Page 77 of Pietro

My stomach twists at the thought of Declan walking free, living his life while I'm trapped in this endless nightmare of running and hiding.

"Is he still working with the Murphys?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

"Seems that way," Finn nods. "Though he's keeping a lower profile now."

I stand up, unable to sit still with this new information churning inside me. "How come that both Murphy and dad are hitting the Sartoris?"

Finn leans back, his eyes following me as I pace the small room. "This is something that has been happening for years now, little fox. When the Don changes, the rivals always try to push things because it's the best timing to earn bigger territory."

"So it's just... business?" I ask, disgust creeping into my voice. "My father and the man who tried to kill me are both attacking Pietro's operations because it's convenient?"

"The underworld has its own rules, Nora. You know that."

I stop pacing, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that vaguely resembles Ireland's coastline. "I understand it, but I never truly liked whatever mafia families were doing to claim more blooded money."

"You sound like your mother," Finn says quietly.

I turn to face him. "She hated it too?"

"Siobhan was a practical woman. She understood the life she married into, but she never glorified it." Finn's eyes grow distant with memory. "She used to say the same thing—'blooded money.' That's her phrase."

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the stuffy room. "I didn't know that."

"There's a lot about your mother you don't know," Finn says. "Connor made sure of that after she died."

I sink back onto the bed, overwhelmed by everything.

"What happens now?" I ask, feeling smaller than I have in years.

Finn reaches over and takes my hand. "Now we get you somewhere safe. And then we figure out our next move."

I nod, too exhausted to argue or question further. For now, I'll follow Finn's plan. But I know one thing for certain—I'm done being a pawn in other people's games.

The door clicks shut behind Finn, leaving me alone in the motel room with my thoughts. He brought me a change of clothes an hour ago—jeans, a plain t-shirt, shoes and a hoodie—along witha paper bag of sandwiches and bottled water. The clothes aren't my style, but they're clean and they fit well enough.

I sit on the edge of the bed, Pietro's oversized shirt still hanging from my frame, his scent clinging to the fabric. My fingers trace the collar absently as memories flood back—his hands on my skin, his lips against mine, the way he looked at me this morning before everything fell apart.

Enough.

What Finn told me about my parents keeps circling in my mind. A "poisoning kind of love," he called it. I try to piece together my fragmented memories of them together. They never argued in front of me—at least not that I can recall. Dad was always respectful around Mom, almost reverent. She was the one who could make him laugh, who could touch his arm and instantly defuse his temper when business calls made him tense.

After she died, that softness vanished. The father I knew disappeared, replaced by a cold, demanding man.

I get up from the bed, my bare feet sinking into the threadbare carpet. I need to wash away the last twenty-four hours.

The bathroom is small and dingy, with cracked tiles and a shower curtain that's seen better days. I turn on the tap, letting the water run until steam fills the small space. I enter in.

The hot water stings my skin, but I welcome the pain. It grounds me, reminds me I'm still here, still fighting. I scrub every inch of my body with the cheap motel soap, as if I could wash away not just Pietro's touch but the last two months of my life.

I open the bathroom door, letting out a cloud of steam.

I freeze, clutching the thin motel towel to my body.

OH FUCK.

Pietro stands in the middle of the room, gun pointed directly at my chest. His eyes are black ice. Gone is the man who held me last night. In his place stands a predator.

"Hello, Nora." His voice is deadly quiet.