Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sophia
The physical therapy room smells like rubber mats and antiseptic, a combination that makes my stomach turn. Bruno Sartori sits in his wheelchair near the parallel bars, jaw set in a permanent scowl that deepens when he sees me.
Two days have passed and this is the first time I meet him. I've stayed in my room
"I brought water." I hold up the bottle, an olive branch that feels pathetic even as I offer it. "Thought you might need it after your session."
His dark eyes track my movement as I approach. The afternoon sun streaming through the windows catches the sheen of sweat on his forehead.
"What I need is for Torrinos to stay the hell away from me."
The words land like a slap, but I force myself not to retreat. Some years ago, I would have run. Now I plant my feet, studying this man.
"I could help with your exercises. My mother had physical therapy after her first round of chemo. I learned—"
"You want to help?" He leans forward, and the sterile light of the room catches in his eyes. They aren't just angry. They’re hollowed out, burned clean by a fire that’s been feeding on him from the inside.
This isn't just bitterness; it's the only thing holding his spine straight.
"Tell me how your help brings back my ability to walk.
Tell me how your Torrino kindness erases what your family did. "
My throat tightens. "My uncle and cousin did that. Not me."
"Your blood. Your family." His knuckles go white against the armrests. "Every Torrino is the same. Users. Destroyers. And now my brother parades you around like you're different, like you're not going to destroy him too."
The accusation hurts more than it should. Maybe because part of me wonders if he's right. If destruction is coded into Torrino DNA, if I'm destined to hurt Lorenzo no matter how hard I try not to.
"I'm not going to hurt him."
Bruno's laugh is bitter, hollow. "They all say that. Right before they twist the knife."
He wheels himself toward the door, arms making the movement look effortless despite what it must cost him. At the threshold, he pauses without looking back.
"Stay away from me, Torrino. I don't need your pity, and I sure as hell don't need your guilt."
I stand there for three breaths, ten, twenty, letting his words settle into my bones. He's not wrong to hate me. Then I move. I need to do something with my hands.
The kitchen offers refuge, or at least familiarity.
I open cabinets at random, not sure what I'm looking for until I find it. A box of chamomile tea.
My hands shake as I fill the kettle.
"Piccola, come here. Let Mama make it better."
The memory hits without warning. Seven years old, stomach flu, curled on the bathroom floor. My mother's cool hands on my forehead, her voice singing soft Italian lullabies while chamomile tea steeped on the nightstand.
The kettle whistles, and I'm crying before I can stop myself.
She made this tea through every illness, every heartbreak, every hard day of my life. After Dad died she'd make cups for both of us and we'd sit in silence, letting the warmth seep into our bones.
During her chemo, when she could barely keep anything down, she'd still insist on chamomile tea. I'd brew it exactly how she taught me, and she'd manage three sips before exhaustion took her.
The last time I made it for her, she couldn't even manage one.
"Shit."
I spin away, my hands swiping hard at my wet cheeks. Stupid. So stupid to cry here. Vittoria stands in the doorway.
"May I?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. She pours hot water into both cups, adds tea bags, and sits at the island's far end. The space between us feels charged but not hostile.
"Chamomile was my father's favorite." Her voice is softer than I've ever heard it. "He'd make it every night before bed. Said it kept bad dreams away."
"Did it work?"
"No." She wraps her hands around the mug, steam rising between us. "But I still drink it sometimes. Especially when I miss him."
We drink in silence. It’s not tense, just… quiet. Is this what normal feels like? Just tea. Just two women who miss their parents.
"It's been years since he died." Vittoria stares into her cup. "The grief doesn't leave. Just becomes...manageable. Like learning to breathe with broken ribs."
"When does it stop feeling like drowning?"
"I'll let you know."
Nine-thirty. A soft rap on the door. So quiet I’d miss it if every nerve in my body wasn’t screaming his name.
"Come in."
The door opens and it's him. He shuts it behind him, the click of the latch sealing us in. He’s shed the armor of his suit.
Now he's in dark jeans and a gray henley that pulls tight across his shoulders. His hair is a mess, the way it gets when he’s run his hands through it too many times. The sight makes my chest ache.
"We need to discuss the wedding."
"The fake wedding." I pull my knees to my chest.
"The very public, very dangerous fake wedding." He remains by the door, maintaining distance as always.
"Are you going to stand there all night?"
He hesitates, then crosses to my bed, sitting on the edge like it might burn him. The mattress dips under his weight, and I resist the urge to slide toward him.
"Are you okay with this?"
The question surprises me. "Do I have a choice?"
"There's always a choice." His fingers drum against his thigh. "I could get you out of Chicago. Hidden somewhere safe. New identity, new life."
"Running again?" The thought exhausts me. "No. I'm tired of running."
I shift closer, our knees almost touching. "Besides, who else would I fake marry? You're the only one offering."
It's meant as a joke, but it comes out sincere, weighted with truth neither of us wants to examine.
"Sophia..."
"I know." I cut him off before he can list all the reasons this is insane. "Boundaries. Arrangement only. Keep it professional."
But exhaustion makes me reckless, and I lean against his shoulder without thinking. He goes rigid, and I start to pull away, embarrassment flooding through me.
His arm comes around me, careful but firm.
"In public, we'll need to be more..."
"Affectionate?" My voice comes out breathless.
"Convincing."
The word hangs between us, loaded with possibility. His thumb traces absent circles on my shoulder, and I wonder if he realizes he's doing it again.
Lorenzo
My arm stays around Sophia's shoulders, and for the first time in forty-eight hours, I feel like I'm touching solid ground.
Every instinct screams at me to create distance, to rebuild the walls that keep me functional. But my body refuses to obey. My fingers tighten slightly on her shoulder, betraying the war raging inside my chest.
"Lorenzo?" Her voice cuts through my thoughts, soft and uncertain.
I force myself to focus on her face instead of the memory of Bruno's dead eyes. "You should get some rest. Tomorrow will be complicated."
She doesn't move away from my touch. "Are you okay?"
The question catches me off guard. When was the last time someone asked me that and actually wanted an answer?
"I'm fine." The lie comes automatically.
"Liar." She says it gently, without accusation.
She's right, but admitting weakness isn't something I do.
"Your brother," she starts carefully, "Bruno. He seems deeply hurt."
"He's not the man who went into that coma."
The understatement tastes bitter. When Pietro and I picked Bruno up from the clinic, I expected rage. Expected him to scream, to throw things, to demand blood for what happened to him and Riccardo. Instead, he listened to everything with the stillness of a monster conserving energy.
Five minutes of absolute silence. Then he looked at Pietro with those hollow eyes and said, "You remain Don until I get up from that chair."
Not if. Until.
Pietro accepted it without argument, but I saw the relief in his shoulders. My brother doesn't want the crown, never did. But Bruno wanting it back? That should worry us more than it comforts.
"He buried it all," I tell Sophia, not sure why I'm sharing this with her. "Every emotion, every human reaction. Just... buried it."
"That's terrifying," she whispers.
"It is." More terrifying than if he'd pulled a gun and started shooting. Rage burns out. What Bruno's doing is the kind of thing that ends with cities burning.
Sophia shifts slightly, and I realize I've pulled her closer without meaning to. Her head nearly rests against my chest now, and I can smell her shampoo—something floral and clean that doesn't belong in my world of gunpowder and blood.
"You're exhausted," she observes.
She's right.
"So are you," I counter.
"I didn't have to tell my brother that another brother was dead while he can't walk."
I close my eyes, seeing Bruno's face when Pietro delivered the news. For one second I saw my brother break. Then he gathered every piece and locked them somewhere so deep that I'm not sure he'll ever find them again.
"We all handle grief differently," I say, though I'm not sure if I'm talking about Bruno or myself.
"We should practice," Sophia says suddenly, pulling back just enough to look at me. "The wedding thing. Being convincing."
I stare at her, my brain struggling to switch gears from Bruno's darkness to whatever game she's playing. "Practice."
"Francesco will be watching. Everyone will be watching. We need to look..." She bites that lower lip again. "Real."
"Sophia. I'm not using this fake wedding as an excuse to—" I stop, searching for the right words. "To make us do things we don't want."
Her eyes search mine. "Do you really not want it?"
The question hangs between us like a loaded gun.
"I shouldn't want it." The truth slips out before I can stop it. "You need to understand something. You and me? It can't happen."
"Why?"
"Because you're twenty years old. You're young. Sane. You have your whole life ahead of you." I force myself to meet her gaze. "And I'm the devil, Sophia. I'm thirty-four years old with blood on my hands that will never wash clean."
She studies me for a long moment. Then she rises up on her knees, cups my face with both hands, and presses her lips to mine.
Every fucking wall I've built, every ounce of control I've maintained crumbles the second her mouth touches mine.
I grip her waist and flip us, pressing her back into the mattress as I take control of the kiss.
My tongue slides against hers, and she makes a soft sound that shoots straight through me.
Her hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer, and I lose myself in the taste of her.
Sweet and innocent and everything I shouldn't touch.
My hand slides up her ribcage, feeling her arch beneath me. She kisses like she's drowning and I'm air. Like she's been waiting for this as long as I've been fighting it.
Her legs part, letting me settle between them, and the friction makes us both gasp. I kiss down her jaw to her neck.
"Lorenzo," she breathes, and my name on her lips nearly breaks what's left of my restraint.
I kiss her again, deeper this time, my hand sliding under her sweater to find warm skin. She responds eagerly, her hips rolling up against mine.
But when her hands move to my belt, reality crashes back.
I catch her wrists, pulling back despite every cell in my body screaming in protest. We're both breathing hard, her lips swollen from my kisses, her eyes dark with want.
If I don't stop now, I won't stop at all. And once I start, I'll fuck her all night. I'll claim every inch of her until she can't remember a world where she wasn't mine.
"I want you," she whispers, and those three words nearly destroy me.
"We were just practicing." My voice sounds wrecked even to my own ears.
She looks up at me through her lashes. "Then I want to practice more."
Despite everything, I laugh. "We're done practicing for tonight, piccola."
Her face scrunches into the most adorable grumpy expression I've ever seen. She flops onto her stomach with a huff, burying her face in the pillow.
And fuck me, the way her ass looks in those pajamas, the curve of it making my hands itch to grab, to pull her back against me, to—
I need to get out. Now.
Before I do something we can't take back.