Page 138 of Pietro

Connor appears as they load her into the ambulance. Our eyes meet over the chaos. Tomorrow we'll be enemies again. The Irish and Italian conflict will resume. Business will continue.

But tonight, we saved her.

"Thank you," I murmur, the words costing me more than he'll ever know.

He nods once. "Take care of her. She chose you. Make sure she doesn't regret it."

"Never."

The ambulance doors close. I sit beside Nora as we pull away, her hand in mine, broken fingers splinted against her chest.

Through the back windows, I watch the warehouse recede. Connor's men are already placing incendiary charges. In an hour, there'll be nothing left but ash and questions.

"Pietro?" Nora's voice pulls me back.

"I'm here."

"Declan's dead?"

She is in shock.

"Very. Soon."

"Good." She closes her eyes. "Now I can sleep."

"Sleep, tesoro. I've got you."

She squeezes my hand once before the exhaustion takes her. I watch her breathe, count each rise and fall of her chest. Alive. Damaged but alive. Safe.

The war with the Irish might continue, but this battle's over. And for the first time in months, that's enough.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

NORA

My fingers scream. Bent at wrong angles, agony shooting up my arm. Declan's voice is a venomous echo against the concrete.

"He's not coming for you."

I try to speak, but my throat is a knot of terror. The chains rattle. The air is thick with the stench of mold and blood. His footsteps circle, a predator's lazy pace. I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't?—

"Nora."

Pietro's voice shears through the nightmare. His arms are around me before my eyes open, pulling me hard against his chest. I gasp, fingers clawing at empty air, the phantom weight of chains still on my wrists.

"You're safe. You're home." His lips press against my temple. "Breathe with me, tesoro."

I force myself to focus on his heartbeat. A steady, solid drum beneath my ear.

Real.

One. Two. Three. Four.

My own pulse, a frantic bird trapped in my throat, begins to slow. The bedroom sharpens into focus: soft morning light through the curtains, sheets tangled around our legs.

"I'm sorry." The words are broken shards. "I woke you again."

"Stop." Pietro's hand cradles the back of my head, his fingers threading through my hair. "Don't ever be sorry for this."