Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sophia
The hours crawl by like they're moving through molasses. I've counted the ceiling tiles three times—forty-two. The dresser has seven drawers.
My stomach growls, but I won't text Lorenzo. Not after throwing bread at his face like some child having a tantrum. Heat creeps up my neck every time I replay it. The shock in his eyes. The way he just... left. No anger, no threats. Just silence.
I pull my knees to my chest on the bed. The phone sits on the nightstand, mocking me. One button would connect me to him, but my pride tastes bitter in my mouth. He called me "kiddo" again.
The lock clicks.
My spine straightens. That's not Lorenzo's rhythm. I've already memorized the way he turns the key, quick and decisive. This is slower.
I stand as the door opens.
Dante fills the doorway, all dark suit and careful movements. His eyes scan the room before settling on me. In his hands, a tray with what looks like a sandwich and water.
"Miss Torrino." His voice carries that particular roughness of someone who's smoked too many cigarettes or screamed too many orders. Maybe both. "Brought you lunch."
He sets the tray on the dresser, movements economical. No wasted motion. This man doesn't do anything without purpose.
"Thank you." My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
"Need to use the bathroom?"
"Yes."
Dante nods toward the door. "Let's go."
I follow him into the hallway, hyperaware of how he positions himself. Close enough to grab me if I run, far enough that I don't feel caged. Professional. Impersonal. Nothing like Lorenzo's presence that fills every room he enters.
The bathroom door stands open. Dante checks inside first, a quick sweep that probably started as habit and became instinct.
"I'll wait. Take your time," he says.
I slip past him. The door closes, and I'm alone with my racing thoughts.
My hands shake as I wash them afterward. In the mirror, I barely recognize myself. Dark circles under my eyes, hair tangled from restless fingers.
I open the door to find Dante leaning against the opposite wall, checking his phone. He doesn't look up as he starts walking, expecting me to follow. I do.
Back in the room, Dante doesn't leave immediately. He stands by the door, hands clasped in front of him like he's delivering a business report.
"I'll check on you in a couple hours." His dark eyes study me, cataloging something I can't name. "Lorenzo won't be coming tonight. If you need anything urgent, text him." Dante's tone stays neutral, professional. "He'll see it."
Where will he be? The question burns on my tongue. Is he at another restaurant? Meeting with his brothers? Planning how to use the information I gave him? Or maybe he's with someone. A woman who doesn't throw food at his face like a toddler.
But asking would be stupid. Childish. Exactly what he expects from me.
I nod instead.
Dante watches me for another beat, then turns to leave. The lock clicks behind him, that final sound that reminds me I'm still a prisoner, even if the cage comes with sandwiches and bathroom breaks.
The tray waits on the dresser. Turkey and swiss on wheat, cut diagonally. A bottle of water, still cold with condensation beading on the plastic. An apple, red and polished.
I carry the tray to the bed, sitting cross-legged with it balanced on my lap. The sandwich is good—better than good. Fresh bread, quality meat, crisp lettuce. Someone who cares about food made this. Not thrown together but crafted.
Each bite reminds me how dependent I am on their mercy. On Lorenzo's protection. Francesco must know I'm missing by now. Has he sent people looking?
The apple crunches between my teeth, sweet juice flooding my mouth when his face comes in mind.
I shouldn't be thinking about him. Not now, not when my life hangs by a thread. But sitting here in his building, wearing clothes from his dresser, eating food from his kitchen—it all brings back memories I've tried to bury.
God, I was so pathetic.
Fifteen years old, hunched over my laptop at midnight, typing "Lorenzo Sartori Chicago" into Google for the hundredth time.
The search results were always sparse. A few mentions in restaurant reviews, his name on business licenses.
Nothing personal. No photos beyond a grainy image from some charity event where he stood in the background, half-turned away.
I'd stared at that photo until my eyes burned.
Marina caught me once, saw his name on my screen. "Who's that?"
"Nobody." I'd slammed the laptop shut so fast she laughed.
"Right. Nobody doesn't make you turn that red."
I told myself it was normal. Girls my age had crushes on actors, singers, their teachers.
Mine just happened to be on a man who'd saved my life when I was eight.
A man who moved through my uncle's world like a shadow—dangerous and untouchable.
A man fourteen years older who probably has a girlfriend or even a wife by now.
The research I did on teenage crushes said they were healthy. A safe way to explore feelings. Except nothing about Lorenzo Sartori was safe.
At sixteen, I'd walk past his restaurants, never going in. Just... walking by. Hoping. For what? That he'd magically appear? And if he did, what?
At eighteen, starting college, I told myself I'd outgrown it. Stupid childhood fixation on a hero figure. Psychology 101 stuff.
At nineteen, Mom got sick, and I stopped thinking about anything except keeping her comfortable, managing her medications, holding her hand through chemo.
But when Francesco told me about Daniil, when I realized I had ten days before becoming a monster's bride, Lorenzo's name surfaced in my mind like it had been waiting there all along.
Not the police. They were in Francesco's pocket. Not my father's old friends. They answered to Francesco now. Lorenzo. Always Lorenzo.
The smart thing would have been anyone else.
Anyone who didn't make my pulse skip when he entered a room.
Anyone whose voice didn't send heat pooling in my stomach when he said my name.
Anyone who didn't make me feel like that fifteen-year-old girl with her first crush, desperate and wanting something she couldn't even name.
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."