Page 55 of Pietro

No. Soon I'm leaving the estate. I'll find my own new place to stay. From now on, we only speak at the office. About work.

"Fuck!" I hurl my phone against the wall, watching it shatter into pieces. The destruction doesn't satisfy the rage building inside me.

She can't leave.

She fucking can't.

I slam my fist into the wall, welcoming the pain that shoots up my arm. Better than this other feeling. This hollow ache in my chest at the thought of her walking away.

I don’t know how to react to this.

I know that I have this need to keep her but I can’t.

She is just my secretary. I keep her safe because she is in danger from working with me.

I rake my hands through my hair, trying to make sense of the chaos in my head. I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to want someone without scaring them away.

I stalk to the bar in the corner of my room and pour whiskey in a glass, downing it in one burning swallow.

I don't know how to be gentle. I don't know how to court a woman properly. I take what I want. I always have. But Nora isn't something to take—she's someone to earn.

And I'm fucking it up at every turn.

First, I kiss her. She pushes me away and then I do what? I show up at her date with another woman just to make her jealous. What am I, sixteen?

No wonder she wants to leave.

I pour another drink, staring out the window at the moonlit grounds. The estate has always been my sanctuary, my fortress. Now it feels like a prison—for both of us.

"Cazzo," I mutter, setting down the glass.

I need to fix this, but I don't know how. Every instinct I have is wrong when it comes to her. I want to storm to her room, tell her she's not going anywhere, that she belongs to me. But that's exactly what drove her away.

From that first day in my office, with her sharp tongue and unflinching gaze, she's beenthe one. She sees through my bullshit. She's not afraid to push back. And instead of handling it like a man, I've been acting like a jealous teenager.

I close my eyes, leaning my forehead against the glass of the window.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PIETRO

Three days of silence. Of meals eaten in her room. Of sterile notes left on my desk instead of her voice. Pathetic.

I should let her go. Should accept the distance she's creating.

Instead, I'm here like some pathetic teenager, about to suggest grocery shopping.

She steps out of the company building.

"Get in."

She stops short. "What are you doing?"

"You need things for your quarters. The guest room is barely stocked and you lock yourself in there for hours."

"I can handle?—"

"Get in the car, Nora."