Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lorenzo
Ibarely slept last night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Sophia in that red dress. Saw her lifting her chin, declaring she'd only marry me. Like it was nothing. Like choosing me didn't mean anything beyond avoiding Nico.
Trust.
She said she doesn't trust Nico. But she trusts me?
I drag myself out of bed at five-thirty, skipping the morning training session with her. Can't handle being that close to her right now. Not when my control is hanging by a thread.
By the time I make it to Pietro's office, it's past seven. I knock once and enter.
The sight that greets me makes me stop dead.
Nora sits on Pietro's lap, her hair falling over his shoulder as she whispers something in his ear. His hand rests possessively on her hip, and the look on his face—
Christ. My brother, the stone-cold killer, looks soft.
"Am I interrupting something?"
Nora jumps slightly, color flooding her freckled cheeks. She starts to stand, but Pietro's hand tightens on her hip for a moment before releasing her.
"Lorenzo." Pietro's voice carries a warning, but there's no real heat behind it.
Nora smooths down her skirt as she stands.
She moves toward the door, but stops directly in front of me. Her green eyes study my face with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable.
"I don't know you that well," she says, her Boston accent softening the words. "But what you're doing for that girl? It's kind."
I snort. "I'm not kind."
She shakes her head, a small smile playing at her lips. "You're all wrapped up in this bad guy image, Lorenzo Sartori. But underneath?" She reaches out and pats my chest, right over my heart. "You're one of the kindest men I've ever met."
"Careful, cara," Pietro calls from his desk. "Keep talking like that and he might actually believe you."
Nora laughs, the sound bright in the dark-paneled office. "You're all some kind of good bad monsters." She glances back at Pietro with a look that makes me want to leave the room. "Lucky for us girls who see through the wrapping."
She slips past me, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
I turn back to Pietro, who's watching me with those calculating eyes of his. The softness from moments ago has vanished completely.
"Sit." He gestures to the chair across from his desk.
I drop into it, waiting. Pietro doesn't speak immediately. He pulls out a cigarette, lights it, takes a long drag. The smoke curls between us like a question mark.
"I've thought about it," he says finally. "Your proposal."
My jaw tightens. "And?"
"It's the best option for now." He taps ash into the crystal tray on his desk. "Francesco's backing us into a corner with this kidnapping story. The cops are sniffing around. The other families are choosing sides. We need to neutralize this before it explodes."
"So you agree to the marriage."
"I agree it's necessary." His eyes narrow. "But Lorenzo, if this goes sideways—"
"I'll handle it."
"Arrange a meeting with Francesco. Neutral ground," Pietro says. "Somewhere public enough that he can't try anything stupid, but private enough for real conversation."
"The old warehouse on Ashland. The one the Benedettis use for their fights."
Pietro considers this. "That could work. Marco Benedetti owes me a favor."
"I'll make the call to Francesco."
"No." Pietro's voice cuts sharp. "We do this right. Official channels. I'll have Dante reach out to Francesco's consigliere. Set the terms. Tomorrow night, eight o'clock."
I nod, already moving toward the door.
"Lorenzo."
I pause, hand on the doorknob.
"You sure about this? Marrying the girl?"
"It's a business arrangement," I say without turning around. "Nothing more."
He nods.
I leave his office and head upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. Sophia needs to know what's been decided. What I've agreed to.
What we've agreed to, I correct myself. She chose me, after all.
The memory of her voice echoes in my head. I'll only marry Lorenzo.
I stop outside her door, hand raised to knock.
I knock twice, sharp and quick.
"Come in." Her voice sounds tired.
I open the door to find her standing by the window, arms wrapped around herself. She's wearing a sweater, too big for her frame. It makes her look younger. More vulnerable.
"Lorenzo." She turns to face me fully, honey-brown eyes searching my face. "Have you decided?"
"Pietro agreed to the marriage."
Something flashes across her face—relief? Fear? Both?
"To you?"
"To me."
Sophia
My heart slams against my ribs so hard I'm sure he can hear it.
The words echo in my head while I fight to keep my face neutral. Inside, adrenaline floods my veins like liquid fire. I want to scream. Jump. Do something to release this wild energy coursing through me.
But I can't.
I need him to wonder. Need him to question why I chose him. Need him to think about me when he shouldn't.
"When will we announce it?" I ask.
"Tomorrow night. We're arranging a meeting with Francesco through official channels."
My stomach drops. Tomorrow. We face my uncle tomorrow.
"Where?"
"Neutral ground. The Benedetti warehouse on Ashland."
I know that place.
"I want to be there."
"You'll be. But you stay close to me. You don't speak unless I tell you to."
"I understand."
The silence stretches between us. I should thank him. He's saving my life, even if it's just business to him.
I take a step forward. Then another.
Lorenzo doesn't move, but I catch the slight tension in his shoulders. The way his hands flex at his sides.
"Thank you," I whisper. "For agreeing to this."
Before I can think better of it, before my brain can scream at me to stop, I close the distance between us.
My arms go around his waist.
Lorenzo turns to stone.
Every muscle in his body locks up. He doesn't push me away, but he doesn't return the embrace either. Just stands there, rigid as marble, while I press my cheek against his chest.
He smells so good.
SO. GOOD.
His heart beats steady under my ear. Controlled. Nothing like mine.
God, what am I doing?
Heat floods my face. This was stupid. So stupid.
But I can't seem to let go.
His chest rises with a sharp inhale. "Sophia."
Just my name. Nothing else. But the way he says it—like it costs him something—makes my skin prickle.
I force myself to step back, dropping my arms. Can't meet his eyes. Can't bear to see the pity or disgust or whatever emotion is there.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to—" The words stick in my throat.
"Don't apologize." His voice sounds strange. Strained.
I risk a glance up. His face gives nothing away. Never.
"I'll call Francesco in two hours," he says, already moving toward the door. "You can listen in."
"Okay." I wrap my arms around myself again, suddenly cold despite the sweater.
He leaves without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.
I sink onto the bed, pressing my palms against my burning cheeks. That hug was a mistake. Now he probably thinks I'm some desperate girl with a crush.
Which I am.
But he doesn't need to know that.
A soft knock interrupts my spiraling thoughts.
"Miss Sophia?" Giulia's voice filters through the door. "They're waiting for you in the living room."
My stomach tightens. The call to Francesco.
"Thank you. I'll be right down."
The walk downstairs feels endless.
They're all there when I enter—Pietro behind his massive desk that's been moved to the living room for this, Nico leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, and Lorenzo standing by the window.
Lorenzo looks up when I enter. His expression gives nothing away, but he gestures to a chair near the desk.
"Sit."
I do, tucking my hands under my thighs to hide their trembling.
"I'm calling Francesco now," Lorenzo says, pulling out his phone. "You don't speak. No matter what he says."
I nod.
Lorenzo's thumb hovers over the screen for a heartbeat. Then he hits call and puts it on speaker.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
"Lorenzo Sartori." Francesco's voice fills the room, smooth as aged whiskey and twice as poisonous. "How unexpected. To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"Sophia is with me."
Silence.
Complete, suffocating silence that stretches so long I wonder if the call dropped.
When Francesco speaks again, his voice has lost its polish. "Is that so?"
"It is."
"Wasn't it enough that you took Luna from me?" The words drip venom. "Now you steal my niece?"
My breath catches. Luna? Francesco thinks Lorenzo killed Luna?
Lorenzo's jaw tightens, but his voice stays level. "I didn't kill Luna."
"Spare me your lies, Sartori. We both know what happened to her after—"
"I didn't kill her," Lorenzo repeats, each word precise as a blade. "But that's not why I'm calling."
I bite my tongue to keep from speaking. Francesco never mentioned believing Lorenzo killed Luna. Not once in all his ranting about the Sartoris. He called them thieves, murderers, threats to our family—but never specifically blamed them for Luna's death.
Why hide that?
"Then enlighten me," Francesco says. "Why are you calling? To gloat? To make demands?"
"We need to meet."
Another pause. I can picture Francesco in his office, probably gripping his phone hard enough to crack it.
"You have something that belongs to me."
"She came to me," Lorenzo says simply. "Of her own free will."
"She's confused. Grieving. You're taking advantage—"
"We meet tomorrow night. Neutral ground."
"And if I refuse?"
"You won't," Lorenzo says with absolute certainty.
Francesco laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You always were arrogant. Fine. Where?"
"The Benedetti warehouse. Eight o'clock."
"I'll be there. And Lorenzo? If you've hurt her—"
"She's unharmed."
"She better be. That girl is all I have left of my sister."
The hypocrisy makes bile rise in my throat. All he has left? He was ready to hand me to a monster for a percentage of the drug trade.
"Tomorrow night," Lorenzo says. "Come alone."
"As if either of us would be that stupid."
Lorenzo ends the call without another word.
The silence that follows feels heavy, charged. Like the air before a thunderstorm.
"You can leave us alone now."
Pietro's words take a moment to register. I blink, realizing he's dismissing me like a child sent from the adults' table.
"Of course." I stand, legs slightly unsteady.
None of them look at me as I leave. Whatever they need to discuss about tomorrow night, it doesn't include me.
The hallway feels colder than the living room. Francesco's words echo in my head—wasn't it enough that you took Luna from me? He thinks Lorenzo killed her. But Lorenzo denied it with such certainty, and I can't believe that he could have killed her.
Nothing about Luna ever made sense. One day she was there, this dangerous presence at family gatherings, the next she was gone. Dead in a car accident, my mother said. End of story. No funeral I remember attending. No grave to visit.
"—don't care what you think, Mother!"
Vittoria's sharp voice cuts through my thoughts. She's pacing near the kitchen, phone pressed to her ear, free hand gesturing wildly.
"No, I'm not coming to Sicily. Because Pietro needs me here, that's why."
She spins and sees me. Her expression shifts from frustration to embarrassment.
"I have to go," she says into the phone. "Yes, Mother. I know. Goodbye."
She ends the call with more force than necessary.
"Sorry," I say. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You didn't." She runs a hand through her dark hair, messing up the perfect waves. "Just my mother being... my mother."
"Are you okay?"
Vittoria laughs, but it's brittle. "Define okay. My mother calls every day from Sicily to tell me I should leave Chicago, leave the family business, leave everything behind and join her."
"Your mother isn't here?" I realize I haven't seen an older woman around the compound. "I haven't met her."
"No, you wouldn't have. Aria Sartori fled to Sicily the day after we buried my father." Vittoria's voice carries equal parts hurt and understanding. "She couldn't handle it. Losing him, I mean. They were together since she was seventeen."
"That's young."
"She had Riccardo at eighteen." Vittoria moves to the kitchen, and I follow. She pulls out a bottle of wine without asking if I want any. "Then nothing for years until the rest of us came along. She was forty when she had me. Dad called me his miracle baby."
She pours two glasses, slides one to me.
"Now she lives in the old family villa with my aunt and my cousin, Valentino. Prays all day and pretends her sons aren't running the same business that got her husband killed."
"But she calls you."
"Every day." Vittoria takes a long sip. "Begging me to leave. Telling me this family will get me killed just like Riccardo got killed, just like Dad. She says the women in this family should run, not stay and watch the men die."
"Why don't you?"
"Leave?" Vittoria considers this. "Because they're my brothers. Because someone needs to handle the technical side of things. Because if I left, who would visit Bruno? Who would stop Nico from starting wars with his conspiracy theories?"
"That's a lot of responsibility."
"It's family." She shrugs like that explains everything. Maybe it does. "Besides, Mother's one to talk. She stayed. Through everything—the violence, the arrests, the constant danger. She stayed until Dad died. Then suddenly it was too much."
"Grief makes people do unexpected things."
Vittoria's eyes soften. "Your mother. Lorenzo mentioned she passed recently."
"A month ago." The number still feels impossible. "Cancer."
"I'm sorry."
"She would have liked you," I say, surprising myself with the truth of it. "She valued loyalty. Family. Even when family disappointed her."
Like Francesco. Like whatever really happened with Luna.
"Tell me about her," Vittoria says, refilling our glasses. "If you want."