Page 4 of Pietro

I run.

Barefoot, bleeding, I burst through the apartment door and into the Boston night. September air cuts through my torn blouse, concrete scraping my feet raw. Behind me, Declan's cursing. A gunshot cracks. The brick beside my head explodes.

I don't stop.

Three blocks. Four. My feet leave bloody prints on sidewalk. A taxi idles at a red light, and I throw myself into the backseat.

"Drive. Please, just drive."

The cabbie's eyes find mine in the mirror, take in the bruises already forming on my throat, the blood on my face. I meet his eyes, my own pleading. He doesn't say a word. Just floors it.

CHAPTER TWO

PRESENT DAY. CHICAGO.

NORA

The Sartori Import & Export building rises forty stories into Chicago's gray October sky. I stand on the sidewalk, trying to steady my breathing. Three weeks of running, three weeks of looking over my shoulder, three weeks of jumping at every Irish accent.

I clutch the folded piece of paper in my pocket, the address written in my uncle Finn’s familiar scrawl. “Nora Kelly,” he’d said, his voice grim over the burner phone. “Keep your head down. Survive.”

My hand trembles on the door handle. The lobby beyond gleams with marble and money, security guards who look like they could snap necks without breaking a sweat. One of them watches me, hand drifting toward his hip.

I lift my chin. I've faced worse than suspicious security.

The elevator rises toward the executive floors. Each number that lights up feels like a countdown. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. My reflection in the polished doors shows a woman tryingtoo hard to look professional. Navy blouse to hide the bruises. Hair pulled back so tight it makes my head ache.

The doors open to chaos.

A woman rushes past, makeup smeared, clutching a cardboard box of belongings. She doesn't look at me, just stabs at the elevator button with desperate fingers. Through the open office door ahead, I hear glass shatter.

"That's the third one today." A man emerges from a side office. His tactical clothes are at odds with the expensive marble, marking him as something other than a paper-pusher. He looks at me, expression shifting from annoyed to resigned. "You here about the secretary position?"

"Yes."

"You might want to reconsider." He glances toward the office where something else breaks. "Mr. Sartori is... challenging to work for."

Challenging. Code for impossible. Perfect.

"I don't scare easily."

His mouth quirks. "We'll see about that. I'm Liam. If you survive the interview, I'll be the one training you on protocols."

If I survive. The words should make me run. Instead, they steady something inside me. I've already survived Declan's hands around my throat.

How much worse can Pietro Sartori be?

Pietro

I punch the wall beside the desk. Plaster cracks, knuckles split, but the pain is a clean burn against the numb ache in my chest. Blood drips onto a Murphy shipping report.

Our rivals' operations run like clockwork while ours bleed out. It’s like O’Sullivan and Murphy know exactly where to hit. Like they’ve got someone inside feeding them information, or like I'm just that fucking predictable.

What’s funny is that they are both attacking us while they’re enemies themselves.

I pour another drink. Number four? Five? Who's counting besides the ghost in my chest?

The door opens. Liam returns with that look. The one that says he's managing me instead of working for me.