Page 51 of Pietro

"The car is ready, Miss Kelly."

Outside, a sleek black sedan idles in the circular driveway, another of Pietro's security men standing beside it.

I arrive at Osteria Langhe right on time. The restaurant's warm lighting spills onto the sidewalk, creating a welcoming glow against the darkening Chicago evening. Mark stands by the entrance, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. When he spots me stepping out of the car, his eyes widen and he actually chokes a little on whatever he was about to say.

"Nora, you look beautiful," he stammers, then immediately flushes. "I mean, you always do, but tonight especially."

I laugh, genuinely amused by his awkwardness.

"Thank you, Mark. That's sweet of you to say."

He produces a single rose from behind his back, offering it with a shy smile. "I hope this isn't too much."

"It's perfect," I say, accepting it and bringing it to my nose. The gesture is old-fashioned but thoughtful. When was the last time someone gave me flowers without an agenda?

Mark guides me inside with a light touch at my elbow. The restaurant is intimate and elegant—exposed brick walls, wooden beams across the ceiling, and soft lighting from iron chandeliers.

"I've heard they have the best Piedmontese cuisine in Chicago," Mark says as the host leads us to our table. "I made the reservation last week, actually. I've been wanting to try it."

"So this wasn't just for me?" I tease as we sit.

Mark blushes again. "Well, having company makes it better. Especially good company."

After we order drinks—a glass of Barolo for me and the same for Mark—I lean forward. "So tell me about yourself, Mark. All I know is that you're good with numbers and you have excellent taste in restaurants."

"Not much to tell, really. I grew up in Michigan, studied accounting at Northwestern, and?—"

The door to the restaurant opens.

Pietro Sartori walks in like he owns the place, his imposing figure commanding attention. But it's not his unexpected appearance that makes my stomach clench—it's the woman on his arm.

She's stunning—tall and blonde with legs that seem to go on forever. Her dress is black and shows off every perfect curve. She laughs at something Pietro says, touching his arm.

The hostess greets them warmly, and Pietro's eyes scan the restaurant with practiced casualness until they land on me. His expression doesn't change, but something flashes in his eyes—satisfaction, maybe. He knew I'd be here. Of course he did.

I force myself to look away, focusing on Mark who's still talking about his college years. I take a sip of my wine, willing my hands not to shake.

"Sorry," I say, plastering on a smile. "You were saying about Northwestern?"

"Are you okay?" Mark asks, his brow furrowing with concern. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm fine," I lie, refusing to glance in Pietro's direction even though I can feel his gaze burning into me. "Just remembered something I forgot to file today. It can wait until Monday."

Mark continues his story, and I nod at all the right places, laughing when appropriate. But my awareness remains split—half on Mark's words and half on the table across the room where Pietro and his date are now being seated.

I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing how much this bothers me.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

PIETRO

Unbelievable.

She's fucking stunning in that dress. The fabric hugs her like it was meant only for Nora fucking Kelly, her hair falling loose around her shoulders instead of the tight bun she wears at work.

And she's wearing it for dinner with a fucking Mark?

I guide Amanda to our table, strategically chosen to give me a clear view of Nora while remaining close enough to hear their conversation. Mark stands as we approach, his eyes widening with recognition.