Page 15 of Pietro

She turns andfuck me, those eyes hold mine like they have never done before.

"You're not like the others, Nora Kelly."

Her lips part slightly, but no sound comes out. She just pushes open the door and flees into her building without looking back.

My phone buzzes. Lorenzo.

"Family dinner Sunday," he says without preamble. "No excuses."

"Fine."

I end the call. I watch until her light flicks on in a second-floor window, third from the left. Then I pull away from the curb, the ghost of her scent still in my car. Fucking maddening.

NORA

I lock the door behind me, sliding the deadbolt into place with trembling fingers. One lock, two locks, security chain. The ritual brings little comfort tonight.

What the hell was I thinking, letting Pietro Sartori drive me home? Letting him see where I live? I press my forehead against the cool wood of the door, breathing in the lingering scent of lemon polish.

"You're not like the others, Nora Kelly."

That gravelly voice wrapping around my fake name like he knows it's a lie. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my heart to slow its frantic pace.

I push away from the door and move through my apartment. It's small but clean, sparsely furnished with secondhand pieces I've carefully selected. Nothing that screams Nora O'Sullivan. Nothing that connects to Boston or my father or the life I left behind.

The shower helps. Hot water sluicing away the day. I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink and my thoughts quiet to a dull roar.

My days have fallen into a pattern since I arrived in Chicago. Work, home, books, sleep. Repeat. The simplicity is both comforting and suffocating.

I wake before dawn, run three miles regardless of weather, shower, dress, and arrive at the office before Pietro. I work until he dismisses me, then return to this apartment that feels both like a sanctuary and a prison.

Evenings are mine alone. I read—thrillers mostly, stories about people with problems bigger than mine. Tonight it's a dog-eared copy of Rebecca that I picked up at a used bookstore. The nameless protagonist's fear feels familiar, comforting in its resonance.

Fridays have become sacred. After work, I stop at the wine shop two blocks over. The ritual of selecting just one bottle for the weekend grounds me. Last week was a Cabernet, this week perhaps a Merlot.

I'm not a connoisseur, my father would be appalled, but I'm learning what I like. WhatIlike, not what someone tells me to enjoy.

Weekends stretch before me, empty and glorious. I explore Netflix, discovering shows and movies I was never allowed to watch.

My father considered television beneath us unless it was the news or documentaries about historical wars.

Now I binge romantic comedies and crime dramas with equal abandon, curled under a blanket with my wine and no one to judge my choices.

I'm scared. God, I'm terrified most days, but there's freedom in this fear. Freedom in being alone. No one watching, no one expecting, no one using my every word and action against me or my family.

But tonight, Pietro's words have disturbed my carefully constructed peace.

"You're not like the others."

What the hell does that even mean?

Well, I don't know what that means. But I know for sure that I'm not special at all.

CHAPTER SIX

NORA

Sunday morning finds me cross-legged on my secondhand couch, spoon digging directly into a family-size container of mint chocolate chip ice cream. The apartment is silent except for the TV and my occasional sniffles.