Page 36 of Pietro
The engine roars to life. Tires scream as we tear away from the dock, more bullets pinging off the reinforced body. In the mirror, I count four figures emerging from the smoke. All watching us go. No pursuit.
They wanted to scare, not kill. Message delivered.
The speedometer climbs past sixty, seventy, weaving through industrial traffic. Beside me, Nora sets the Beretta on the floor with careful precision, then presses both palms flat against her thighs.
They're shaking.
"You did good." The words come out rougher than intended.
"I had a good teacher." There's something brittle in her voice, an adrenaline crash hitting hard.
We're five miles from the dock when I finally ease off the accelerator, merging into normal traffic. The silence between us thrums with electricity, charged particles seeking ground.
"Pietro."
I glance over. She's looking at me with those impossible green eyes, hair wild from our escape, cheeks flushed with fading danger. Beautiful. Alive. Here.
A tremor starts in my hands, a delayed shock from the adrenaline. My breath catches, a ragged edge I can’t control. It’s not the bullets. It’s the image of her, lifeless on that dusty floor. The thought is a shard of ice in my gut.I could have lost her.The realization is more devastating than any bullet.
When did she become something I could lose? When did my secretary become essential as breathing?
"Pull over." Her voice cuts through my spiral.
"What?"
"You're shaking. Pull over."
I am. Fuck. My hands tremble against the wheel, delayed reaction hitting like a sledgehammer. I guide the SUV into an empty lot behind a warehouse, killing the engine.
The silence stretches between us, elastic and dangerous.
"You saved my life." She turns in her seat, facing me fully. "Again."
"It's my job since I put you in here."
"No." Her hand touches my arm, electric even through fabric. "I chose it either way."
Her touch is a spark on a fuse. Years of control, of maintaining distance from any woman, just fucking around…it all detonates. The walls I built turn to dust. When I can still feel her heart racing against mine. When the ghost of her body beneath mine burns through my clothes.
"Nora." Her name is warning and plea combined.
She doesn't pull away. Her fingers curl into my sleeve, anchoring us both.
"I thought—" Her voice cracks slightly. "When the shooting started, I thought we were going to die."
"I wouldn't let that happen."
"I know." She slides closer, the console between us an inconvenient barrier. "That's what terrifies me."
The last thread of control snaps.
I haul her against me, one hand tangling in her hair, the other branding her back. There’s no gentleness. My mouth crashes onto hers in a collision of desperation and hunger. This isn’t a kiss; it’s a claim.
She gasps then she's kissing me back with equal fire. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, eliminating any space between us. She tastes like coffee, like every bad decision I've ever wanted to make.
My tongue traces the seam of her lips and she opens for me, the kiss deepening into something that rewrites my understanding of want. This isn't the practiced seduction I know, the calculated moves that get women into my bed. This is raw need, stripped of pretense.
Her teeth catch my lower lip and I growl into her mouth, the sound more animal than man. My hand tightens in her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss. She arches into me, soft curves pressing against hard planes, and my brain shorts out entirely.
