Page 99 of Pietro

The kitchen smells of fresh bread, coffee, something savory simmering on the stove. Giulia moves between counter and stove.

Vittoria sits at the breakfast table, still in pajama pants and an oversized Columbia University sweatshirt. She looks up as we enter, and her face transforms with relief.

"Nora!" She's out of her chair and crossing to me before I can react, pulling me into a fierce hug. "Lorenzo told me everything. Are you okay? That's a stupid question, of course you're not okay, but?—"

"Vittoria." Lorenzo's voice carries gentle warning from his spot by the coffee machine. "Let her breathe."

She pulls back but keeps her hands on my shoulders, dark eyes searching my face. "I'm just glad you're here. That you're safe."

The genuine warmth in her voice makes my eyes burn.

"Thank you." The words come out rough.

"Sit." She guides me to the table, claiming the chair beside me. "Giulia made fresh cornetti. And there's fruit, yogurt, whatever you want."

Pietro takes the seat on my other side, his thigh brushing mine beneath the table. The casual contact grounds me, reminds me I'm not facing this alone.

Nico enters from the hallway, stopping short when he sees me. We stare at each other across the kitchen, the memory of his gun pointed at my face hanging between us.

He clears his throat, shifts his weight. "I shouldn't have pulled a weapon on you."

Coming from Nico, it's practically a speech. His dark eyes flick to mine, then away, discomfort written in every line of his body.

"You were protecting your family." I keep my voice steady despite the tightness in my chest. "I understand."

He nods once, sharp and final, then moves to pour himself coffee.

The silence in the kitchen is a physical weight. Giulia sets a plate in front of me, her smile not reaching her eyes.

When she moves around the table, she gives Pietro's chair a wide berth, a careful distance that makes the air crackle. He doesn't look at her, just stares into his coffee cup like it holds the answers.

Every clink of silverware sounds like a gunshot. This is my fault. I'm the fracture in this family, the lie that broke their trust. Because Giulia helped Finn place me here, kept the secret from Pietro.

"The coffee's good this morning." Vittoria fills the silence, her voice bright. "Lorenzo actually made it right for once."

"I make excellent coffee." Lorenzo settles into his chair with natural grace. "You just have no appreciation for proper extraction time."

"You make it strong enough to strip paint."

"That's how Papa taught us to drink it."

I pick at the cornetti, flaky pastry dissolving on my tongue, but my appetite has vanished. Pietro's hand finds my knee under the table, a brief squeeze of reassurance.

"You don't have to stay here today." His voice drops low enough that only I can hear. "If you need space, time to process we can arrange something?—"

"I want to go to the office," I tell Pietro, my voice low.

He turns, his eyes searching mine. "You don't have to."

"I do." I meet his gaze. "If I stay here, I'll drown in it. I need... spreadsheets. Problems with answers. Something I can control."

"Your desk is probably buried under three days of chaos."

"Good," I say, a sliver of my old self returning. "I'm good at fixing disasters."

Something shifts in his expression, too quick to read. He nods. "We'll leave in an hour."

Giulia refills coffee cups, moving around the table with practiced efficiency. When she reaches Pietro, he pulls his cup away.