'll have food sent up if you're hungry. Dinner is informal tonight—just family."
Just family. As if that's not terrifying in its own way.
When she leaves, I strip off my ruined blouse, ball it up and stuff it in the bathroom trash, then turn on the shower, letting steam fill the marble space.
The water pressure is perfect, the temperature consistent. Such small luxuries that I'd taken for granted growing up, now sharp reminders of everything I've lost. I work shampoo through my hair, watching pink-tinged water swirl down the drain.
I dress in Vittoria's clothes, the only sister in this family, the sweater soft as butter against my skin. The jeans fit well enough, though I have more curves than Pietro's sister. In the mirror, I look younger, vulnerable. The bruises on my throat have darkened to purple-black, a necklace of violence I can't hide.
A knock interrupts my assessment.
"Come in."
Pietro enters, changed into dark jeans and a black sweater that makes his eyes look darker. "Liam retrieved your things." He sets a duffel bag near the closet. "Everything from your apartment that looked important."
My hands itch to check for the go-bag, the photos, but I force myself to wait.
"Thank you."
He crosses to where I stand by the mirror, his reflection joining mine. We look like a couple. The thought sends heat through my chest followed by cold reality.
We're not a couple.
We're a mafia Don and his secretary who's lying about everything.
"Does it hurt?" His fingers hover near my throat, not quite touching.
"Only when I swallow."
"I should have been faster."
"You saved my life." And he did.
