Page 43 of Pietro

"By working yourself to death? By pushing everyone away?"

Through my office door, I catch movement. Nora at her desk, organizing files with that focused intensity she brings to everything.

"Damiano Feretti's going to want a meeting soon," Lorenzo continues. "About the casino, about business moving forward. You can't avoid that forever either."

"I'm not avoiding anything."

The line goes dead silent. I can hear his fucking disappointment across the city.

"I have to go. Shipment coming in tonight."

"Pietro—"

I end the call.

The Torrino shipment. Two million in product hidden in furniture crates. The documentation has to be perfect—customs forms, bills of lading, everything that makes us look legitimate while we move enough cocaine to supply half of Chicago.

I could handle it myself. Should handle it myself.

Instead, I open my office door. "We need to review the Torrino paperwork."

Nora looks up from her computer, and for a second neither of us moves. Three days of distance evaporate in that single glance.

"Of course." She gathers her tablet and follows me inside.

The door closes with a soft click that feels like a trap springing shut.

"Everything's here." She spreads the documents across my desk—manifests, customs declarations, receipts. "But there's a discrepancy in the weight calculations. Dock records show eight thousand pounds, but the manifest lists seventy-five hundred."

Her finger traces the numbers. I force myself to focus on the papers, not the curve of her wrist, not the way she leans forward, bringing her scent into my space.

"Someone's skimming." "Or the dock weight's wrong." She pulls up another screen on her tablet. "But if we cross-reference with the fuel consumption records from the ship..." Her fingers fly across the screen. "No. You're right. Someone's taking five hundred pounds between dock and warehouse."

She's brilliant. Fucking brilliant. And standing close enough that I can count the freckles across her nose.

"I'll handle it." I step back, needing distance. "Pull everyone's schedules who had access to that shipment."

"Already done." She hands me a printed list. Our fingers brush. It's not electricity. It's fire. A brand on my skin that sears a path straight to my groin.

Neither of us pulls away.

One second. Two.

She withdraws her hand first, but slowly, fingers trailing across mine in a way that's definitely not accidental.

"I'll get the security footage from those dates." Her voice comes out rough.

"Good."

But neither of us moves.

The air between us crackles with three days of forced distance, three days of wanting what I can't have. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and the last thread of my control goes taut, ready to snap.

"I should go." She doesn't move.

"You should."

Her eyes drop to my mouth. Just for a second.