Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lorenzo
The suit feels like armor tonight. Black Armani, tailored to perfection. I adjust the cufflinks and check the Glock tucked against my ribs.
In two hours, we face Francesco Torrino.
Pietro thinks it's a trap. Spent half the morning arguing that we should bring an army, turn the Benedetti warehouse into a show of force. But that's not how you handle a man like Francesco. You don't corner a snake. You give it room to slither, then strike when it's overconfident.
"Just you, Dante, and the girl," Pietro said finally, disgust clear in his voice. "But our men stay outside. Non-negotiable."
The Benedettis will be there too. Marco Benedetti owes me three favors, and I'm calling in one tonight. Neutral ground means neutral ground, and Marco's smart enough to know that keeping the peace benefits everyone.
My phone buzzes. Dante.
Car's ready. Leaving in thirty.
I pocket the phone and head for Sophia's room. She needs to understand exactly how tonight will go. One wrong word, one sign of weakness, and Francesco will pounce.
I knock twice.
"Who is it?" Her voice sounds muffled through the door.
"Lorenzo."
"Come in."
I turn the handle and step inside—
Fuck.
Sophia stands by the dresser wearing nothing but a white shirt and black underwear. The shirt hits down her belly, leaving endless legs bare. Smooth. Perfect. My eyes lock on the curve where thigh meets ass, that strip of black lace that's definitely not helping my self-control.
"I'll be ready in a minute," she says, casual as if she's not half-naked in front of me.
She bends to grab jeans from a drawer, and the shirt rides up. Jesus Christ. The black lace cuts across her ass in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
I should definitely look away.
She straightens, stepping into the jeans, and then—God help me—she turns around and does that little jump women do to fit their ass into tight denim. Everything bounces. Everything moves. Her ass fills those jeans like they were painted on, and my cock goes from interested to rock hard in seconds.
If this is the last thing my eyes ever see, I'll die happy.
"Sorry," she says, still facing away as she buttons the jeans. "Vittoria's clothes are all same size but this is tight."
Tight. Yeah. That's one word for it.
I cross the room in three strides. My hand slams against the wall beside her head, caging her between my body and the plaster. She gasps, those honey-brown eyes going wide.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
She blinks up at me, all innocence. "What do you mean?"
"Don't." My voice drops to that dangerous register that makes grown men step back. "Don't play dumb with me, Sophia."
"I was getting dressed." Her chin tilts up, defiant. "Is this the first time you've seen a woman put on jeans?"
The little minx. She knows exactly what she's doing. Her eyes sparkle with challenge, daring me to admit what just happened. What's been happening since she walked into my life.
"You think this is a game? You think you can just—"
"Just what?" She cuts me off, and Christ, the balls on this girl. "Get dressed in my own room? You're the one who walked in. Would you react this way if Dante was at the door?"
Red floods my vision. My other fist connects with the wall on her other side, caging her completely. The plaster cracks under the impact. Her eyes go wide, but not with fear. Something else. Something that makes this infinitely worse. She's enjoying it.
She gets fucking amused by teasing me.
"Don't." The word comes out rough, broken. "Don't say another man's name when you're looking at me like that."
Her lips part. A tiny breath escapes.
"You want to know what you're doing?" I lean down until my mouth hovers inches from her ear. "You're making me forget every reason this is a bad idea. Making me want to say fuck the meeting, fuck Francesco, fuck everything that isn't you against this wall with MY name on your lips."
She shivers. I feel it everywhere our bodies almost touch.
"You're twenty years old," I continue, each word a battle for control. "You're under my protection. You're supposed to be off-limits. But you stand there in that scrap of lace, bending over like you don't know exactly what that does to me, and then you have the nerve to mention another man?"
My hand moves from the wall to her jaw, tilting her face up. Not rough. Never rough with her. But firm enough that she can't look away.
"Let me make something very clear, tesoro.
You're mine now. This arrangement, this marriage—temporary or not—means you belong to me.
No other man gets to see you like this. No other man gets to hear you say his name in that breathless little voice.
And if any man is stupid enough to try, I'll bury him so deep they'll need days to find the body. "
Her chest rises and falls rapidly. The pulse in her throat hammers against my thumb where it rests on her neck.
"Is that clear?"
She nods, just barely.
"Words, Sophia."
"Yes." It comes out whispered, raw.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, it's clear."
I should put distance between us before I do something we'll both regret. But she's looking up at me with those eyes, lips parted, body trembling, and every instinct I have screams to claim her. To press her harder against this wall and show her exactly what she does to me.
Instead, I lean down until my lips brush her ear.
"Good girl. Now finish getting dressed. We leave in twenty minutes, and if you're not ready, I'm carrying you to that warehouse exactly as you are."
Sophia
The door clicks shut and I collapse against the wall, legs shaking. My skin burns everywhere he almost touched me. Between my thighs, I'm soaked through, and the ache there makes me press my legs together.
What the hell was that?
I touch my jaw where his fingers held me, feeling the ghost of his grip. The wall beside my head has spider-web cracks from his fist. Lorenzo Sartori just lost control. Because of me. Because of my body in these stupid jeans.
Truth is, I wasn't planning this. When he knocked, I grabbed the first shirt I saw thinking I had time to throw on pants. But then I said "come in" and I couldn't do nothing to prevent the fact that I was half naked.
My body throbs with need I've never felt before. Not like this. Not this consuming fire that makes me want to chase him down the hall and beg him to finish what he started.
I've had boyfriends. Three of them, actually. Tommy in sophomore year who kissed like he was trying to eat my face. Marcus in junior year who got handsy at prom until I kneed him in the balls. And David last year—sweet David who wrote poetry.
David wanted more. They all did. But every time things heated up, every time hands wandered under clothes and breathing got heavy, I'd freeze. Pull back. Make excuses.
"I'm not ready," I'd say. "Let's wait."
David waited six months before giving up. Called me frigid. Said I didn't know what love was.
He was right about one thing—I didn't love him. Couldn't love any of them.
Because I've been in love with Lorenzo Sartori since maybe forever.
God, how pathetic is that? Falling for a man twice my age who saved me once as a child. Who actually treats me like I'm just a problem in his life.
Except five minutes ago, he didn't look at me like I was a problem. He looked at me like he wanted to devour me whole.
I press my palm flat against my stomach, trying to calm the butterflies rioting there. My other hand drifts lower, pressing against the ache between my legs through the denim. The pressure makes me gasp.
Twenty years old and I've never had sex. Never wanted to, not really. My friends lost their virginity in high school, came back with stories about backseats and basement couches, about three-minute fumbles and awkward mornings after. Marina called it "getting it over with."
But I didn't want to get it over with. I wanted it to matter. Wanted it to be with someone who made my whole body light up with just a look.
Someone like Lorenzo.
I need to concentrate.
In less than two hours, we face my uncle.
I might die tonight. Francesco could kill me just because I am with the Sartoris.
Well, let's find out if my life ends here.
Lorenzo
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white, keeping my eyes locked on the road ahead. Four minutes. Four fucking minutes until we reach the Benedetti warehouse and I have to face Francesco Torrino while pretending I didn't pin his niece to a wall like some animal in heat.
Dante sits beside me, silent. He knows better than to speak when I'm like this. In the rearview mirror, I catch glimpses of Sophia in the backseat. She's wearing that oversized sweater now, drowning in black wool, but I can still see the curve of her neck, the way she bites her lower lip.
Christ.
I shift in my seat, adjusting myself. Hard again. Still thinking about those tight jeans, the strip of lace underneath, the way her breath hitched when I caged her against that wall.
"Lorenzo." Dante's voice cuts through my thoughts. "You good?"
"Fine."
I'm not fine. I'm losing my goddamn mind over a girl who thinks this is all some game. She has no idea what she's playing with. No concept of what men like me do to girls like her.
Three minutes now. The warehouse district spreads out ahead, all concrete and shadows. Perfect place for a meeting. Perfect place for an ambush too.
I check the mirror again. Sophia's watching me. She doesn't look away when I catch her staring. Just tilts her chin up slightly, defiant even now.
Reckless little thing.
She thinks she knows what she wants. Thinks because she chose me for this arrangement that she has some kind of power. But she's just a kid playing in a world that eats innocence for breakfast.
Except she didn't look innocent that moment. Didn't look like it when she was half-naked in that room.
"Two blocks out," Dante says, checking his phone. "Nico's team is in position."
I nod, forcing myself to focus. Francesco will have men there. The Benedettis will have men there. Everyone will be armed, everyone will be watching for the first sign of betrayal.
And I'll walk in there with Sophia on my arm, announcing to the entire Chicago underworld that she's mine now. That I'm claiming Francesco's niece as my future wife.
The same bloodline that nearly destroyed everything years ago.
My jaw clenches. Sophia isn't Luna. She came to me for protection, not to gather intelligence. She's running from Francesco, not working for him.
But fuck if my cock cares about the danger when all I can think about is spreading her legs and—
"Lorenzo." Sophia's voice from the backseat, soft but clear. "Lorenzo what—"
"Don't speak unless I tell you to when we're inside." I meet her eyes in the mirror again.
"I know. You already said—"
"Then stop talking."
She falls silent, but I see the flash of hurt in her eyes. Good. Better she thinks I'm cold than knows the truth—that I'm one wrong move away from pulling this car over and showing her exactly what she's been teasing.
One minute out. The Benedetti warehouse looms ahead, all brick and broken windows. I slow the SUV, scanning for threats, for Francesco's men, for any sign this is going wrong before it starts.
"Remember," I tell Sophia without looking back, "you stay next to me. You don't wander. You don't make eye contact with anyone but me or Francesco. And if shooting starts—"
"I drop to the ground and crawl to cover," she finishes. "I remember the plan."
Good.
I pull into the warehouse lot, counting cars. Francesco's black sedan. Two Benedetti vehicles. Everyone's here.
Time to play the part.