Page 29 of Pietro

Through the kitchen window, I watch Pietro through the gym's glass walls. He's stripped to a tank top and athletic pants, working a heavy bag with focused intensity.

"He goes there when the ghosts get too loud." She doesn't look up from her cutting board. "Been doing it since Pablo died. Some men drink. Some fight. Pietro does both."

I pour two cups of coffee, while Giulia pretends not to notice. The ceramic warms my palms as I slip out the side door into winter morning.

Oh God is cold out here.

My breath clouds white as I cross frozen grass, frost crunching under the boots. The gym door stands partially open, music pounding from within.

I pause at the threshold.

Pietro moves like a dancer, if dancers dealt in destruction. His body flows from strike to strike, muscles rippling under skin that gleams with sweat. The tank top clings, outlining every line of his torso.

He spins, executing a combination that ends with a devastating knee strike to the bag. The chain holding it groans. Power radiates from him, barely leashed, waiting to explode.

This is the man who killed for me yesterday. Who stood between me and death without hesitation.

This is the man I'm lying to with every breath.

The coffee cup shakes in my hand.

Pietro's eyes snap to the doorway, finding me instantly. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Sweat trails down his throat, disappearing beneath his shirt. His chest rises and falls with controlled breaths.

I step inside, extending the coffee like a peace offering. "Giulia said you would like some."

His fingers brush mine as he accepts the cup. A jolt fires up my arm. He drinks deep, then sets it aside, eyes never leaving my face.

"Want to learn?"

"To box?"

"Yep." He moves to a cabinet, pulling out hand wraps.

"I know how to punch."

"Show me." He says.

I set down my coffee, approach the bag he's destroyed. The stance is muscle memory, drilled into me by a father who believed his daughter should be beautiful and deadly in equal measure.

I throw a quick combination—jab, cross, hook. The bag barely moves, but the movements are textbook.

"Again." Pietro circles me, predator studying prey. "Harder this time. Like you mean it."

I picture Declan's face and strike. The bag swings satisfactorily.

"Better." He steps behind me, hands settling on my hips. "But you're telegraphing. See how your shoulder dips before the cross?"

His body heat burns through my clothes. I force myself to focus on technique, not the way his breath warms my neck.

"Try again."

I throw the combination, hyperaware of every place we're connected. His hands guide my hips, correcting my stance. When I land the hook, he makes a sound of approval that pools heat low in my belly.

"Good. You've had training."

"Some." Another half-truth to add to the collection.

The dining room fills gradually. Lorenzo appears first, perfectly put together despite the early hour. He greets me warmly, asking about my sleep with genuine concern.