Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sophia
My fists hurt. The impact shudders up my arm, a welcome shock that does nothing to numb the ache in my chest. A hollow space where relief should be.
I'm furious.
Because all day, Lorenzo has looked right through me.
He treats me like a ghost. The silence from him is louder than any gunshot.
So I hit the bag. Again. For him. For me.
For this whole goddamn mess. My form is sloppy, all rage and no technique.
The bag swings, and my next punch misses, sending me stumbling.
"You hit like you're angry."
I spin toward the voice. Nico leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. His gaze drops from my face to my split knuckles, then back up. A flicker of understanding crosses his features before they settle into neutral assessment.
"I am." Another punch, harder this time. The impact rattles up my arm.
"At the bag or my brother?"
"Both." My knuckles sting against the worn leather. "Everything."
He pushes off the doorframe, moving closer with that controlled precision all the Sartori brothers share. "Your form's terrible."
"Thanks for the feedback."
"You're going to break your hand. Straighten your body" he says and shows me what he means. "Power from your core."
I follow his instruction, throwing another punch. Better this time.
"Good. Again."
I punch.
"Better." Nico steps back. "You learn fast."
"Motivated student."
"Or just angry." He tilts his head, studying me. "He's being an idiot, you know."
"Who?"
"Don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you." Nico moves to hold the bag steady. "Lorenzo thinks distance keeps people safe. He's wrong."
I throw another punch, putting my weight behind it. "Maybe he's right."
"He's not." The certainty in Nico's voice makes me pause. "Trust me on that."
Before I can respond, the door opens. Lorenzo fills the entrance, dressed for training in dark athletic wear that emphasizes every line of muscle. His gaze moves from me to Nico, and his mouth tightens.
"We have a session scheduled." His tone is all business, a cold distance that makes my teeth grind.
Nico looks between us. "Right. I'll leave you to it."
He passes Lorenzo without another word, but the look they exchange speaks volumes. Then we're alone, and the air grows heavy, pressing in on me.
"Knives today." Lorenzo moves to the weapons cabinet, pulls out two practice blades. "Review what you learned last time."
The professionalism stings worse than any insult.
I take the offered blade, testing its weight. "Fine."
We circle each other on the mats. He's maintaining careful distance, treating this like any other lesson. My grip tightens on the knife handle.
"Attack stance." He demonstrates. "Remember—"
I lunge without warning. He deflects easily, but surprise flickers across his face.
"Again." His voice drops lower. "Properly this time."
I adjust my stance, then strike. He blocks, counters. Our bodies move through the familiar dance. His hand guides my wrist, adjusting my angle. Fire races up my arm.
"You're holding back." The words are sharp, an accusation I didn't mean to make.
"Focus on your form."
"My form's fine." I spin away from his next instruction. "You're the one holding back."
"Sophia—"
"Don't." The word is a blade in the quiet room. "Don't pretend last night didn't happen."
"We're training. Again." He says ignoring what I just said.
This time when we engage, the pretense falls away. Every block brings us closer. Every parry requires his hands on me.
Repositioning, guiding, burning through the thin fabric of my clothes. His body slams mine against the mirrored wall. One hand captures my wrist, pinning it high above my head. The practice blade clatters to the mat.
His chest heaves against mine, and the ragged breaths we share have nothing to do with the fight.
"You're getting dangerous." He says.
"Good." My chin lifts. "I'm tired of being helpless."
"You were never helpless." His free hand rises to my face, thumb tracing my jaw with a reverence that contradicts his distance all day. "Just untrained."
The space between us is a taut wire. His body cages mine against the wall, one hand still pinning my wrist, the other cupping my face like something precious.
The door slams open. We spring apart as Nico appears, his face pale, his usual calm shattered.
"Emergency family meeting." His gaze flicks between us, taking in our positions, my flushed face, Lorenzo's defensive stance. "Now. A woman is here and says she has something that she needs to ask."
Lorenzo goes rigid. "What?"
"She's in Pietro's office. Move."
Lorenzo
The walk to Pietro's office stretches like a death march. My mind races through possibilities, each worse than the last. Nico's tension radiates behind me, and Sophia trails us both, confusion written across her face.
I push open the door.
Rafaella Conti sits in the leather chair across from Pietro's desk. Dark hair, sharp cheekbones, eyes that mirror our father's. My stomach drops through the floor.
"Lorenzo." She stands, smoothing her designer dress. "It's been too long."
Pietro's gaze cuts to me, ice-cold fury barely contained. "You know this woman?"
The room fills with family. Vittoria enters with Giulia. Bruno wheels himself in, Dante close behind. Everyone waiting for an explanation I can't give without destroying everything.
"We've met." My voice stays level despite the chaos in my chest.
"Met?" Rafaella laughs, the sound like breaking glass. "Is that what we're calling it? I'm his sister."
The silence that follows could shatter concrete.
"Half-sister," I correct, though the damage is done.
Pietro rises from his chair, movements deliberate and dangerous. "Explain."
Rafaella tilts her head, studying the room with calculating eyes. "You didn't tell them? All these years, and you kept our father's secret?"
"What secret?" Vittoria's voice cracks. "What is she talking about?"
My jaw works, searching for words that won't come. Rafaella fills the silence.
"Giuseppe Sartori had another family. In Naperville. A wife, three children." She gestures to herself. "I'm the oldest."
"You're lying." Giulia's hands shake as she grips her rosary. "Giuseppe would never—"
"Every Thursday for twenty-three years." Rafaella's smile is poison. "Family dinners, birthdays, graduations. He was there for all of it."
Pietro's fist slams the desk. Papers scatter. "Lorenzo. Did you know?"
The truth sits like acid on my tongue. "Yes."
"How long?" His voice drops to deadly quiet.
"Since I was twenty-two. Dad took me to meet them."
"You knew." Vittoria's accusation cuts deeper than any blade. "You knew our father had another family and you said nothing?"
"He made me promise—"
"Fuck his promises!" Pietro roars. "You kept this from us. From me."
Bruno laughs from his wheelchair, the sound hollow and bitter. "Of course he did. Lorenzo, keeper of secrets. Tell me, brother, what else are you hiding?"
"This was the only—"
"The only what?" Pietro circles the desk, predator stalking prey. "The only betrayal? The only lie?"
"What do you want, Rafaella?" My voice cuts through the chaos.
She meets my gaze, and for a moment, I see the kid I met years ago. Scared, angry, betrayed by a father who lived two lives.
"You think I wanted this?" Her composure cracks. "I spent my entire adult life pretending the Sartori name didn't exist. Pretending my father wasn't—" She stops, swallows hard. "I never wanted anything to do with this family. With any of you."
"Then why—"
"Because I had no choice!" The words explode from her. "My brother Alberto is dying. Leukemia. He needs a bone marrow transplant, and neither I nor our sister are matches."
The room shifts. Vittoria's breathing becomes shallow, rapid.
"So you come here." Pietro's voice drips venom. "Looking for what? Money?"
"Not money." Rafaella's hands clench in her lap. "Family members. Blood relatives. The doctors say siblings have the best chance of being compatible donors."
"You want us to save the son of our father's whore?" Bruno's cruel laugh fills the room.
"My mother wasn't a whore." Rafaella stands, fury replacing desperation. "She loved him. She thought they were really married. He had documents, a whole life with us. She didn't know about you until after he died."
Vittoria makes a sound like she's been punched. Her whole body starts shaking.
"Vittoria—" I move toward her, but Nora's already there, catching my sister as her knees buckle.
"I've got her." Nora guides Vittoria to the couch, holding her as she trembles.
Rafaella watches them, and she realizes what she caused.
"Lorenzo tried to protect you from this.
When he found out, when our father brought him to meet us.
I saw his face. He looked like someone had ripped his world apart.
I didn't know it then, because dad told us that Lorenzo was his nephew. Though we never saw him again."
"Don't." I warn her, but she continues.
"I know because that's how I felt when I learned the truth.
When I discovered my father had another family.
A real family. That we were just—" Her voice breaks.
"I wished I'd never known. The truth destroyed everything I believed about my life, my parents, myself. Lorenzo was trying to spare you that."
"Spare us?" Pietro turns his rage on me. "You let us mourn a lie. You sat at his funeral knowing—"
"Knowing what? That telling you would destroy Mom? That it would tear this family apart when we needed to be strong?" The words pour out, years of justification. "He was dead. The truth would only hurt the living."
"Mom." Vittoria's voice is barely a whisper from the couch. "Does Mom know?"
"No." I meet her eyes. "And she never will."