Page 23 of Pietro

CHAPTER EIGHT

NORA

The gates are a wall of iron and stone. Fifteen feet high, the Sartori family crest worked into the metal. A guard’s face appears at the window, hand on his gun. He doesn’t smile. The driver punches a code and the wall splits open, silent.

"Home sweet fortress." Pietro's voice carries dark humor as the gates swing shut behind us with mechanical silence.

The private drive curves through mature oaks and maples, their branches forming a canopy overhead. Through gaps in the trees, I catch glimpses of manicured grounds that stretch toward Lake Michigan.

The scale of it hits me gradually—this isn't just a house. It's an estate. A kingdom.

My childhood home in Boston sprawled across eight acres of Brookline real estate, all brick and ivy and Protestant restraint. This is something else entirely.

The house appears through the trees, a declaration carved from cream-colored stone and ambition.

It makes my father’s mansion look like a groundskeeper's cottage. A fountain dominates the circular drive, a monument, roaring lions spitting water with a force that feels like a warning. It’s beautiful, and it's meant to intimidate. It’s working.

"It's..." Words fail me.

"Excessive?" Pietro shifts beside me, his thigh brushing mine. "Giuseppe never did anything halfway."

Giuseppe Sartori was Pietro’s father. My uncle has informed me of basic things around the family.

The SUV stops at the front steps. Twelve wide stone stairs flanked by more lions, these frozen mid-roar. Pietro exits first, scanning the entrance before offering me his hand.

His fingers close around mine, warm despite the November cold seeping through my clothes.

The front doors stand fifteen feet tall, solid walnut with brass fixtures that gleam like gold. They open before we reach them, revealing a woman in her fifties with silver-streaked hair pulled into a neat bun.

"Pietro." Her voice carries a soft Italian accent, maternal worry threading through the single word. Her eyes land on me, taking in the blood on my blouse, the bruises darkening my throat. "Dio mio, what happened?"

"Giulia, this is Nora Kelly. She'll be staying with us." Pietro's hand finds my lower back, pressing gently. "Nora, Giulia runs the household. She's family."

Giulia's expression softens, though concern still creases her brow. She reaches out, her fingers hovering near my throat without touching.

"Those bruises..." She turns to Pietro, switching to rapid Italian that sounds like scolding.

He responds in the same language, his tone patient but firm. I catch enough to understand. Attack, Irish, safe now.

"Come." Giulia takes my arm with gentle insistence. "You need ice for your throat, and clean clothes. Pietro, show her to the guest room. I'll bring what she needs."

The foyer steals what little breath I have left. A two-story atrium with a sweeping double staircase, crystal chandelier that must weigh a thousand pounds, marble floors that reflect light like water. The space could swallow my entire apartment three times over.

Pietro guides me up the right staircase. The hallway stretches in both directions, doors spaced at intervals that suggest massive rooms behind each one.

"My suite is at the end." He indicates the eastern wing. "You'll be here." He opens a door three rooms down from his.

The guest room is larger than most people's master suites. Soft blue walls, a four-poster bed with crisp white linens, windows overlooking gardens that must be stunning in spring. An en-suite bathroom visible through an open door.

"It's beautiful." The words come out rough, my throat protesting.

Pietro's jaw tightens at the sound. "There's a lock on the door. Security patrols the grounds. No one gets in without going through multiple checkpoints."

"You think they'll come here?"

"I think someone sent those men to hurt me. I think that it’s not enough for them hitting my operations. I also think that he called you clever for a reason. Someone has mentioned you. But I’ll figure things out. Until then, you're not leaving."

The declaration should make me bristle. Instead, relief washes through me.