Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lorenzo
The wedding coordinator's voice grates against my skull like broken glass.
"And how did you two first realize you were in love?"
I force my expression neutral while Sophia's fingers tighten around mine. Her thumb brushes my skin and it’s like a lit fuse.
Fuck.
I fight the urge to clench my fist.
"It wasn't one moment." Sophia's voice carries that quality that makes everyone lean in to listen. "More like... puzzle pieces clicking together. One day I looked at him and just knew."
The coordinator, Mrs. Whitmore, scribbles notes with her fountain pen.
"How romantic." The words drip skepticism. "And you, Mr. Sartori? When did you know?"
"The moment she walked into my life."
The truth, dressed up as a lie for this woman with the fountain pen. The most dangerous kind of lie there is.
Sophia's eyes find mine, and for a second, the performance drops.
I see surprise. I look away.
"Well." Mrs. Whitmore adjusts her glasses. "The venue certainly accommodates your security requirements. Three hundred guests, you said?"
"That's correct." I shift in the uncomfortable chair, hyperaware of every point where Sophia's body touches mine. Her thigh pressed against my leg, her shoulder brushing my arm, the heat of her palm in my hand.
"Perhaps we should tour the outdoor garden space." Mrs. Whitmore stands, smoothing her skirt. "Spring weddings are lovely with the cherry blossoms—"
Glass doors burst open. Cameras flash.
"Lorenzo! Sophia! Over here!"
"Is it true you're marrying?"
"How long have you been together?"
Sophia freezes against me. Twenty photographers surge forward, their cameras machine-gun rapid. Security materializes from corners, but they're already too close.
"Move." I pull Sophia behind me, shielding her with my body. "Now."
Dante appears at my elbow, already coordinating extraction. More flashes blind me as we push toward the exit. Questions hammer from every direction.
"When's the wedding date?"
"Sophia, are you being forced—"
"Back off," I say. The words are quiet, but the pack of photographers freezes. One of them actually lowers his camera. The noise level drops from a roar to a buzz. That’s better.
We burst through the side door into blinding sunlight. The Bentley idles at the curb. Dante always thinks ahead. I guide Sophia inside, sliding in after her. The door slams, cutting off the shouting.
"Drive."
Dante guns it, tires squealing against asphalt. Sophia sits rigid beside me, her breathing too controlled.
"How did they know?" Her voice stays steady, but her hands shake in her lap. "We changed venues twice. Used fake names."
The leak. The timing. The location. It clicks into place, a cold, hard certainty. I look at Sophia and see the same realization dawning on her face. Her eyes go wide.
"Francesco."
"He leaked it." I pull out my phone, already seeing the damage. Photos flooding social media—us entering the venue, my hand on her lower back, her looking up at me.
Fuck.
She looks at me like she means it.
The compound gates loom ahead. I help her from the car, noting how she straightens her spine before walking inside. Learning to wear her mask like armor.
Pietro's fist slams the conference table hard enough to rattle the water glasses.
"Explain to me how forty photographers just happened to appear at a private venue viewing."
The meeting room feels smaller with all of us crammed inside. Dante and Liam stand guards at the door. My brothers occupy their usual positions. Pietro pacing, Nico typing furiously on his tablet, Bruno watching from his wheelchair. Vittoria and Nora sits beside Sophia, offering silent support.
"Francesco orchestrated it." I keep my voice level despite the rage simmering in my chest. "Classic manipulation. Make the engagement public before we do, force our hand."
"Now every enemy we have knows exactly where to find her." Pietro's jaw works like he's chewing glass. "Where to find both of you."
"Maybe that's not entirely negative."
Everyone turns to stare at Bruno. He hasn't voluntarily contributed to a family meeting since the shooting that put him in that chair.
"Explain." Pietro's tone holds surprise more than anger.
Bruno's fingers drum against his wheelchair arm—his thinking gesture since childhood.
"Public engagement means public protection. Every family in Chicago now knows she's under Sartori protection. To move against her is to move against us, openly. Francesco may have accidentally given us an advantage."
"Or painted a target on her back before they get married." Pietro resumes pacing.
"The target was already there. You were going to make it public in a few days. It changes nothing." Bruno's eyes lock onto mine. "Now it's visible. We can plan for visible threats."
Nico looks up from his tablet. "The photos are already viral. Three million views in the last hour."
"Then we control the narrative," I say, the idea forming as I speak. "If we're public, we're very public. Visible. Protected. Untouchable."
"More appearances." Pietro stops pacing, processing the strategy. "More events. More exposure."
"More convincing displays of affection." I say.
"Can you sell it?" Pietro asks bluntly. "Make it believable enough that no one questions the alliance?"
Sophia's chin lifts. "We'll need practice."
The word hangs in the air like a lit match near gasoline.
"Then practice." Pietro slices his hand through the air, a gesture of finality. "Whatever it takes. I want this so convincing that even you two believe it."
He has no fucking idea.
My office door closes with a soft click. Sophia stands by the window. Nine-thirty. The house has settled into night sounds—footsteps in distant hallways, muffled television from the security room, Vittoria's music drifting from her suite.
"Three million views." She doesn't turn around. "In one hour."
"It'll be ten million by morning."
"Does that scare you?"
"Everything about this scares me."
She turns then. She's changed from the venue dress into jeans and a cream sweater that slides off one shoulder. Her hair falls in waves she hasn't bothered to tame.
"We should talk about boundaries." She moves closer, each step measured. "For the public appearances."
"Right. Boundaries."
"Hand holding seems standard." She stops at my desk, fingers tracing the wood grain. "Casual touches. Arm around waist."
"All reasonable."
"But that won't be enough." She moves around the desk, invading my space. "Not if we want to be convincing."
She's playing again. Fine. Let's play. "What are you suggesting?"
"We should be comfortable kissing. In public. For the cameras."
"You're probably right."
Neither of us moves. "It's just a kiss. For practice. Like last night."
"Right. For practice."
I stand slowly, watching her eyes track my movement. My hand lifts without permission, fingertips grazing her jaw. She inhales sharply but doesn't pull away.
"Ready?"
"Yes."
I cup her face. Her skin is soft, her eyes close. My thumb strokes her cheekbone and she leans into it. Waiting.
I’m supposed to control this. A simple press of lips. Practice. The first touch is fire. Her lips are softer than I remember from last night. A sound escapes her throat and her hands grab my shirt, pulling.
My mouth covers hers, and when she parts her lips, I don't think, I just take. My hand slides into her hair, gripping, angling her head because I need more. I need all of it.
She presses against me. Her tongue meets mine tentatively at first, then with growing confidence. My control frays with every second, every small noise she makes, every pull of her hands demanding more.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, eyes glazed. My hands still frame her face, unable to let go.
"That was..." She trails off, searching for words.
"Practice."
"Right. Practice." She licks her lips, and my eyes follow the movement. A primal part of my brain wants to do it for her. "We should practice again. To be sure."
"To be sure."
This time she reaches for me, arms winding around my neck. I pull her flush against me, one hand tangled in her hair, the other pressed to her lower back. She nips my bottom lip.
I growl into her mouth. Her fingers thread through my hair, tugging slightly, and heat shoots straight through me. I lift her onto the desk, stepping between her legs, and she wraps them around my waist—
A knock on the door splits the air.
"Hate to interrupt," Nico's voice says through the door. I can hear the fucking smirk in his tone. "There's something you need to see."
We spring apart like teenagers caught by parents. Sophia slides off the desk, smoothing her sweater with shaking hands. I rake fingers through my hair, trying to look like I haven't been devouring my fake fiancée.
"Come in."
Nico walks in, tablet in hand. He’s trying for a neutral expression, but he knows what 'practice' meant.
"The photos from today are everywhere." He turns the screen toward us. "But look at these comments."
I force myself to focus on the screen instead of Sophia's swollen lips.
"'They look so in love,'" Nico says. "'The way he protects her.' 'She looks at him like he's everything.'"
"The entire city's buying it." Nico sets the tablet on my desk. "Francesco's plan backfired. Instead of making you vulnerable, he's made you Chicago's new power couple."
"Good." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Then we're selling it right."
"Sure. Selling." Nico's expression says he's not buying what we're selling at all. "I'll leave you to your... practice."
He exits, closing the door with exaggerated care.
Sophia stares at the photos on the tablet. In them, her face glows as she looks at me. My hand splays possessively across her back. We fit together like puzzle pieces.
She looks from the photo to me, her eyes wide with the same realization that’s punching a hole in my gut.
This isn't practice. It hasn't been for a while.
And the whole city is watching us fall.
Sophia
The tablet screen goes dark, our reflection staring back at us—two people caught in something neither of us knows how to name. Lorenzo clears his throat and moves to his desk drawer.
"Here." He pulls out a sleek iPhone, still in its box. "Latest model. Encrypted. Secure line."
I stare at the phone like it's made of gold. "For me?"
"Marina's number is already programmed. So is mine, Pietro's, Vittoria's. Emergency contacts." He slides it across the desk. "You can call or text Marina whenever you want. Just be careful what you say about family business."
The weight of this gift hits me. After days of isolation, he's giving me a piece of freedom back. A connection to my old life.
I can't help it. I bounce on my toes and clap my hands together like a child on Christmas morning. "Oh my God, thank you!"
Before I can think better of it, I launch myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck. He catches me, steadying us both, his hands settling on my waist.
"Thank you," I whisper against his shoulder. "You have no idea what this means."
"Sophia." His voice is rough.
I pull back just enough to see his face. His eyes search mine, and I know—I know—those kisses weren't practice. Whatever game he wants to play, whatever lies he needs to tell himself, I see the truth written in the way he looks at me.
But I'll play along. I'll be whatever he needs me to be until he's ready to admit what's happening between us.
"I can have a piece of my life back," I say softly, still in his arms.
His expression changes. "Did you have a boyfriend? Back in your old life?"
He asks it so casually, like he's inquiring about the weather. Like the answer doesn't matter at all.
My temper flares. This is the man who just kissed me, who holds me like I'm precious, and he's asking about past boyfriends like he couldn't care less about the answer?
I step out of his embrace. "Why do you ask?"
He shrugs, turning away to straighten papers on his desk that don't need straightening. "Just curious. Making conversation."
Making conversation. Right. Because that's what you do after kissing someone until your knees go weak—make small talk about their dating history.
"No," I say flatly. "I didn’t have a boyfriend at the moment I left."
"But you've had..." He waves his hand vaguely, still not looking at me.
The dismissive gesture makes my blood boil. He wants to know but won't even ask properly, won't show he cares about the answer. A man who wants a woman would care. A man who's interested would need to know.
"Had what, Lorenzo?" My voice sharpens. "Sex? Is that what you're dancing around?"
He finally looks at me, his expression carefully neutral. "I'm just trying to understand—"
"If you're asking whether your new wife is a virgin or not," I interrupt, my chin lifting with a defiance I don't entirely feel, "then yes. I am."
The words hang between us like a challenge. His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. His hands curl into fists at his sides.
"Sophia—"
"What? Is that a problem? Does it change our arrangement?" I keep my voice steady even though my heart pounds. "Or were you hoping for someone more experienced to play your fake fiancée?"
He moves then, closing the distance between us. His hand cups my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone with a gentleness that contradicts the fire in his eyes.
"Nothing about you is a problem," he says, voice low and dangerous. "Nothing."
"Then why did you ask?" The words come out sharper than intended, but I don't care. I'm tired of this dance we're doing.
Lorenzo's hand drops from my face. He takes a step back, that careful mask sliding back into place. "I told you. I was curious. And I needed to know if some boyfriend was going to come looking for you. Create complications."
My hands shake with the effort not to slap him.
"That's bullshit."
His eyebrow arches. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." I clutch the phone he gave me, needing something solid to hold onto. "That's complete bullshit and you know it."
"Sophia—"
"No." I cut him off, my voice rising. "You want to know why it's bullshit? Because if you were worried about some boyfriend causing problems, you would have asked that question days ago. When I first showed up. When you were doing your background checks. Not now."
Lorenzo's jaw works, but he says nothing. Just stands there, looking at me with eyes that give away nothing and everything at once.
"You know what? Forget it." I turn toward the door. "Thanks for the phone."
I walk out, closing the door with softly when what I really want is to slam it hard enough to shake the walls. My hands tremble as I clutch the phone to my chest, heading for my room.
Behind me, I hear something crash in his office. Glass breaking.
Good. Let him rage. Let him feel something.
Even if he won't admit it.