Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Sophia
The car idles outside the hotel, and through the tinted windows I can see them. Reporters, photographers, a wall of flashing lights waiting to devour us. My stomach churns.
Lorenzo sits beside me, silent. He hasn't said a word since we left the compound. Not about what happened in his shower, not about the party, nothing. Just this suffocating silence that makes my chest tight.
I smooth my hands over the black dress for the hundredth time.
"You okay?" His voice cuts through the silence, making me jump.
I turn to look at him. He's devastating in his suit, every inch the powerful businessman the world thinks he is.
"Not really."
My fingers twist in my lap, and I force myself to meet his eyes.
"Earlier, in your room..." I swallow hard. "I came to tell you I was scared. About tonight. About all of this. But then I saw you and I—" Heat floods my cheeks. "I never told you what I meant to say."
Lorenzo's expression softens, just slightly. The hard line of his jaw relaxes.
"You don't have to be scared." His hand covers mine, warm and steady. "I'll be right there with you. Every second."
Through the windshield, I watch a reporter adjust her microphone, practicing her opening. They're all waiting for the Torrino woman who managed to get engaged to the Sartori prince.
"What if I mess this up?" The words come out small. "What if I say the wrong thing or—"
"You won't." His thumb strokes across my knuckles. "You're stronger than you think, Sophia."
I want to believe him. But those cameras, those people who'll judge every word, every gesture, looking for cracks in our story...
A knock on the window makes us both tense. Dante's face appears, and Lorenzo nods.
This is it.
"Ready?" Lorenzo asks.
I'm not. I'll never be ready for this. But I nod anyway because what choice do I have?
Lorenzo steps out first, and immediately the cameras explode in a frenzy of flashes.
He rounds the car with that lethal grace he has, ignoring the questions being screamed at him. Then he's at my door, opening it, his hand extended.
I place my trembling fingers in his and let him help me out. The moment my heels hit the pavement, the crowd surges forward.
"Sophia! How long have you been together?"
"Are you pregnant? Is that why the rushed engagement?"
The questions assault us from every direction. Lorenzo's arm slides around my waist, pulling me against his side. His body shields me from the worst of the crowd as we move toward the hotel entrance.
"Smile," he murmurs in my ear, his breath warm against my skin. "Show them you want to be here."
Enough girl. You need to play along.
I tilt my head toward Lorenzo and let out a laugh, bright and genuine-sounding, as if he's just whispered the most wonderful secret. My hand finds his chest. The cameras go wild.
"That's my girl," Lorenzo murmurs, and this time when I smile, it reaches my eyes.
We glide through the crowd like we own them, because in this moment, we do. Every photographer wants this shot. I give them exactly what they're hungry for. Another laugh, a look of adoration up at Lorenzo that would convince anyone we're madly in love.
The hotel doors loom ahead, security guards flanking them. The second we cross that threshold, the cameras can't follow. One more performance for the vultures outside.
I pause at the entrance, turning back slightly, my hand still in Lorenzo's. The perfect picture of a woman who belongs here, who chose this. Then we're through, and the doors close behind us, cutting off the chaos.
The silence brings me a moment of joy.
But it doesn't last.
The ballroom stretches before us, and suddenly I understand that the real performance is just beginning. Women in designer gowns turn to stare, their eyes sliding over me like I'm something they stepped in. Their expressions range from disgust to disbelief—how dare I land Lorenzo Sartori?
The men are worse. They look at me like I'm a trophy, something to be won or stolen. Their gazes linger too long, calculating what it would take to pry me away from Lorenzo's protection.
My skin crawls.
These people, don't care about me. If I was just Sophia Torrino, college student, normal girl, they wouldn't spare me a glance. But as Lorenzo Sartori's fiancée? Now I'm worth something. Now I matter.
It makes me sick.
An older man approaches, his eyes roaming over me in a way that makes me want to shower. Lorenzo shifts, subtly blocking the man's view.
"Torrino's niece," the man says, like I'm not standing right there. "Interesting choice, Lorenzo."
"My fiancée," Lorenzo corrects, ice in his tone. "Sophia."
The man's gaze finally meets mine, dismissive. "Of course."
He walks away without another word, like I've ceased to exist.
This is my world now. Being looked through, talked about, evaluated like merchandise. All because of whose ring I'll wear, whose name I'll take.
"Come on," Lorenzo says, his hand warm against my back. "We'll go to my family first."
I spot them across the room—Pietro and Nora holding court with several men and women, Vittoria in a stunning silver gown, Nico watching everything. Bruno isn't here, he doesn't want anyone see him.
Then I see her.
Marina.
My heart stops, then races, then stops again. She's standing next to Vittoria in a emerald green dress I've never seen before, looking like she belongs here. Like she fits into this world of dangerous men and blood money.
Love and hatred war in my chest. She's here, my best friend, my anchor to normalcy. But she's also here, in this nest of vipers, where one wrong word could get her killed.
Lorenzo didn't tell me. Neither did she.
Marina's eyes find mine across the room, and her face lights up. She excuses herself from Vittoria and weaves through the crowd toward us. Each step she takes makes my chest tighter. I want to run to her and shake her at the same time.
"Sophia!" She throws her arms around me, and I breathe in her familiar vanilla perfume. For a second, I'm just a girl hugging her best friend. Not a pawn, not a future Sartori bride, just Sophia.
But the weight of eyes on us brings me back. The entire room watches, cataloging this interaction, filing it away for future use. I pull back first, keeping my smile bright even though my hands shake.
"Marina, what are you doing here?" I keep my voice light, casual, like finding her at my engagement party to a mafia prince is perfectly normal.
"Vittoria invited me." She squeezes my hands. "Said you could use a friendly face."
My throat burns. Vittoria did this for me. Despite everything with Lorenzo and the family secrets, she still thought of me.
Marina turns to Lorenzo, and her expression hardens. Gone is my sweet, optimistic friend.
"Lorenzo." She steps closer to him, and I hold my breath. "You better do your best to take care of her until this thing is over."
The threat in her voice is unmistakable. Marina, who cries at dog food commercials, is threatening Lorenzo Sartori. My stomach drops.
But Lorenzo just smiles.
"If it's ever over," he says quietly, his hand finding my waist.
Wait. What?
I can't process his words, can't untangle what he means, because a familiar voice cuts through the noise of the party.
"Sophia."
Francesco.
My blood turns to ice. He stands three feet away, looking every inch the grieving uncle. But I know better. I see the calculation in his eyes, the barely contained fury beneath his concerned expression.
"Uncle." The word tastes like ash.
Marina stiffens beside me, clearly sensing the danger even if she doesn't understand it. Lorenzo's grip on my waist tightens, possessive and protective at once.
"You look beautiful, my dear." Francesco's voice drips false warmth. "Your mother would be so proud."
The mention of my mother is a knife between my ribs. How dare he speak of her? How dare he stand here and pretend to care when he sold me like cattle?
"Thank you." I force the words out through clenched teeth.
Francesco's gaze shifts to Lorenzo, and the temperature drops ten degrees.
Lorenzo
Francesco's smile could cut glass. "Lorenzo, you've certainly made quite the impression on my niece."
The bastard's playing to the crowd already. Three couples have drifted closer, pretending to admire the ice sculpture while their ears strain for every word. This is what Francesco wants. Witnesses to whatever narrative he's spinning.
"Sophia makes her own choices," I say, keeping my voice neutral. Two hours. We need to survive two hours of this circus before we can leave.
"Of course she does." Francesco's voice carries just enough to reach our growing audience. "Though I imagine living in your compound provides quite the... influence. Such dedication, keeping her so close. So protected."
There it is. The implication that I'm holding her prisoner, that this engagement is coercion disguised as romance. He wants me to react, to show the violence that simmers beneath my surface. Give these vultures something to whisper about tomorrow.
I pull Sophia closer instead, pressing a kiss to her temple. She melts into me perfectly, playing her part.
"When you find someone worth protecting, you do whatever it takes," I say, loud enough for our audience. "I'm sure you understand that, Francesco."
His jaw tightens. Good. Let him choke on his own game.
"Such devotion." Francesco gestures broadly, ensuring everyone sees his theatrical concern. "To think, just weeks ago she was grieving her dear mother, and now here she is, so madly in love. It's almost like a fairy tale."
The timeline implication hangs in the air. Too fast, too convenient. He's building doubt in every listening ear. Did Lorenzo Sartori take advantage of a grieving girl?
Sophia's hand finds mine, squeezing tight. I can feel her trembling with rage, but her face shows only adoration when she looks up at me.