Page 88 of Pietro
A hysterical laugh bubbles in my chest. It wants to claw its way out, turn into a scream. All those movies. The dramatic reveals. I always thought,so fake.
Nobody falls apart like that.
But I am. I’m coming apart right here.
My father isn't my father.
My uncle... is my father.
A lie. Every memory, every hug, every story. The thought circles, a vulture in my head.
Lie. Lie. Lie.
At least now I understand why he changed after Mom died. The man who'd been warm and protective turned cold and distant. Not grief—rage. He'd been forced to keep raising his brother's child, the living reminder of his wife's betrayal.
"Nora?"
Lorenzo's voice breaks through my spiral. He's crouched in front of me, his warm brown eyes filled with concern. When did he move?
"Are you okay?"
The question hangs between us. Am I okay?
I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. What words exist for this?
Lorenzo's hand hovers near my shoulder, not quite touching. "You're in shock. It's understandable."
Heavy footsteps scrape the concrete. Pietro. His presence fills my vision—dark suit, controlled movements, that barely leashed violence that surrounds him like cologne.
"She needs rest," he states. It’s not a suggestion. "It's late."
Late. Is it? Time has become elastic, stretching and compressing. The warehouse could be suspended in permanent midnight for all I know.
"Where?" My voice cracks on the single word. Where do I go? My apartment isn't safe. My family—which family? The father who isn't my father left me alone when I needed him. The father who is my father is not an option for now. I have nowhere to go.
"The estate."
The words are flat. A verdict. The estate.
The Sartori compound with its walls and guards and rooms that dwarf my entire apartment. The place I ate dinner just days ago, pretending to be Nora Kelly, secretary.
Before I was Nora O'Sullivan, hunted daughter. Before I became Nora Nobody, a biological accident.
Nico shifts his weight, his disapproval radiating like heat. "Pietro?—"
"It's decided."
The brothers exchange one of those loaded looks that carry entire conversations. Lorenzo nods slowly. Nico's jaw works like he's chewing words he won't speak.
Pietro extends his hand toward me. "Come on."
I stare the same hand that held a gun on me hours ago, that gripped my throat in the restaurant bathroom, that traced patterns on my skin last night. How many versions of him exist? How many versions of me?
My legs shake as I stand without taking his offered hand. The warehouse tilts slightly, and Pietro's hand shoots out to steady me, his fingers wrapping around my upper arm. The contact burns through my shirt.
"I can walk."
He doesn't let go. "I know."
