Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Sophia
Steam clings to the bathroom mirror as I wrap the towel tighter around myself.
The shower helped wash away the tension, or at least the sweat from training.
The other tension, the kind that coiled tight in my belly when Lorenzo's hands gripped my hips, that's still there.
Burning under my skin like a fever I can't shake.
Three sharp knocks interrupt my thoughts.
"One second!" I call out, scrambling for the robe hanging on the door hook. The silk barely covers my thighs, but it's better than a towel.
The door opens anyway.
Lorenzo fills the doorframe, and for a heartbeat, his eyes drop to my bare legs before snapping back to my face.
"You could wait for permission." The words come out breathier than intended.
"My house." But there's no real authority in it. He looks... uncomfortable. One hand grips the doorframe like it's keeping him anchored. "Dinner's in twenty minutes. Downstairs."
"I'll eat up here."
"No." He steps inside, closing the door behind him. The bathroom suddenly feels smaller. "You'll eat with the family."
"Your brother pointed a gun at my face. Your other brother wants me dead. I'm not exactly welcome at the family table."
"You're under my protection." His voice drops, that dangerous edge creeping in. "That makes you welcome enough."
Water drips from my hair onto my shoulders, trailing down beneath the silk. His eyes follow one droplet before he looks away, focusing on a point over my shoulder.
"They hate me."
"They hate your last name. There's a difference."
"Is there?" I move closer, watching him tense. "Because to me it feels pretty personal."
He doesn't step back, but his whole body goes rigid. Like he's fighting something. Fighting himself.
"There's nothing wrong with eating at a table instead of hiding in a bedroom." His voice is rougher now. "You don't have to talk. Just... be there."
Another step closer. The space between us shrinks to inches.
"Why do you care where I eat?"
His eyes finally meet mine, and the heat there steals my breath. "I don't."
Liar.
"Thank you." I reach out, my fingers barely grazing his arm. "For the training. For letting me stay. For—"
He jerks back like I've burned him.
"Twenty minutes." The words come out strangled. He clears his throat, tries again. "Don't be late."
But he doesn't move. Just stands there, hands clenched at his sides, looking at me like I'm something he wants but can't have.
I'm not stupid. I see the way his eyes linger on me. Feel the tension that crackles between us whenever we're in the same room. He wants me. Maybe not the way I want him—with this desperate, consuming need that makes me feel insane—but there's something there.
Or maybe I just need to believe that. Need to think I have some power here, some control in him.
"Lorenzo—"
"I need to—" He stops, swallows hard. His hand reaches for the doorknob, misses, tries again. "I have things to handle before dinner."
The composed, controlled man from this morning is gone.
"Eighteen minutes now." He finally gets the door open, practically stumbling into the hallway. "Don't make me come get you."
The door closes with a soft click, leaving me alone with my racing heart.
I touch the spot on my arm where his eyes lingered, where water still clings to my skin.
Some of the clothes Vittoria left sprawled across my bed. My fingers trail over silks and cashmeres, searching for something that fits what I need tonight.
Not armor. Not protection. Something else entirely.
I hold up a black dress, completely appropriate for a family dinner. It would make me disappear into the background, become invisible. Safe.
I toss it aside.
My hands find a deep red wrap dress instead. The fabric flows like liquid through my fingers, soft as sin. When I hold it against myself in the mirror, I know this is it. The wrap style emphasizing my waist while the V-neck shows just enough cleavage to be interesting without being obvious.
I've spent years hiding my body. Loose sweaters during high school when boys started noticing. Baggy scrubs while caring for Mom, when my curves felt like a betrayal. How could my body thrive while hers withered away?
But tonight? Tonight I want Lorenzo to notice. Want him to look at me and see a woman, not some helpless girl.
The dress slides over my skin like it was made for me. Vittoria and I must be exactly the same size because it fits perfectly. The wrap ties accentuate my waist, making my hips look fuller, my breasts more prominent. The hemline hits mid-thigh, showing legs I've always been secretly proud of.
I turn sideways, examining my profile. My body isn't model-thin, never has been. I have my mother's hips, my grandmother's chest. Curves that no amount of college stress or grief could diminish. Usually, I dress to minimize them, to blend in, to avoid attention.
Not tonight.
If Francesco finds me tomorrow, if the Russians come for me, if Pietro decides I'm too much trouble, at least I'll have this. One dinner where Lorenzo Sartori looks at me and sees what he's missing. Where that iron control of his cracks, even just a little.
I find heeled sandals in Vittoria's collection, strappy things that add three inches and make my legs look longer.
My hair has dried in waves from the shower, and I leave it loose, wild.
I don't have any lip gloss or mascara but I'm okay with that.
I don't like putting products on my face either way.
Maybe I'm fooling myself. Maybe this dress is stupid, desperate. Maybe I'll walk downstairs and he won't even notice.
But maybe not.
I check the mirror one last time. The dress clings in all the right places, the color making my skin glow. I look... sexy.
I head for the door. I'm not hiding anymore. Not from Pietro's anger or Nico's suspicion or Lorenzo's walls.
Let them look. Let them see exactly who Sophia Torrino is.
Lorenzo
I check my watch. Three minutes late.
She's doing it on purpose. Has to be. No one takes twenty-three minutes to put on a dress.
"Where's your little Torrino princess?" Pietro asks from the head of the table, voice dripping with disdain. "Change her mind about gracing us with her presence?"
"She'll be here."
I don't care if she shows up. Makes no difference to me if she eats upstairs or down here. I'm not thinking about water droplets on her skin or how that silk robe barely covered her thighs. Definitely not remembering the way she looked at me, like she wanted—
"Francesco's making moves." Pietro cuts through my thoughts. "Word on the street is his niece has been kidnapped."
My fingers tighten around my whiskey glass. "When?"
"Started spreading the story this afternoon. Poor uncle, devastated about his missing niece. Offering rewards for information." Pietro's laugh is cold. "Even filed a police report."
Vittoria leans forward. "That's bad, Lorenzo. If he's going public—"
"He's setting the narrative," Nico finishes. "Making us the villains before we can make a move."
"The Sartoris are the obvious suspects." Pietro's eyes bore into mine. "We're the ones with motive. The ones he'd look to first."
I take a slow sip of whiskey, letting the burn ground me. Francesco's smarter than I gave him credit for. By claiming she's been kidnapped, he protects his reputation—he didn't lose her, someone took her. It also gives him justification for whatever retaliation he's planning.
"We could return her," Nico suggests. "Say we found her wandering, brought her home safe—"
"No." The word comes out harder than intended.
Pietro's eyebrow raises. "Getting attached to the Torrino girl, brother?"
"I'm being practical. She goes back, she's married to Daniil within hours. Then we have Russians with family ties to the Torrinos. That's worse than our current situation."
"So what do you suggest?" Pietro drums his fingers on the table, a sign his patience is wearing thin. "We can't keep her hidden forever. Francesco will tear the city apart looking for her."
I set down my glass, decision crystallizing. "I have an idea."
Everyone turns to me.
"It's risky." I pause, knowing once I say this, there's no taking it back. "But I've been thinking about it since this morning."
"Spit it out," Pietro demands.
"We make her untouchable. Publicly. In a way that Francesco can't counter without losing face."
Vittoria tilts her head. "How?"
I open my mouth to answer Pietro when a voice cuts through the room.
"Hello."
I turn, and the world disappears.
Fuck. Me.
The dress she's wearing wraps around her body like it was painted on. The deep V neckline shows just enough skin to make me want to lick every inch of it.
She's not wearing makeup, doesn't need it. Her lips are naturally pink and when she bites the lower one nervously, I have to grip the edge of the table to keep from standing up.
She's cast a fucking spell on me.
My brain short-circuits. All the words I know—Italian, English, every language I've ever learned—vanish. I'm sitting here like an idiot, staring at her while my family watches.
The silence stretches too long. Someone clears their throat and I force myself to blink, to remember how to breathe.
When I manage to look at Nico, his expression tells me everything. He sees it. Sees what she's doing to me, how completely she's knocked me off balance. His eyes narrow slightly, that calculating look that means he's filing this information away for later.
Get it together, Lorenzo. She's twenty years old. She's Francesco's niece. She's—
"You look beautiful," Vittoria says warmly, breaking the tension. "That dress is perfect on you."
Sophia's cheeks flush pink. "Thank you. I hope it's okay that I borrowed it."
"Of course! Red is definitely your color."
Sophia glances around the table, taking in our interrupted conversation. Her eyes meet mine for a split second before darting away. "Should I... do you want me to leave? You were talking, and I don't want to disturb—"
"Nonsense." Nora's voice is firm but kind. "You must sit with us. We're having dinner, and you must have too since you're staying here for now."
Sophia moves toward the table, and of course—of course—she chooses the seat directly across from me, sliding in next to Vittoria. The overhead light catches the subtle shimmer on her collarbones, and I realize she's put on some kind of lotion that makes her skin glow.
I still haven't said a word.
Pietro's watching me.
"Lorenzo was just about to share his brilliant idea," Pietro says, his tone making it clear he's noticed my sudden inability to speak. "Weren't you, brother?"
I reach for my whiskey, needing something to do with my hands that isn't what my body wants to do. The burn helps clear my head slightly, but when Sophia leans forward, adjusting her position in the chair, the neckline of that dress shifts and my brain whites out again.
"What idea?" she asks, genuinely curious.
Her voice is different tonight too. Softer but more confident. Like she's made some decision and is following through with it.
I need to answer. Need to remember what we were talking about before she walked in wearing that dress and scrambled every thought in my head. Something about Francesco. About making her untouchable.
Right. The plan.
But how am I supposed to explain my plan when I can't even remember my own name right now?