Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sophia
Ipress my forehead against the cold window of my room, watching the driveway below. Whatever's happening, Lorenzo hasn't told me. He's been gone since breakfast, avoiding me.
He was about to kiss me last night.
But he didn't. And now all I get is him avoiding me once again.
Movement at the gates catches my attention. Three black SUVs roll through,.
Oh, no.
No, no, no.
Those are Francesco's cars.
The lead vehicle stops directly below my window. The door opens, and my uncle steps out. Six men follow him, their hands hovering near poorly concealed weapons.
My uncle. Here. In Sartori territory.
The door to my room flies open. Lorenzo fills the doorway.
"Whatever happens, whatever I say, play along."
I scramble back from the window. "What are you—"
"There's no time." He grabs my wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "Just trust me."
Trust him.
"Lorenzo—"
"Please." The word cracks something in his composure. "Sophia, please. Trust me."
I try to speak, but my throat is a knot of glass. I just nod.
He leads me through hallways, his hand never leaving my wrist. We pass armed guards who straighten at his approach, their faces grim.
The hair on my arms prickles. Even the silence between footsteps feels stretched thin, ready to snap.
We reach the main room, and Lorenzo pauses at the threshold. His fingers slide from my wrist to interlace with mine, the gesture so smooth it feels rehearsed. His palm is warm, steady. Mine trembles.
"Remember," he breathes against my ear. "Play along."
The door opens.
Francesco stands in the center of the room like he owns it, his six men spread in a semicircle behind him.
Pietro occupies a leather chair near the fireplace, one ankle crossed over his knee.
He looks relaxed, almost bored, but his stillness is that of a predator waiting for the first sign of weakness.
Nico leans against the far wall. Guards line every exit.
My uncle's eyes find mine across the room.
"Sophia." He says my name like it tastes bitter. "I received an interesting call this morning. From our Russian friend."
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.
"Daniil has made me a counter-offer." Francesco's voice carries the weight of a loaded gun. "If I deliver Sophia to him within forty-eight hours, he'll ally with the Torrinos against the Sartoris immediately. Full support. Men, weapons, territory."
My knees threaten to buckle. Lorenzo's grip is the only thing keeping me upright.
"He doesn't know she's here, of course." Francesco's smile is all teeth. "He suspects she's run off somewhere. Maybe California. Maybe New York. But I can find her. He knows I always find what belongs to me."
"She doesn't belong to you." Lorenzo's voice could cut glass.
"She's a Torrino." Francesco spreads his hands. "Blood is blood."
Pietro shifts in his chair, the leather creaking. "Why are you here, Francesco? You could have made your threats over the phone."
"Because I'm a reasonable man." My uncle straightens his tie. "And reasonable men negotiate."
"There's nothing to negotiate," Lorenzo says. "Sophia is my fiancée. That ends any discussion."
Francesco laughs. "Your fiancée? Please. You think I don't know a sham when I see one? You think the rest of Chicago won't see through this pathetic attempt to—"
"Careful." Pietro's voice is soft. Deadly. "You're in my house."
Francesco's men shift, hands drifting toward weapons. The Sartori guards mirror the movement.
Lorenzo releases my hand and steps forward. The loss of contact leaves me cold.
"Let me explain something to you, Francesco." His voice carries that dangerous calm I've come to recognize. "The Torrinos owe the Sartoris a debt. A blood debt."
My uncle's jaw tightens. "Luna is dead. That debt died with her."
"Luna betrayed us. Four of my men died because of her." Lorenzo moves closer to Francesco, each step deliberate. "A Torrino woman cost us blood. Now a Torrino woman will restore the balance."
"You think Daniil will accept that logic?"
"I think Daniil understands the old rules better than you do." Lorenzo's hands slip into his pockets, casual despite the tension crackling through the room. "Blood for blood. Loss for loss. Sophia is mine by right of that debt."
Lorenzo closes the distance between them. My uncle's men tense, but Pietro raises one finger. Everyone freezes. "You promised him something that was never yours to give. Sophia was already spoken for the moment Luna's betrayal killed my men."
"That's not how it works—"
"That's exactly how it works." Lorenzo's voice drops lower. "And you know it. You've always known it. You just hoped I wouldn't claim what was owed and truth is I didn't want to. But now I do."
A blood debt?
All these years since Luna's death, and not once did anyone mention a debt.
Lorenzo had his reasons. I can't blame him.
But my mother didn't mention it. Although I can understand that too. She tried hard to keep me untouched from the mafia life and rules.
"You know the Commission's rules as well as I do. Internal family debts stay internal. The moment I claim Sophia as payment for an Italian blood debt, Daniil has no standing. He touches her, he's declaring war on all five families, not just the Sartoris." Lorenzo says.
Francesco's face pales. "The Commission hasn't met in—"
"They don't need to meet. The old rules are clear. Russians handle Russian business. Italians handle Italian business. Luna was a Torrino. Her debt is a Torrino debt. Unless you want to see Chicago burn because you made promises you couldn't keep?"
Francesco doesn't talk.
"Here's what's going to happen," Lorenzo says. "You're going to tell Daniil the truth. That Sophia is payment for Luna's betrayal. That she's under Sartori protection as my bride. And then you're going to make your best effort to kick every Russian out of Chicago."
"You're insane if you think—"
"They have no business here, Francesco. This is our city. Italian territory. The Russians are parasites, and you invited them in because you're too weak to hold your own territory without their help."
My uncle's hand twitches toward his gun. Three Sartori guards draw their weapons before his fingers reach his holster.
"Go ahead," Lorenzo says softly. "Give me a reason."
The room holds its breath.
"You wouldn't dare," Francesco spits. "Not in front of her."
Lorenzo leans in close, his lips barely moving. "I will kill you, Francesco. I will kill you and every Morozov in this city. I will paint Chicago red with Russian blood until Daniil himself comes begging for mercy."
My heart pounds so hard I'm sure everyone can hear it.
"The only reason you're still breathing," Lorenzo continues, "is because you're the only family Sophia has left. I won't take that from her. Not unless you force my hand."
He steps back, straightening his cuffs. The gesture is so casual, so controlled, but I see the barely leashed violence beneath it.
"But make no mistake. If it comes down to her safety or your life, I won't hesitate. Not for a second."
The conviction in his voice steals my breath. He speaks like every word is carved in stone, like my safety is a fundamental law of the universe. Like he'd burn the world without blinking if it meant keeping me safe.
Is this an act?
Wow. He can fake it like a Hollywood actor would.
Francesco's face cycles through several shades of red. "You're making a mistake, Sartori. Daniil won't accept this. He'll come for her."
"Let him come." Lorenzo adjusts his watch, checking the time like this is a business meeting instead of a death threat. "I've been looking for an excuse to remove the Russian problem from Chicago permanently."
Pietro stands, the movement fluid despite his size. "Francesco, convince Daniil to withdraw his interest in Sophia, or we'll convince him ourselves."
"And if I refuse?"
Lorenzo's smile is sharp enough to draw blood. "Then Sophia becomes an orphan today."
Well, that is cruel but I don't really care what happens to him.
Lorenzo
The truth is, I never intended to use the debt.
For twelve years, Luna's betrayal has been a wound I refused to examine. The debt her actions created? I pushed it so far down I'd almost convinced myself it didn't exist. Even when I proposed this marriage arrangement to protect Sophia, the debt hadn't crossed my mind.
Not until I stood in that warehouse, watching Francesco try to curse her.
That's when it hit me. The perfect weapon had been sitting there all along, gathering dust in the archives of old rules and older grudges.
"You have twenty-four hours," I tell Francesco, my voice steady despite the chaos in my head. "Make Daniil understand."
Francesco's jaw works like he's chewing glass. "The Commission—"
"Won't need to be involved if you handle this correctly. But if Daniil pushes this, if he so much as looks at Sophia wrong, I'll call them myself. Every Don from here to New York will know you tried to sell an Italian woman to the Russians to settle your debts when you already owe to us."
The threat lands. Francesco knows what that would mean—complete loss of respect, his family name destroyed, his territory carved up by the other families like Thanksgiving turkey.
"This isn't over," he spits, but the fight has gone out of him.
"Yes," Pietro says from his chair, "it is."
Francesco turns to leave, his men falling in behind him. At the door, he stops, looking back at Sophia. "Your mother would be ashamed of you."
Sophia's spine straightens, her chin lifting. "My mother would be ashamed of you for trying to sell me to a monster."
The door slams behind them.
The silence that follows feels heavy, like the air before a storm. Pietro pours himself a drink and returns to his chair. Sophia stands frozen beside me, her breathing shallow.
"The debt," she whispers. "Is that real?"
"It's real." I don't look at her. Can't.
And now, we need to start planning a wedding.
When a marriage is announced in our world, it must happen. The consequences of breaking that promise...
Pietro's phone cuts through the silence like a blade. He glances at the screen, and something shifts in his expression—a crack in that perpetual mask of control.
"It's Bruno's clinic." His voice carries an edge I haven't heard in months.
We all freeze. Bruno's been in a coma since his wedding day, when bullets meant for Lucrezia caught him instead. The doctors said if he ever woke up, it would be a miracle.
Pietro answers, putting it on speaker without preamble. "Sartori."
Static crackles, then a voice that makes my blood run cold.
"Come and take me from this fucking place."
Bruno.
"Bruno?" Pietro's voice cracks on the name.
"Did I stutter?" The fury in Bruno's voice could melt steel. "Get me out of here. Now."
"You're—" Pietro stops, swallows. "How long have you been awake?"
"Three hours. Three fucking hours of these nurses treating me like I'm made of glass. I want out. I want—" A pause, heavy breathing. "Where's Riccardo?"
And that's the worst question he could have made.