But I knocked on his door at three in the morning because some part of me has always been walking toward him.
And now I'm here, locked in his room, wearing his shirt, and my body reacts to his presence like I'm still that teenager. When he searched me for a wire, his hands careful but thorough, I forgot how to breathe.
It's pathetic.
I'm pathetic.
He sees me as a child, calls me "kiddo," and why wouldn't he? The last time he really looked at me, I was eight years old with scraped knees. Now I'm just Francesco's runaway niece, a problem to solve, a potential asset with information.
The sandwich sits heavy in my stomach. I push the tray aside, drawing my knees back to my chest.
This crush—because what else can I call it?—needs to die. I'm not fifteen anymore, and this isn't some fantasy where the dangerous older man suddenly sees me as a woman.
This is survival. Nothing more.
Lorenzo
The Sartori compound gates open before my Alfa Romeo reaches them. Our men are watching through the cameras,always monitoring.
I park beside Pietro's Maserati, the engine ticking as it cools. The air bites through my coat as I walk to the main entrance. Home. Or what passes for it these days with Riccardo's ghost haunting every corner.
Voices drift from the family room as I enter.
I follow the sound, stopping in the doorway.
Pietro lounges in the leather armchair like he owns the world—which in Chicago, he practically does. Dark stubble shadows his jaw, and his white shirt is rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms marked with old scars. He looks tired. We all do these days, but Pietro wears exhaustion like another weapon.
The woman beside him is the only one who can relax my older brother.
Nora sits on the arm of Pietro's chair, her auburn hair catching the firelight. Her green eyes find mine, sparkling with mischief.
"Lorenzo Sartori, gracing us with his presence." She grins, that Boston accent making every word sound like a challenge. "Let me guess. Another late night at the restaurant counting money?"
"Someone has to keep this family fed." I drop onto the couch across from them. "Can't all spend our evenings playing house."
"Playing house?" Nora laughs, and Pietro's hand finds her waist, pulling her closer. The gesture is unconscious, natural. "Your brother's teaching me the family business. Turns out the Irish and Italians have more in common than blood feuds."
"Careful, Pietro. She'll be running Chicago before you know it."
"Let her try." Pietro's voice carries warmth I haven't heard in years. His fingers trace absent patterns on Nora's hip, and she leans into him like it's the most natural thing in the world.
The thing is, I've watched Nora since the first day Pietro brought her here. Saw how she stood up to him when everyone else cowered. Witnessed her refuse to be intimidated by Pietro's reputation. She's the only woman who's made my brother feel human again after Pablo's death—his best friend—nearly destroyed him.
Sometimes, watching them, I think maybe love isn't just for blood family. Maybe it can exist between two people who choose each other despite everything.
"You're staring, Lorenzo." Nora's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Either you're plotting something or you've finally realized your brother's more charming than you."
"Impossible. I got all the charm in this family."
"Is that what you tell yourself?" She studies me. "You look like someone stole your whiskey and replaced it with water."
Pietro's gaze sharpens on me too. Great. Now they're both analyzing me like I'm one of Vittoria's computer problems.
Nora stands, smoothing down the shirt she's wearing. "I'm going to find Vittoria. She promised to show me that new security system she's been working on."
She kisses Pietro, then heads for the door. She pauses beside me, her hand briefly touching my shoulder.
"Whatever it is," she says quietly, "don't let it eat you alive."
