Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Sophia
One hundred and twelve. That's how many roses bloom in the Persian rug's pattern beneath my feet. I've counted them seventeen times since breakfast arrived via Giulia, a woman who wouldn't meet my eyes, just set the tray on the dresser and fled like I might contaminate her with my Torrino blood.
The walls press closer with each circuit of my room. Ten steps from window to door. Eight from bed to bathroom. The math of my captivity measured in footsteps and counted flowers.
Outside, the sun paints the compound grounds. Guards patrol the perimeter, their movements efficient, practiced, talking, laughing, free to walk wherever they choose. One lights a cigarette, passes it to his partner. Such a simple gesture. Such impossible freedom.
My mother would have hated this room. Too opulent, she'd say. Too many reminders of the life that killed my father.
The memory crashes over me without warning. Her last lucid day. She'd gripped my hand with surprising strength, her eyes clear for the first time in days.
"Don't let them cage you, Sophia. Promise me."
I'd promised. Held her hand and swore I'd stay free, stay myself, stay away from the violence that defined our family.
Another broken promise to add to my collection.
Lorenzo's been avoiding me since yesterday. Breakfast came via Giulia. Lunch via Vittoria, who'd tried to make conversation about the weather but I don't think she wanted to do much talking so I kept my answers simple until she left.
A hot, frantic energy buzzes under my skin. My throat is tight. I need to scream or shatter something. Anything. I need to feel something other than this suffocating mix of grief and boredom and want I shouldn't feel for a man who keeps me like an exotic pet.
My reflection in the window looks pale, diminished. The girl who painted her walls would spit on me. Waiting. Always waiting for some man to decide if I get to live.
Pathetic.
Clarity hits me like a slap.
No more.
The decision gives me exactly what they expect. Not my finest moment, not my proudest strategy, but I need to shatter this suffocating politeness before it drowns me.
The common area buzzes with afternoon laziness. Soldiers in casual clothes cluster around card tables; soldiers clean their weapons. Someone's radio plays old Italian music, the kind my father used to hum. The domesticity of it makes my skin itch.
I stride into the center of the room. Every eye is a weight. Good. Let them watch. I pitch my voice to cut through the low murmur of conversation.
"I need air. Real air, not recycled compound air."
The nearest guard doesn't even look up from his poker hand. "You need Pietro's permission to leave the grounds."
"Then get Pietro."
"He's busy."
I pace the length of the room, letting my agitation show. "What about Lorenzo? Is he busy too?"
That gets attention. Cards lower. Conversations pause. The radio suddenly seems too loud.
"You should return to your room, Miss Torrino." Another guard, older, more cautious.
"I want to see Lorenzo. Now."
The guards exchange glances, that universal male look of confusion when confronted with female emotion. One reaches for his phone, probably to call for backup. God knows they'd rather face bullets than tears.
"What's all this noise?"
Nico leans against the doorframe, tablet in one hand, espresso mug in the other. He watches me like I'm a bug under glass, something strange and fascinating he's waiting to see die.
"I need fresh air." The words come out more desperate than intended. "I need to leave this place for five minutes."
His eyebrows rise. "The princess wants a walk. How unexpected."
Heat floods my face. "I'm not a princess. I'm a prisoner."
"Prisoners don't usually get designer clothes and gourmet meals." He sips his espresso, examining me like I'm a particularly interesting spreadsheet. "Though I admit, tantrums in the common room are new. Points for creativity."
Vittoria appears behind him. "Sophia, are you okay?"
"Not really. Losing my mind, apparently." The admission cracks something inside me.
"Enough."
Lorenzo's voice isn't loud, but it slices through the noise, and everything just stops. He stands in the doorway looking at me.
"My office. Now."
I lift my chin, meeting his glacial stare. "You can ask, not demand."
Whatever it is that flashes in his expression is not good. Without a word, he turns and walks away, trusting I'll follow. Or maybe not caring if I do.
I follow anyway. What choice do I have?
His office is smaller than the one at the restaurant. No wasted space, no unnecessary decoration. Just clean lines and controlled environment, like the man himself.
The door closes with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot.
"What exactly did you think that would accomplish?" His voice is quiet, but it carries the threat of a blade. "You want my men to see you as a spoiled child? Because congratulations, mission accomplished."
"I wanted—"
"You wanted attention. You got it. Every soldier in that room now thinks you're a liability. A weak point. Do you understand what that means in this world?"
My hands shake, but not from fear. From fury. "I understand I've been trapped while you all decide my fate. I understand that everyone stares at me like I'm a bomb about to explode."
He remains silent and I continue.
"I buried my mother three weeks ago." The words pour out, raw and ragged. "Three. I'm trapped here. My uncle sold me. And you won't even look at me. So, no. I'm not handling this perfectly."
My voice cracks on the last word. Tears burn my eyes but I refuse to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him.
The anger drains from Lorenzo's face.
"Christ, Sophia."
"I'm twenty years old." The words keep coming, unstoppable now. "I should be in college. I should be going to parties and failing calculus and figuring out who I am. Instead, I'm here, in this beautiful prison, waiting for strangers to decide if I'm valuable enough to keep alive."
Lorenzo moves to the window, hands braced against the sill.
"You think this is easy for any of us?" His voice has lost its edge.
"I don't know what else to do." The honesty burns. "I'm drowning."
"Then learn to swim," he says. The words aren't cruel, just a statement of fact. "You want to survive here? You learn control. Of your emotions, your reactions, your fear. Control is the only thing that keeps us alive."
The way he says 'control' makes me think he's talking about more than just behavior.
"Go to your room." His voice sounds tired now. "We'll discuss your training tomorrow."
"Training?"
"You want agency? You want to stop feeling helpless? Fine. Six a.m. We start with knives."
I stare at him, this man who offers weapons instead of comfort.
"Will you teach me?"
"Yes."
The single word carries weight I don't fully understand.
I leave without another word, my tantrum exhausted, my pride in pieces. The walk back to my room feels longer.
An hour passes. Maybe two. The sun drops lower, painting my room in shades of gold and amber.
Lorenzo stands in my doorway, a mug in his hand. Steam curls up, carrying the scent of chamomile and honey.
"Peace offering."
I take the mug, warmth spreading through my palms. The first sip makes me relax.
He crosses to the chair by the window and sat, owning the space as if it were his. I curl into the window seat across from him, the mug a barrier and bridge between us.
"I'm sorry." The words come out barely above a whisper. "For the scene. For being difficult."
"Your world exploded." His voice carries no judgment. "But this stops now. No more tantrums. No more public displays. You want to be treated as an adult? Act like one."
"I don't know how to be what people need me to be."
"You don't need to be anything others want you to be Sophia."
We sit in silence that feels less oppressive than before. The tea is warm, the honey a balm on my raw throat. For a moment, it soothes wounds I can't name.
"Tomorrow, you start training." He leans forward, elbows on knees. "Physical outlet for all that anger. You'll learn knife work. Hand-to-hand. Enough to keep you alive."
"Why knives?"
"Personal. Quiet. Effective. Guns are for soldiers. Knives are for survivors."
"Which am I?"
His eyes darken. "That remains to be seen."
The challenge in his voice makes me sit straighter. Tomorrow, I'll prove I'm more than Francesco's spoiled niece. More than a burden. More than a liability.
"Six a.m is early."
"Discipline starts early." He stands, the chair creaking. "Wear something you can move in."
"Thank you. For the tea. For tomorrow."
"Tomorrow you'll hate me." No smile softens the warning. "I don't train gently."
"I don't want gentle."
"Six a.m. Don't be late."
The door closes behind him with finality. I'm left with cooling tea and the promise of tomorrow.
Lorenzo
Five forty-five. An hour isn't enough, but it's what I have. The training room waits in predawn silence. Weapons line the racks, a hundred different ways to kill gleaming in the half-light.
I check each knife, the familiar weight in my palm a comfort. The edge bites my thumb sharp, ready. The ritual is supposed to ground me.
Just another student.
I tell myself.
Except she's not.
Four a.m, the intelligence came through secure channels. Daniil Morozov crossed into Chicago last night.
The Russian wants Sophia, and he's brought enough muscle to take her if we're not careful. A million dollars for information about her location. Two million if someone delivers her directly. Francesco couldn't keep it a secret any longer. If he ever really tried.
The clock on the wall ticks toward six. I roll my shoulders, crack my neck, force my body into instructor mode. Professional distance. That's all this needs to be. Teach her to defend herself, give her the agency she craves, keep her alive long enough for Pietro to figure out our next move.
Footsteps in the hallway light, hesitant. I left a note under her door explaining where to find the training room.