Chapter 8 #2
But if he pushes much further, I'll step in. Protection isn't something we debate when someone asks for it. Not in our family. Not when she's sitting here shaking like a leaf but still holding her chin up.
"I understand the risk," Sophia says, and her voice steadies. "I'm not stupid, Mr. Sartori. I know exactly what I'm worth to you."
Pietro's eyebrow rises slightly. Good. She's got his attention.
"I'm Francesco Torrino's niece. That makes me either an asset or a liability. Maybe both." She takes a breath, and I watch her shoulders square. "You could kill me right now. One bullet, problem solved. No more risk of Francesco using me against you."
Vittoria shifts by the fireplace. Even she's listening now.
"Or you could send me back," Sophia continues. "Let Francesco marry me off to Daniil. Let them think you never knew I came here." Her voice drops. "But we both know what happens to me then."
"Enlighten me," Pietro says, though his tone has lost some of its edge.
Sophia's hands stop twisting in her lap. "Daniil Morozov doesn't want a wife. He wants a toy. Something to break." She meets Pietro's eyes directly. "His last girlfriend—they found pieces of her in three different dumpsters. The one before that lasted two months before she 'fell' off a balcony."
The room goes still. Even Nico stops fidgeting against his wall.
"I'm twenty years old," Sophia says. "I've never hurt anyone.
Never stolen anything until I took that USB.
I helped my mother die with dignity while Francesco counted the days until he could sell me.
" Her voice cracks but she doesn't stop.
"So yes, I'm asking you to risk protecting me.
Because the alternative is dying slowly, piece by piece, and I'd rather you put a bullet in my head right now than send me to that. "
Christ. The girl knows how to paint a picture.
Pietro leans back in his chair, fingers drumming once. Nora touches his shoulder again. She knows better than all of us what running for your life is like.
"You're very young," Pietro says finally.
"Old enough to know dead is dead," Sophia replies. "The only question is how much I suffer first."
"You could run. Leave Chicago."
She shakes her head. "With what money? What identity? Francesco has connections everywhere. The Russians even more. I'd last maybe a week before they found me."
"So you came to us."
"I came to Lorenzo." She glances back at me for just a second. "He saved me once when I was eight. I hoped..." She trails off, then straightens. "That maybe saving people is what the Sartoris do, even when those people are Torrinos."
Dangerous territory. But she's smart about it, making it about our family's honor rather than begging for pity.
Pietro stands, and everyone in the room tenses. He walks closer, stopping just in front of Sophia's chair. She has to crane her neck to look up at him, but she does it without flinching.
"You think we're the better monsters," he says.
"I think you're monsters who keep your word," she says. "If you promise protection, you'll give it. If you decide to kill me, it'll be quick. Either way, you won't lie to me about it."
My brother studies her for a long moment. I can see him weighing options, calculating risks.
"For now, you stay here," he says. His voice carries the weight of temporary judgment. "But I promise you nothing. Understand? No guarantees. No protection deals. Nothing."
Sophia nods, her throat working as she swallows.
"If your information proves useful, then we'll talk again." Pietro's eyes narrow. "But until then, you're just a guest. A guest who doesn't leave the compound. Who doesn't contact anyone. Who does exactly what she's told."
"I understand," Sophia says.
Pietro turns away, then stops. "What happens to your uncle Francesco when this is over? You expecting us to spare him because you helped us?"
Everyone watches Sophia now, waiting to see if she'll plead for family blood.
"I don't care what happens to Francesco," she says, and her voice goes cold as winter wind.
"He let my mother die thinking he loved us, while he was already negotiating my price with the Russians.
He's not my family anymore," Sophia continues.
"Family doesn't sell you to monsters. Family doesn't use your mother's funeral to discuss your bride price.
" Her hands clench in her lap. "Whatever you do to him, he's earned it. "
Pietro studies her for another moment, then nods to Vittoria. "Take her to the guest room. Make sure she has what she needs."
Vittoria pushes off from the fireplace, moving with the casual grace that makes people forget she's as dangerous as any of us when needed. "Come on," she says to Sophia, kindly.
Sophia stands, she looks at me once. Just a quick glance that asks a dozen questions that I can't answer right now.
Vittoria leads Sophia up the stairs, their footsteps fading as they climb. The blue guest room is on the third floor, far from any easy exit. Smart choice. Close enough to hear if there's trouble, far enough that she can't slip out unnoticed.
"Lorenzo," Pietro says, and I know that tone. The real conversation is about to begin.
I move from behind the empty chair, taking a position where I can see both my brothers. Nico pushes off his wall, closing the circle. Dante and Liam know to stay quiet unless asked directly.
"You believe her?" Pietro asks me.
"The fear's real," I say. "Nobody's that good an actress."
"Fear can be real and still be manipulation," Nico points out. "She could be scared of Francesco and still playing us."
"Like Luna did," Pietro adds, watching my face.
I keep my expression neutral despite the name hitting like ice water.
"Luna was different. She came to me with promises, not desperation.
She appeared to want me and then to love me.
She offered things that seemed too good to be true because they were.
Sophia's not offering me anything except information we can verify. She's not trying to seduce her way in."
"Liam," Pietro says, turning to his head of security. "Find out what Francesco's doing right now. I want to know if he's looking for her, who he's talked to, what moves he's making."
Liam nods once, already pulling out his phone. "I'll have eyes on him within the hour."
"There's something else," I say, drawing Pietro's attention back to me. "According to the USB, Francesco and the Russians are hitting another shipment tonight. Dock seven, around midnight."
Pietro's jaw tightens. "How much?"
"Originally half a million in electronics." I keep my voice level. "I already moved most of it this afternoon. Left about eighty grand worth. Enough to make them think it's real, not enough to hurt us badly."
My brother studies me for a long moment.
"You changed the manifest without telling me," he says, but there's no real heat in it.
"I was going to brief you tonight."
"It is a smart move," Pietro says slowly, working through the strategy. "If we hit back immediately, they'll know we have inside information. They'll suspect the girl."
"Or they'll tighten security around whatever they're planning next," I add. "Right now they think we're blind. That's an advantage we can't waste."
Pietro nods, the decision made. "Let them have their victory tonight.
We'll make them pay for it later, with interest." He looks at Dante.
"Make sure our guys at dock seven know to put up enough of a fight to make it look real, but no heroes.
I don't want anyone dying over eighty grand of merchandise we're choosing to lose. "
"Already on it," Dante says, typing into his phone.
Pietro turns back to me. "The USB. Let's see more in it." He moves toward his office, expecting me to follow. "Nico, you too. Dante, stay here in case Liam needs backup coordination."
We follow Pietro down the hallway to his office.
Pietro's office feels smaller with the three of us in it. He sits behind his massive desk while Nico takes the leather chair to his right. I remain standing, arms crossed, watching as Pietro plugs the USB into his computer.
"Let's see what Francesco's been up to," Pietro says, clicking through files.
The recordings start playing—Francesco's voice mixing with Russian accents, discussing shipments and territories. But I'm not hearing it. Not really. My mind keeps drifting to the third floor, to that guest room where Sophia's probably sitting on the bed.
"Lorenzo." Pietro's voice cuts through my thoughts. "You listening?"
"Yeah." I straighten, forcing myself to focus on the screen. "They're discussing the dock schedules."
But even as I say it, I'm thinking about how she held her chin up when Pietro was interrogating her. Twenty years old and facing down one of the most dangerous men in Chicago without flinching. Most grown men can't do that.
"This is good intel," Nico admits grudgingly, leaning forward to study the screen. "They're planning to hit three more shipments this month."
I should be calculating our counter-moves, figuring out how to use this information. Instead, I'm remembering the way her voice cracked when she talked about her mother. The way she said Francesco wasn't family anymore, cold and final.
I don't like what games my mind is playing.
I've had beautiful women in my bed more times than I can count. Models, actresses, daughters of other families looking for a thrill. They come, we have our fun for a few hours, maybe a few days if they're particularly entertaining, and then they go. None of them ever stuck in my head like this.
None of them were her either.
Christ, she's fourteen years younger than me.
I need to stop this.
Stop thinking about her.
She's a job, a situation to be handled. Nothing more.