Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sophia
The warehouse door groans as Lorenzo pushes it open. He moves in first, his broad shoulders blocking most of my view. I follow close behind, and Dante's presence at my back feels like a wall.
My legs shake with each step. Not from fear of dying. I made peace with that possibility when I knocked on Lorenzo's door. No, what terrifies me is seeing Uncle Francesco again.
The warehouse stretches out before us, all shadows and rust. Broken windows let in strips of moonlight that cut across the concrete floor like prison bars. Our footsteps echo in the vast space, announcing our arrival to whoever waits in the darkness.
I keep my eyes on Lorenzo's back, on the way his suit jacket pulls across his shoulders.
But my mind drifts to summers at the lake house when I was seven, eight, nine years old.
Uncle Francesco teaching me to fish off the dock, his laugh booming across the water when I squealed about touching the worms.
"Sophia, cara," he'd say, "you can't catch anything good without getting your hands a little dirty."
He was different then. Patient. Kind, even.
While my father worked endless hours building the family's businesses, Uncle Francesco always had time.
Time to braid my hair before Sunday dinner.
Time to sneak me extra gelato when Mom wasn't looking.
Time to tell me stories about the old country, about our grandparents who came here with nothing but determination.
Lorenzo stops abruptly. I nearly bump into him, catching myself just in time. We're maybe thirty feet into the warehouse now, and I can make out shapes ahead—men standing in a loose circle, waiting.
"Remember what I said," Lorenzo murmurs without turning around.
I nod even though he can't see me. My throat feels like sandpaper.
Everything changed after Dad died. The car accident. Uncle Francesco became head of the family overnight, and something shifted in him. Like a switch flipped. The man who used to carry me on his shoulders through street festivals became someone I barely recognized.
At first, I thought it was grief. We all grieved differently—Mom threw herself into charity work, I buried myself in schoolwork. But Francesco? He buried himself in the business. In power.
The money was always there, of course. The Torrinos never wanted for anything. But being the younger brother meant Francesco lived in Dad's shadow. Good money, sure. Nice house, nice cars. But not the respect. Not the fear. Not the final word on everything that mattered.
Now he has all of it. The entire Torrino empire answers to him. Every dollar that flows through our territory needs his blessing. Every decision, every alliance, every death—all his call.
And somewhere along the way, my Uncle Francesco disappeared. Replaced by Don Torrino, who'd sell his brother's daughter to Russian psychopaths for a better profit margin.
"Steady," Dante whispers behind me, and I realize I've stopped walking.
I force my feet forward, following Lorenzo deeper into the warehouse. The shapes ahead become clearer—five men, maybe six. I can't make out faces yet, but I know he's there. Francesco. The man who taught me to tie my shoes and now wants to tie me to a monster.
Money changes people. That's what Mom used to say when she'd see old friends from the neighborhood acting different after coming into wealth. But it's more than money, I think. It's power. The ability to decide who lives and who dies. Who suffers and who thrives.
Francesco has both now. Money and power. And it's turned him into something I don't recognize.
Lorenzo stops again, and this time I know we've arrived. The circle of men parts slightly, and there he is.
Uncle Francesco.
My stomach drops.
"Lorenzo Sartori," Francesco drawls, spreading his arms wide like we're at a family reunion. "The great diplomat. Tell me, how's the restaurant business? Still pretending you're just a businessman?"
My fingers curl into fists.
But Lorenzo doesn't move. His shoulders stay relaxed, his breathing even. "Francesco," he says, voice smooth as aged whiskey. "We're here to discuss your niece."
"My niece?" Francesco's eyes find me, and that smile grows wider.
Here we go then.
Lorenzo
Francesco's eyes slide from me to Sophia like oil on water. "There she is. My brother's daughter. Come here, cara."
"She stays where she is," I say.
His smile doesn't waver, but something shifts in his stance.
"Let's be clear about something, Sartori.
" Francesco says. "She's my blood. My responsibility.
You return her to me right now, or we go to war.
" He pauses, letting the threat settle in the stale warehouse air.
"The Russians will support me. Daniil wants what was promised to him.
The Corellis are interested in new partnerships.
Even the Benedettis here might reconsider their neutrality. "
Marco Benedetti shifts uncomfortably but says nothing. Smart man.
"War." I taste the word, roll it around like wine. "Over one girl?"
"Over family," Francesco corrects. "Over respect. Over you thinking you can take what's mine."
The warehouse goes quiet except for the distant sound of traffic outside. This is the moment. The pivot point where everything changes.
"She's under my protection," I say, each word deliberate, "as my fiancée."
The silence that follows is absolute. Even the traffic seems to pause.
Then Francesco laughs.
"You expect me to believe you're marrying my niece?" He's practically choking on his disbelief.
"Believe what you want." I cut him off before he can finish that thought. "The arrangement is made."
Francesco's laughter dies. His eyes narrow, searching my face for the lie. But I've been playing this game long enough. My expression gives him nothing.
Movement beside me. Sophia steps forward, and before I can process what she's doing, her hand slips into mine. Her fingers are ice-cold and trembling, but when I instinctively intertwine our fingers, she steadies. The contact grounds us both.
"It's true, Uncle." Her voice carries across the warehouse, stronger than I expected. "Lorenzo and I are engaged."
The transformation is instant. Francesco's face goes from disbelief to rage, the color rising from his neck to his cheeks until he's practically purple.
"You little whore." The words explode from him like bullets.
I move before the thought fully forms. One second I'm standing beside Sophia, the next Francesco is against the warehouse wall with my hand wrapped around his throat. His feet barely touch the ground.
"Speak about her like that again," I say, my voice deadly calm, "and arrangement or not, I'll kill you."
His men reach for their weapons. Dante already has his gun out, aimed at the closest one. The Benedettis step back, hands raised—they want no part of this.
Francesco claws at my hand, his face going from red to purple. His eyes bulge, but there's still defiance there. Still that arrogance that makes him think he's untouchable because he's a Don now.
"Lorenzo." Sophia's voice, soft but urgent.
I don't look at her. Can't look at her. If I see fear in her eyes—fear of me—I'll do things I won't control.
"Your brother would be ashamed," I tell Francesco, applying just enough pressure to make him wheeze. "Anthony was twice the man you'll ever be. He'd never sell his daughter. Never call her those names."
Francesco's eyes widen at his brother's name. Good. Let him choke on that truth along with my grip.
"Lorenzo," Sophia says again, and this time her hand touches my arm. Not pulling, not demanding. Just there. "Please."
The please does it. I release Francesco, and he drops to his knees, gasping and coughing. His men start forward, but he waves them off, one hand massaging his throat.
Francesco pushes himself to his feet, still rubbing his throat. His voice comes out rough, damaged. "What the hell do you want?"
I adjust my cuffs, taking my time. Let him sweat.
"She's already promised to Daniil," he continues, trying to regain some authority. "The deal is done. The Russians—"
"The Russians are using you." I cut through his words like they're tissue paper. "We both know why you wanted Daniil. Protection. Territory. A foothold in the drug trade you've been locked out of."
His jaw works, but I don't give him the chance to speak.
"You think Daniil gives a damn about expanding your territory? The moment he marries Sophia, he owns you. The Torrino family becomes a subsidiary of the Bratva. Your men start taking orders from Russians. Your routes, your connections—everything you've built becomes theirs."
Francesco's men shift uneasily. They know I'm right. They've seen what happens to families that partner with the Russians. There's no partnership, only absorption.
"With me, you get something different." I keep my voice conversational, like we're discussing restaurant supplies instead of his niece's future.
"A marriage between our families means legitimate expansion.
The Sartoris control the north side, you have the south.
Together, we push out the smaller families. The Corellis. The Benedettis."
Marco Benedetti stiffens at that, but he's smart enough to stay quiet.
"You keep your independence," I continue. "Your men stay yours. Your territory remains under Torrino control. All you have to do is accept that Sophia chose me."
"Chose?" Francesco spits blood onto the concrete. "You think I'm stupid? You think I believe she—"
"I think you're smart enough to recognize a better deal when it's standing in front of you.
" My voice drops, each word precise. "The Russians will bleed you dry.
They'll use Sophia, probably kill her within a year like Daniil did his last two women, and then they'll take everything you have anyway. "
The warehouse air feels thick, heavy with the weight of truth. Francesco's breathing is still ragged, but his eyes are calculating now. He's doing the math.