Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Sophia
My legs shake as I stand, the command in his voice leaving no room for argument. The room suddenly feels smaller, the walls pressing in as Lorenzo towers over me. My pulse races so fast I feel dizzy
"Arms up." He says.
Of course. A wire. He thinks I'm wearing a wire.
My mouth goes dry. I lift my arms slowly, mechanically, like a marionette on strings. I can't stop trembling.
"I need to be sure." He steps closer. His hands hover near my sides, not touching yet. "This is just—"
He stops. An expression I can't read flickers across his face,. His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he looks almost... uncomfortable? The Lorenzo Sartori, who is part of one of Chicago's most powerful crime families, seems awkward about patting me down.
I would laugh if I wasn't terrified.
"I don't have a wire." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "But if you need to be certain..." I swallow hard, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. "I can take off my clothes. You can have someone check them. Whatever makes you feel secure."
His eyes snap to mine.
"That won't be necessary,” he says. Although I know that it probably is.
He moves then, his hands starting at my shoulders, sliding down the outside of my arms with clinical efficiency. His touch burns, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound.
His hands move to my sides, fingers ghosting along my ribs, checking for anything taped to my skin.
I stand frozen, barely breathing. His face remains expressionless, professional. His hands pause at my waist for a fraction of a second before continuing down to my hips. The search is thorough but strangely careful, like he's trying not to actually touch me despite needing to check.
"Turn around." The command comes out rougher than before.
I obey, facing the wall of windows that overlook the dark Chicago streets.
In the reflection, I watch him crouch behind me, his hands checking my ankles, sliding up the outside of my legs. My dress isn't short, hitting just below my knees, but his touch still feels too intimate, too much. Heat floods my cheeks.
He stands, and his hands move to my back, checking along my spine. His breath disturbs the hair at the nape of my neck, and goosebumps race down my arms.
"Hair up."
With shaking fingers, I gather my long hair, lifting it to expose my neck. He checks behind my ears, his fingers barely grazing my skin, but even that whisper of contact sends electricity shooting through me.
"You can put your arms down."
I drop them immediately, my hair falling back around my shoulders like a curtain. When I turn to face him, he's already stepped back, putting distance between us.
His expression is carved from stone, giving nothing away, but his hands are clenched at his sides.
"No wire." He states it like a fact, not an apology. "But that doesn't mean I trust you."
"I wouldn't expect you to." The honesty surprises us both. "Trust is earned, not given. Especially in your world."
"My world." He lets out a sound that might be a laugh if it held any humor. "You mean your world too, Torrino."
The way he says my last name feels like an accusation, a reminder of the blood that runs through my veins. Blood that makes me his enemy, no matter what information I bring to his door.
Lorenzo reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out something that looks like it belongs in a museum. The phone is thick, black plastic with actual buttons. He holds it out to me.
"If you need anything, text me. My number's already programmed in."
I take the ancient device, turning it over in my hands. The weight surprises me. It's heavier than my smartphone.
"There weren't always smartphones existing in this world, kiddo." Lorenzo's voice carries the hint of amusement.
My spine stiffens. That word—kiddo—ignites something hot and angry in my chest.
"I'm not a kid." The words come out sharper than intended.
He smirks. Actually smirks. Like I've said something amusing instead of stating a fact.
"I know how phones were before." I grip the device tighter, its edges digging into my palm. "I just never held one."
The smirk doesn't leave his face, and it makes my blood boil.
"I'm twenty years old." My chin lifts, meeting his gaze directly. "I graduated college early. I speak three languages. I managed my mother's medical care for two years while she was dying. I'm not some helpless little girl."
"You're twenty." He says it like that proves his point. "In my world, that makes you a kid."
The dismissal in his tone cuts deeper than it should.
I want to throw the phone at his head. I want to scream that I've seen more death in the past month than most people see in a lifetime.
That I held my mother's hand while she took her last breath.
That I know exactly what Daniil will do to me if this plan fails.
Instead, I stand there, clutching the old phone like a lifeline, while Lorenzo Sartori looks at me like I'm a child playing dress-up in an adult's world.
"Your world." I echo his earlier words, but the fight drains out of me. "Right."
He moves toward the door, and panic flares in my chest. He's leaving me here, locked in this room like a prisoner. Like a child sent to her room for misbehaving.
"Lorenzo—"
"Get some sleep." He doesn't turn around. "We'll talk in the morning."
The door closes with a soft click, followed by the unmistakable sound of a lock turning.
I stare at the locked door, then down at the phone in my hands.
My fingers trace the raised buttons. No touchscreen, no apps, no internet. Just calls and texts, assuming I can figure out how to work it.
The room feels colder now that he's gone, the elegant prison closing in around me. I sink onto the edge of the bed, still holding the phone.
Twenty years old, and everyone still sees a child.
But children don't betray their families. Children don't trade information for protection. Children don't choose between marriage to a monster and throwing themselves on the mercy of their family's enemies.
I've made adult choices with adult consequences.
Lorenzo
The adjoining room smells like dust and old leather. I close the door behind me, pressing my back against it for a moment. Through the wall, I hear the faint creak of bedsprings.
She's sitting down.
Good.
My hands still burn from touching her.
I pour myself another whiskey from the bottle I keep in here—every room in this building has one. The amber liquid doesn't wash away the memory of her skin through that thin dress, the way she stood perfectly still while I searched her.
Like a deer caught in headlights.
Like prey.
Except prey doesn't offer to strip naked for a security check.
"Fuck." The word escapes before I can stop it.
I've patted down hundreds of people. Men who reeked of fear-sweat and desperation. Women who tried to use the search as an opportunity, pressing closer, making promises with their bodies. I've never hesitated. Never felt my hands shake.
But with her, I could barely make myself do it properly.
The search was half-assed at best. If Dante knew how sloppy I'd been, he'd lose his mind. Any professional could have hidden a dozen wires in the places I didn't check. Under her breasts. Along her inner thighs. Taped to her lower back where I barely skimmed.
I drain the whiskey and pour another.
Twenty years old. Christ. When I was twenty, I was already made, already killing for the family.
But she's not made for this life. There's an innocence in her eyes that the violence in our world hasn't touched yet.
Even asking for my protection, even betraying Francesco, she still looks like she believes in good outcomes. In salvation.
Luna had that same look once.
No.
Sophia is nothing like Luna. Luna was twenty-five when we met, already deep in her family's business. She knew exactly what she was doing when she played me. When she gathered intel through pillow talk and got four of my soldiers killed.
Sophia is just a scared girl trying to escape a monster. But even if she is not, I will not make the same mistake. I won't trust a Torrino again.
A scared girl who remembered something from twelve years ago that I'd almost forgotten myself.
I sink into the leather chair by the window, staring at the wall that separates me from her. The memory crashes over me like ice water.
That day on Michigan Avenue. Christ, I'd buried it so deep I almost convinced myself it never happened.
Luna had wanted to go shopping. "Just one more store, Lorenzo.
Please?" She'd kissed my neck, knowing exactly how to get what she wanted.
We'd been together six months by then. Six months of me thinking I'd found something real.
Something worth breaking my father's rules about keeping business and pleasure separate.
We were walking past Saks when it happened.
"That's my cousin," Luna said after they'd gone and she appeared next to me. Just like that. Casual. "Francesco's niece."
"Your cousin?" I'd been stunned. "You didn't say anything."
Luna shrugged. "We're not close. Francesco keeps that side of the family separate from the business. Wants his sister's kid to have a normal life."
I should have known then. Should have seen the calculation in her eyes. The way she filed that moment away like ammunition for later use. But I was too busy being the hero, too caught up in Luna's praise that night about how brave I'd been.
Two weeks later, Luna burned me. Four of my men dead because of intel she'd gathered.
And now here's that little girl, all grown up, sitting in my locked room.
Francesco's niece.
Luna's cousin.
The irony tastes bitter as the whiskey.
Francesco kept her out of the business just long enough to preserve her innocence. Made her the perfect bride for his deals. Unspoiled. Untouched by our violence. Everything those Russian psychopaths want in a wife they can break.
She doesn't know about Luna and me. Can't know, or she never would have come here. Francesco must have kept that secret too, along with all his others.
My phone buzzes against the glass table.
I glance at the screen. Unknown number.
Can I wear some of the clothes in the dresser? Mine are still damp from the rain.
I stare at the message longer than necessary. Those clothes belong to no one. Just spare items I keep in all the safe rooms—sweatpants, t-shirts, basic necessities for situations exactly like this.
Yes.
Short. Direct. No room for interpretation.
She texts back.
Thank you. The shirt smells like cedar. Is that on purpose or just good luck?
I don't respond. There's no point encouraging conversation. The cedar blocks are in every dresser in this building. Keeps the moths away and happens to mask other scents. Blood. Gunpowder.
Another message.
I'm sorry for showing up like this. I know it puts you at risk.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I could tell her that risk is all I deal in. That harboring Francesco's niece is actually the least dangerous thing I've done this week.
But I don't.
I promise I'll earn my keep. I'm good with numbers. Really good. I can help with your books. My mom always said I got my brain from my father's side. Before he died, I mean. Car accident when I was three.
I know about her father. Anthony Torrino. Except it wasn't a car accident. Francesco had him killed for trying to leave the family business.
Or at least that's what my father told me back then.
And that's not the only secret he shared with me.