Page 16 of Pietro

I've been crying for twenty minutes straight now, watching this damn show about a woman rebuilding her life after escaping an abusive relationship. It wasn't supposed to be this kind of show.

The Netflix description promised comedy with "elements of drama." What it didn't mention was how the main character's ex-boyfriend would stalk her across three states, or how her family would blame her for "bringing trouble" to their doorstep.

Another sob escapes me as the woman on screen packs a bag in the middle of the night, leaving behind a note her sister will find in the morning. I shove another spoonful of ice cream into my mouth, the cold numbing my tongue while tears stream hot down my face.

"Stupid show," I mutter, but I don't reach for the remote.

I can't look away because it's too familiar. The constant looking over her shoulder. The way she flinches when someone raises their voice. The fake name she gives at her new job. It's like someone took my life and splashed it across the screen for entertainment.

When she changes her appearance, cutting her long blonde hair into a short brown bob, I touch my own auburn waves.

I'd considered dyeing it black when I first arrived in Chicago, but couldn't bring myself to do it. My hair is the one thing I've kept from before. My mother had the same color. It felt like erasing her too if I changed it.

The ice cream is starting to melt around the edges, but I don't care. On screen, the woman is having a panic attack in a grocery store because she thinks she sees her ex.

I've been there—just last week at the wine shop when a man with Declan's build walked in. I'd abandoned my carefully selected bottle and fled.

The woman on screen is crying in her new apartment, alone on her birthday with a single cupcake. I watch her blow out the candle, making a wish no one will hear, and something cracks open inside me.

A sharp knock on the door shatters my ice cream therapy session. The spoon clatters against the container as I freeze, panic surging through me like an electric current.

What if he found me?

My vision blurs as I set the ice cream down with trembling hands. I stand, moving silently across the worn carpet, avoiding the creaky floorboard near the coffee table. My breathing comes in shallow bursts as I press myself against the wall beside the door.

With one shaking hand, I reach for the baseball bat I keep propped in the corner. The other hand moves to the peephole, and I hold my breath as I peer through.

Pietro Sartori stands in the hallway, his shoulders filling the narrow view. He's not in his usual suit but dark jeans and a black henley that stretches across his chest.

Not Declan. Not my father's men.

Relief floods through me, quickly replaced by confusion. What the hell is Pietro doing at my apartment on a Sunday morning?

"I know you're looking at me, Nora. Open the door." His voice carries through the thin wood, commanding and impatient.

I swipe hastily at my tear-stained cheeks, suddenly aware of how I must look. I set the bat down and take a deep breath before unlocking the door.

Pietro's eyes narrow the moment he sees me. His gaze sweeps over my face, cataloging the tear tracks, the redness around my eyes. Before I can speak, he pushes past me into the apartment.

"Who's here?" he demands, his voice deadly quiet as he scans the tiny space. "Who made you cry?"

He moves with lethal grace, checking the bathroom, the closet, even looking under my bed. The absurdity of watching one of Chicago's most dangerous crime bosses searching my shoebox apartment for a nonexistent threat would be comical if I wasn't so angry.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I snap, crossing my arms over my chest. "You can't just barge in here!"

Pietro turns to me.

"Someone upset you." It's not a question but an accusation, like he's personally offended that someone dared to make me cry.

"Yeah, Netflix," I say, gesturing toward the TV. "It's a show, Pietro. I was watching a show and eating ice cream. That's it."

He looks between me and the screen, disbelief evident in his furrowed brow. "You're crying over a television program?"

The condescension in his tone ignites something fierce in me. Who does he think he is, judging how I spend my Sunday?

"Yes, I am. And even if I wasn't, what gives you the right to knock on my door and demand I let you in? To search my apartment like you own it?" My voice rises with each question. "I work for you, Pietro. I'm not one of your properties to check on whenever you feel like it."

Pietro