Page 25 of Pietro
"They never should have gotten that close." His hand drops. "I've doubled security at all our properties. They won't get another chance."
But they will. That’s something I’m sure of. These men never stop until they get what they want.
Even if I don’t really know what that is.
"Come on." Pietro turns toward the door. "I'll show you around before dinner."
The house unfolds like a museum. He shows me the study, a conservatory filled with plants and light. We pass a living room where the silk couches look like they've never been sat on.
Not a book is out of place, not a pillow un-fluffed. The air is still, heavy with the smell of lemon polish and something else… absence.
"This was Riccardo's favorite room." Pietro pauses in the doorway of a home theater. "He'd drag us all in here for movie nights when we were kids."
Past tense. Everything here seems to exist in past tense. Riccardo Sartori was the first son in the family.
A Russian killed him two months ago. Bruno Sartori, the second one, got shot too and he is still in a coma. That leads us to Pietro, third child and current Don.
The kitchen breaks the pattern. Warm and alive, it hums with activity. Giulia stands at a massive stove, stirring something that makes my stomach growl. Two younger women prep vegetables at the island, chattering in Italian until they spot Pietro.
"Don't stop on my account." He snags an olive from a bowl, popping it in his mouth.
Giulia swats at him with a wooden spoon. "Out. Dinner will be ready when it's ready."
His shoulders relax.
"The dining room's through here." He leads me through a butler's pantry into a space that could host a state dinner. The table seats twenty easily, though only seven places are set tonight.
"That's where Giuseppe, my father, sat." Pietro indicates the head. "No one's taken it since he died. Riccardo sat there"—he points to the opposite end—"and now that chair stays empty too."
Two ghosts at the family table. The weight of their absence presses against the room.
Footsteps on the floor announce arrivals. Lorenzo enters first, looking like he stepped from an Italian fashion magazine despite it being a casual dinner. I know each of them from photos I’ve found a Saturday afternoon where I was bored and searched them all on the internet.
"You must be Nora. I’m Lorenzo." His smile carries genuine warmth. "Welcome to the chaos."
Before I can respond, a young woman bounds in—Vittoria,the only sister, all dark hair and curious eyes.
"Oh my God, what happened to your neck?" She reaches toward my bruises, catches herself. "Sorry, that was rude. I'm Vittoria. You're the secretary who finally lasted more than a week."
"Barely." The word scrapes out.
"Tori." Pietro's voice carries a warning.
She waves him off. "I'm being friendly. Someone has to be, since you'll just glower at her all evening."
"I don't glower."
"You're glowering right now."
Nico appears in the doorway, sharp-featured and suspicious. His gaze catalogues everything.
"Miss Kelly." The greeting sounds like an accusation. "Interesting day at the office?"
"You could say that."
"Nico. Our guest was nearly killed today." Lorenzo says.
Nico's smile lacks warmth. "Just making conversation."
