Page 91 of Pietro

Her face softens with memory and sorrow. "Every day. And never. That's what love does to us. makes us capable of holding contradictions without breaking."

She closes the door softly behind her, and the click of the latch is as loud as a gunshot in the silence.

I stand in the middle of the enormous room. A stranger's room. A stranger's life.

I walk to the gilded mirror over the dresser. The woman staring back is a ghost. Pale skin, haunted eyes. Red-rimmed and empty.

Who are you?

The question hangs in the quiet, unanswered. I don't know her. I don't know her name.

I am nobody. And I am utterly, terrifyingly alone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

PIETRO

The bedroom door slams. The crack of wood against the frame reverberates through the silence. My jacket lands in a heap on the floor.

I pace to the windows overlooking the lake. Black water stretches to the horizon, reflecting nothing.

Giulia.

Giulia knew. This whole time, she knew exactly who Nora was, where she came from, why she needed the job. She orchestrated the entire thing with Finn O'Sullivan while I played the fool, thinking I was in control.

My palm slams against the window frame. The wood groans but doesn't splinter. Built to last. Like me.

Connor O'Sullivan's daughter. The words replay in my head in Nico's voice, sharp with accusation. Except she's not. She's Finn's daughter, which makes this whole situation even more twisted. A woman running from a father who isn't her father, protected by a father she didn't know was her father, placed in my path by a woman I trust like a mother.

Trust. There's a word that's lost all meaning tonight.

I move to the bar cart and pour a glass of whiskey. The burn down my throat does nothing to clarify my thoughts. All it does is remind me of Nora's face when she learned the truth. That complete shattering, like watching a mirror break in slow motion.

But she didn't come to harm me. My family.

The thought cuts through the rage. With my gun to her head, the truth was right there in her eyes. Fucking terror, not deceit.

I let my anger once again control me. I feel sick with myself.

Christ, what does it matter what she thought? She's still an O'Sullivan. Still connected to the family that's been hitting our shipments. Still?—

Still what? Still the woman who reorganized my disaster of an office? Who stands up to me when everyone else cowers? Who made me feel something other than guilt and rage for the first time since Pablo died?

I down the whiskey and set the glass down hard enough to crack. Another thing broken. Add it to the list.

The house is too quiet. Even with family scattered through the rooms, it feels empty. Or maybe that's just me. Maybe I've been empty so long I've forgotten what it feels like to be anything else.

Except for those moments with her. In my office, her body beneath mine. In the car, her hand inches from mine. Those moments when the emptiness pulled back, just for a while.

I start pacing again, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. The room feels smaller with each pass, the walls closing in. My shirt sticks to my back with sweat despite the cool air seeping through the windows.

What happens now? Connor will contact us within forty-eight hours, just like I told Finn. He'll want her back, if only for his pride.

Strategic advantage. That's what I should be thinking about. How to use her connection to gain leverage. How to end this war with the Irish. How to protect family interests.

Instead, all I can see is her face in that warehouse.

When did I become this man? When did protecting myself become more important than protecting others?