Page 57 of Pietro

"She was." Nora ties the bag, moving to the herbs. The moment passes, but something warm settles in my chest.

I stop pretending to look at cheese. I watch her. The way her teeth catch her bottom lip as she scans products. I want to be the reason she bites that lip. How she stands on her toes to reach high shelves, too proud to ask for help. The laugh that escapes when she catches me sneaking expensive prosciutto into the cart.

"Really?"

"It's the good stuff."

"It better cooks itself for that price."

"We need bread," she says, checking her mental list. "Is there a bakery?"

"Best in Chicago." I guide her toward Nonna's.

The bakery welcomes us with warmth and the scent of fresh-baked everything. Glass cases display rows of pastries, cookies, breads. Mrs. Romano, ancient and eternal, stands behind the counter in her flour-dusted apron.

Mrs. Romano’s face lights up. A stream of Italian pours from her, too fast for Nora to follow. "Pietro! Finally, you bring a nice girl to meet me!"

"She's not—we're just shopping," I respond in Italian, but Mrs. Romano waves me off.

She switches to English, addressing Nora. "You want the rosemary focaccia. He pretends he doesn't like it but he does."

Nora glances at me, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Rosemary focaccia it is."

The bell above the door chimes. Three men enter, and every muscle in my body locks up.

Connor O'Sullivan. The Irish lieutenant who's been hitting our shipments for months.

Beside me, Nora turns to stone.

Her face drains of color so fast I think she might faint. Her breathing stops, starts, stops again.

She knows him.

Fuck.

Of course she does.

Connor's eyes scan the bakery and land on us. On her. A flash of recognition, there and gone, before he schools his expression into casual interest.

"Well, well." His Irish accent colors the words as he approaches. "Pietro Sartori. Didn't expect to find you here."

I shift, positioning myself between him and Nora. My hand moves to my hip, fingers grazing the Glock tucked under my jacket.

"Connor." I keep my voice level, bored. "Odd seeing you this far from your territory."

"Man's got to eat. Best bread in the city, they say." His eyes slide past me to Nora. "And who might this be?"

Nora's standing frozen, barely breathing. I feel the tremor running through her where her arm brushes mine.

"No one who concerns you."

Connor’s eyes crawl over her face. My trigger finger burns. "Irish coloring. The eyes, the complexion. You Irish, sweetheart?"

She swallows, her throat working. "Half. Mother's side." The words are steady, but clipped. Weighed.

"Is that so?" Connor tilts his head. "You remind me of someone. Can't quite place it."

The two men with Connor spread out slightly. Not enough to be an obvious threat, but enough that I clock their positions, calculate angles and timing if this goes sideways.