Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Sophia
The shouting downstairs yanks me from sleep. Male voices, angry and sharp. I stand from the bed instantly.
Where—
Right. Lorenzo's building. The locked room. Safety that doesn't feel safe at all.
Gray morning light filters through heavy curtains. I check the phone—7:23 a.m.
The voices rise again. Italian curses mix with English threats. A door slams hard enough to rattle the window.
Lorenzo never answered my texts last night. Not the one about helping with his books. Not the attempt at conversation about the cedar. Of course he didn't.
My bladder screams for attention. I've been holding it since before I fell asleep, too afraid to text him. Too proud to beg for basic human needs.
The room has no bathroom.
I stand, pressing my thighs together. The sweatpants I found last night hang loose on my hips, the t-shirt drowning my frame. Both smell like that same cedar, like they've been waiting in that dresser for someone desperate enough to need them.
Someone like me.
My thumb hovers over the phone keyboard. What do I even say? Please sir, may I use a toilet like a human being?
The door flies open.
I jump back, nearly dropping the phone. Lorenzo fills the doorway, still in the same clothes from last night. His shirt is untucked now, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Dark stubble shadows his jaw.
Does this man not understand how doors work? First last night, now this.
Would it kill him to knock?
"If you need the bathroom and food, we go now." His voice carries no warmth. Just efficiency. "I have to leave in ten minutes."
"I need a bathroom." The words tumble out faster than I intend. "Please."
He nods once, sharp and businesslike. "Follow me."
I trail him into the hallway, my bare feet silent on the hardwood.
We stop at the door directly next to mine. Another bedroom, but this one has an attached bathroom visible through an open door.
"Five minutes," he says, already turning away.
"Wait—"
He pauses but doesn't look back.
"The yelling downstairs. Is everything okay?"
He turns and stares at me for a moment.
"Five minutes," Lorenzo repeats, and walks away.
The bathroom is small but clean. White tiles, basic toiletries, a stack of fresh towels. I take care of business quickly, splash cold water on my face, and stare at my reflection.
You created a mess last night, girl.
When I emerge, Lorenzo stands by the window, checking his phone.
"Coffee? Food?" Lorenzo's words are clipped, efficient.
I nod, my stomach clenching at the thought of food.
"We'll go to the restaurant. Quick stop. Then you come right back up here." He moves toward the door without waiting for my response.
I follow him into the hallway, then down a narrow staircase. The walls are bare, painted some neutral beige that screams temporary space. Not a home. Just rooms above a restaurant where dangerous men conduct business.
My bare feet slap against the cold stairs. Each step takes me further from that locked room, closer to... what? A meal? A moment of normalcy before returning to my cage? At least, this cage is better than my last. For now.
Marina would laugh at this. No—she'd grab my shoulders and shake sense into me. What the hell are you doing, Soph? Running to another mafia family for protection?
Except she knew I was planning to run. Just not to here.
We reach the bottom of the stairs, and Lorenzo pushes through a door marked "Employees Only." The restaurant kitchen spreads before us—all stainless steel and black tile, empty at this early hour.
Marina's probably called me fifty times by now. We've been inseparable since Mrs. Peterson's kindergarten class when she punched Tommy Richardson for pulling my pigtails. Through middle school drama, high school heartbreaks, my mother's diagnosis.
She has nothing to do with this world. Her biggest rebellion is dating that drummer from a rock band. But she knows enough. Knows my uncle is connected, knows the family name carries weight in certain circles. She never judged, never asked questions I couldn't answer.
Lorenzo moves through the kitchen, starting the coffee machine. His movements are precise.
Everything about him screams control.
The flip phone weighs heavy in my pocket. I could try calling her, but I'm not stupid. This phone definitely has restrictions. Lorenzo would know immediately if I tried to contact anyone.
And then what little trust I might be building evaporates.
"Eggs? Toast?" Lorenzo doesn't look at me as he pulls items from the industrial refrigerator.
"Whatever's easiest." My voice sounds small in the vast kitchen.
Lorenzo cracks eggs into a pan with one hand while buttering bread with the other.
"How long before I can make a call?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
His hand pauses for just a second. "To who?"
"My friend. Marina. She'll worry."
"The one who knows nothing about your family business?" He flips the eggs without looking at me. "The civilian friend?"
So he already knows about her. Of course he does.
"She knew I was leaving. Not where, but—" I stop myself. Every word feels like giving him ammunition.
"She stays out of this." His tone leaves no room for argument. "For her safety and yours."
The eggs slide onto a plate. He adds the toast, pushes it across the steel counter toward me.
"Eat fast. Five minutes."
I pick up the fork, my appetite suddenly gone. Marina's probably terrified.
But Lorenzo's right. Contacting her now would only put her in danger. Francesco will be looking for me soon, if he isn't already. Anyone I've talked to becomes a potential lead.
The eggs taste like sawdust, but I force them down. Lorenzo leans against the counter, checking his phone again, that muscle in his jaw ticking with whatever he's reading.
The fork barely touches my lips when the kitchen door slams open.
"Lorenzo, we need to—" A man stops dead, his eyes landing on me. "What the fuck?"
The gun appears in his hand so fast I don't see him draw it. The black barrel points directly at my face.
My fork clatters to the plate. The eggs I just forced myself to swallow threaten to come back up.
This is it. This is how I die.
Lorenzo
The eggs on Sophia's plate might as well be scattered across the floor for how still she's gone. Her eyes lock on the Glock 19 my youngest brother points at her face.
"Nico." I keep my voice level, controlled. "Put the gun down."
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Nico's hand doesn't waver. "That's Sophia fucking Torrino sitting in our kitchen."
Of all my brothers, Nico had to walk in now. Not Pietro, whose rage at least runs predictable patterns. No—it had to be Nico, with his analytical mind that questions everything and his deep-seated hatred for anyone connected to our enemies.
"I said put it down." I shift my weight, angling myself between them without making it obvious.
"You know what her family did to us." His jaw works, that tell he's had since childhood when his logical brain wars with emotion. "What they're still doing. And you're serving her breakfast?"
At thirty, Nico runs our construction empire. One of the legitimate front that launders millions through development projects across Chicago. He's brilliant with numbers, sees patterns where others see chaos. That same mind now dissects this situation, finding every flaw in my decision.
"Lower the weapon, Nico." I step fully between them now. "That's an order."
"You're not the Don." But his arm drops slightly, the gun now aimed at her chest instead of her head. "Pietro makes these calls, not you."
"Pietro doesn't know she's here."
"Jesus Christ, Lorenzo." The gun finally lowers completely, though he doesn't holster it. "You're harboring Francesco's niece without telling Pietro? Have you lost your fucking mind?"
Nico paces now, a habit from childhood when his brain works too fast for his mouth to keep up. Three steps left, pivot, three steps right.
"She has information," I say.
"Information." Another bitter laugh. "They all have information. That's how they work. Dangle intel, get inside, destroy us from within."
"The shipment—"
"I don't give a fuck about the shipment." He stops pacing, fixes those intense eyes on me. "You think Francesco doesn't know she's here? You think this isn't exactly what they planned?"
Behind me, Sophia's breathing has gone shallow. I can feel her fear radiating like heat.
"Francesco sold her to the Russians," I say. "She's running from an arranged marriage to Daniil Morozov."
That makes Nico pause. His fingers tap against his thigh—one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four—his thinking pattern.
"Convenient story." But doubt creeps into his voice. Even Nico knows Francesco's reputation for using family as currency. "And you believe her?"
"I'm considering the possibility."
"Considering." He shakes his head. "She's a Torrino. They're all snakes."
"You're right." Sophia's voice cuts through the tension, steady despite the gun. "The Torrinos are snakes."
Nico's eyes snap to her as she pushes back from the table and stands. His Glock swings up instantly, trained on her chest.
"I agree with you more than you could possibly believe." She takes a step forward, and I tense, ready to intervene.
"Sit down," Nico commands, but Sophia moves closer to him instead, until the barrel of his gun presses against her sternum.
"What are you doing?" I start forward, but she holds up a hand without looking at me.
"I have nowhere to go." Her chin tilts up, meeting Nico's stare. "You think I want to be here? Begging help from my family's enemies? But Francesco needs to burn, and I brought everything that could help make that happen."
Nico's finger hovers over the trigger guard. "Pretty words from a pretty liar."
"The Torrino crime family dies with Francesco." Sophia's voice drops, something raw bleeding through. "There's no one left to continue it. I won't—I'd rather die than become what he is. And Francesco doesn't have children to carry on his legacy."
"He had one," Nico says, his jaw working.
"Luna's dead." The words hit the air like bullets. Sophia's hands clench at her sides. "She died in that car bomb twelve years ago."
Nico's laugh is sharp, cruel. "Dead. Right. But before that, she—"
"Enough." My voice cuts through whatever revelation Nico was about to spill. Both of them turn to me, Sophia's eyes wide with confusion, Nico's narrowed with frustration.
"Lorenzo, she should know what her cousin—"
"I said enough." The command in my tone makes even Nico step back. "Sophia, take your plate. Go to your room."
She looks at me for a long moment.
"Now," I add, softer but no less firm.
Sophia turns from Nico's gun, walks past the table with her untouched eggs, and heads for the stairs. Without taking the plate, naturally. Because following simple instructions would be too much to ask.
The kitchen door swings shut behind her, leaving me alone with my brother and his barely contained fury.
"You're protecting her." Nico holsters his weapon with sharp, angry movements. "After what Luna did to you, you're protecting another Torrino."
"I'm gathering intelligence."
"You're being played." He runs a hand through his dark hair, messing its usually perfect style. "Again. By the same fucking family."
"You think I don't know the risks?"
"I think you have a blind spot when it comes to women who need saving." His words land like punches. "Luna needed saving from her family too, remember? She fed you the same story—trapped, desperate, nowhere else to turn."
My jaw clenches hard enough to crack teeth. "This is different."
"How?" Nico spreads his arms wide. "Because she's younger? More innocent-looking?"
"Because Francesco's actually selling her to the Russians. That's confirmed."
"Pietro needs to know," Nico says finally.
"Not yet."
"Lorenzo—"
"Forty-eight hours." I meet his stare. "Give me forty-eight hours to verify her intelligence. If she's lying, I'll handle her myself."
"Twenty-four hours. That's all you get."
"Nico—"
"Twenty-four hours, Lorenzo. Then I tell Pietro everything. A Torrino woman in our building, eating our food, while we're at war with her family? He needs to know."
I want to argue, but Nico's already made more concessions than I expected. Twenty-four hours to verify Sophia's intelligence, to determine if she's weapon or victim.
"I'm searching for information myself about that Torrino girl." Nico pulls out his phone, fingers already flying across the screen. "Real information. Not whatever sob story she's selling."
"You won't find much. Francesco keeps his family business locked down."
"I'll find enough." He pockets the phone, heads for the door.
The kitchen door swings shut behind him, leaving me alone with cold eggs and the weight of another impossible decision.
I know why Nico's so adamant about telling Pietro. My older brother made a similar mistake just months ago with Nora O'Sullivan. The daughter of our Irish rivals showed up at his door, running from her own family. Pietro, against every instinct that should have told him otherwise, took her in.
The family went ballistic. Nico ran background checks that came back blood-red with warnings.
But Pietro was right about Nora.
She never betrayed us. Never fed information back to her father.
Never tried to destroy us from within like we all expected.
Instead, she chose Pietro over her own blood, stood with us against her family when the war came to our doorstep.
Now she's practically family herself, though the irony of that transformation isn't lost on any of us.
Francesco needs to be eliminated. He's gotten too bold, too reckless, bringing Russians into Chicago like the established families mean nothing. Every day he breathes, he destabilizes the careful balance we've maintained for decades. The intelligence Sophia brought could be the key to ending him.
My phone buzzes. A text from Dante: Meeting with Giuliani moved to noon. Issues at the warehouse need addressing.
Always something. I pocket the phone, my mind still on the girl upstairs who asked for my help. Asked. Not demanded, not tried to seduce or manipulate. Just asked.
Even men like me have rules. An ethical code beaten into us from childhood, written in blood and enforced with bullets. We don't hurt women and children. We protect those who can't protect themselves. We honor legitimate requests for sanctuary, even from enemies, if the threat against them is real.
Francesco selling his own niece to a Russian psychopath violates every one of those codes. If Sophia's telling the truth—and that's still a massive if—then turning her away would make me no better than her uncle.
And there are some days that I don't think I really am better.