Page 18 of Pietro

"Nora," I call through the door. "Change of plans. I need to?—"

The door swings open suddenly, and she crashes straight into my chest. My hands instinctively grab her waist to steady her. Her body is warm against mine, soft in all the places I'm hard.

Our eyes lock. Her pupils dilate, and I feel her breath catch. My fingers tighten on her waist, feeling the curve of her hip beneath the thin material of her dress. She's changed into something dark green that brings out her eyes, makes her look like some kind of forest nymph.

"I need to go," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "Family dinner's canceled. For now."

Her eyes narrow slightly. "Just like that? After you insisted I drop everything?"

I can feel her heartbeat racing where our bodies touch. Or maybe it's mine. I don't know anymore.

"Business emergency."

She stiffens, seeming to suddenly realize how close we are. "You can take your hands off me now."

The words are like ice water. I release her immediately, stepping back.

"I'll tell you tomorrow about those reports," I say, my voice returning to its usual coldness.

She crosses her arms. "Sure. Whatever you say, boss."

The sarcasm isn't lost on me, but I don't have time to deal with it. Someone's stealing from me, challenging my authority. That requires immediate attention.

"Lock your door behind me," I tell her, already heading for the exit.

I slam the car door harder than necessary.

Lorenzo would laugh his ass off if he saw me now. The great Pietro Sartori, undone by a secretary with an attitude problem. My brother has this way of seeing through everyone's bullshit, especially mine. Always has, even when we were kids.

Lorenzo's the diplomat of the family, the one who smooths things over when I leave bodies in my wake. Where I use my fists, he uses his words. Where I intimidate, he charms. The bastard could talk his way out of hell itself, probably convincing the devil to apologize for the inconvenience.

He runs our legitimate businesses. The restaurants, the import companies that actually import legal goods. Makes us look respectable to the outside world. The cops love him. Themayor's wife thinks he's charming. Even our enemies respect him.

But there's steel underneath that silk tongue. I've seen Lorenzo put a knife through a man's hand for touching one of our waitresses without permission. Did it with a smile, too. Apologized to the girl for the mess while the guy screamed.

That's the thing about Lorenzo. He makes violence look elegant. Like it's just another negotiation tactic.

Then there's Nico.

My youngest brother is nothing like Lorenzo. Where Lorenzo flows like water, Nico is all sharp edges and calculations. The kid, though he's thirty now, sees the world in numbers and patterns. Graduated from MIT at twenty-one, could have worked anywhere. Silicon Valley. Wall Street. Instead, he came home to run our construction empire.

Nico questions everything. Every decision, every alliance, every fucking thing I do. It drives me insane, but he's usually right.

He's also the only one who openly challenges me about working with the Feretti family. Thinks we're making a mistake trusting them after what happened with Riccardo and Bruno.

The construction business is his baby. Every building permit, every contract, every brick laid in our territory goes through him. It's the perfect cover for our other operations. Need to move weapons? Construction vehicles. Need to launder money? Building projects that exist only on paper.

But lately, Nico's been different. More withdrawn. More suspicious. He barely speaks at family dinners anymore, just watches everyone. Lorenzo thinks he's lonely. I think he's planning something

CHAPTER SEVEN

NORA

Numbers swim on the spreadsheet. Tuesday. The week’s hangover. My fingers fly across the keyboard, translating the drunk-spider scrawl of Pietro’s handwriting into clean columns.

Container MXCU-7789432. Twelve pallets of Tuscan wine. Simple enough. My third cup of coffee is cold and bitter, but the walk to the espresso machine means passing his open door. After Sunday, I’m keeping my distance.

Not that he seems to notice. He's been locked in meetings yesterday and today all morning, his voice carrying through the walls in sharp Italian phrases.