Chapter 25 #2
"Sometimes you just know," she says, her voice carrying that perfect note of breathless romance. "When someone saves you, really saves you, everything else falls away."
Christ, she's good at this. Better than she should be.
Francesco's expression shows frustration. He's not getting what he wants from us.
"And living together already," he continues, relentless. "In your family compound, no less. How... traditional."
More implications. More seeds of doubt about consent, about choice, about whether Sophia is here willingly.
"Family is everything," I say simply. "My brothers and sister have welcomed Sophia completely. She's one of us now."
She smiles up at me, and for a moment I forget we're performing.
Francesco watches us. The game isn't working. We're not cracking, not revealing the cracks he needs to exploit.
"Well," Francesco says finally, his voice carrying resignation mixed with something else—warning maybe. "I suppose I'm happy for you both. Young love is so... precious."
"Thank you, Uncle," Sophia says, her voice steady despite the tension radiating from her body.
Francesco nods, that false smile still in place. "Enjoy your party."
He melts back into the crowd, but I know he's not done. He'll work the room, planting doubts, building his narrative. But for now, we've won this round.
"I need to find Pietro," I tell Sophia, spotting my brother across the room with some of the other families. "Stay close to Vittoria."
She nods, understanding that Francesco might try again when I'm not there.
I find Pietro near the bar, surrounded by the Benedetti brothers and two Corelli cousins. They scatter when I approach.
"Walk with me," Pietro says, leading me toward the terrace doors. The November air bites through my suit jacket, but at least out here we can speak freely.
"Everything's working for now," he says, lighting a cigarette. "Managed to change the next three shipment schedules without raising flags. Francesco's crew will hit empty warehouses while our product moves through alternate routes."
Smart. Let them waste resources chasing ghosts.
"Nico found something interesting," Pietro continues, exhaling smoke into the cold night. "Francesco's been spreading cash around the precinct. Doubled what we pay to some of our cops, tripled it for others. Simple move, but effective."
"Makes us look like fools," I say, understanding immediately. We pride ourselves on loyalty, on relationships built over decades. Francesco just walked in with a checkbook and bought what we thought we owned.
"Exactly." Pietro flicks ash over the railing. "Can't react though. Not yet. We move now, everyone sees it coming. We wait, let them think they've won, then we hit them when no one expects it."
Classic Pietro. All violence and delayed gratification. Sometimes it works.
"How are you doing?" he asks suddenly, studying me with those dark eyes that miss nothing.
"Been better. But I'll face whatever comes. Eventually."
Eventually. Because right now I can barely manage myself.
My hands shake slightly as I light my own cigarette. Pietro notices, of course he does.
"You know," he says, "This thing with Sophia. Whatever it really is just don't let it consume you. It's your life Lorenzo. It's like you always do whatever the hell others want you to do. You deserve more than that. "
The words hit harder than they should. When did I stop believing I deserved anything beyond penance?
"Francesco's working the room," I say, deflecting. "Planting seeds about coercion, about me taking advantage."
Pietro snorts. "Let him. Anyone with eyes can see how that girl looks at you. Either she's the best actress in Chicago or—"
"Or what?"
He gives me a look that says I'm an idiot. "Or it's real, brother. And I'm starting to believe that it is for both sides."
Before I can respond, the terrace door opens. Vittoria pokes her head out, expression tight.
"You need to get back inside," she says urgently. "Now."
Pietro and I exchange glances, immediately on alert.
"What happened?" I ask.
"It's Sophia." Vittoria's voice carries worry. "Daniil Morozov just walked in."
Sophia
I can't breathe.
The moment Daniil Morozov walks through those ballroom doors, my lungs forget how to work. He's exactly as I've seen him in photos. Tall, broad, with dead eyes that scan the room like a predator cataloging prey. His blond hair is slicked back. His look hides what he really is.
A monster.
The one who was supposed to own me.
Marina's hand finds mine. "Sophia? You just went white."
"That's him," I whisper, my voice barely working. "The Russian."
Marina's grip tightens, but Daniil's already spotted me. His empty blue eyes lock onto mine across the room, and his mouth curves into quite a smile. More like a wolf showing teeth.
He starts walking toward us.
My body screams at me to run, but my feet won't move. The room tilts slightly, edges going dark. I'm drowning in the middle of this glittering ballroom, surrounded by Chicago's elite, and no one notices except Marina.
"Where's Lorenzo?" she asks urgently, looking around.
"Terrace. With Pietro." The words come out strangled.
Daniil weaves through the crowd with purpose. People step aside without realizing why, some primitive instinct warning them away from the danger he carries.
Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.
I need to leave. Need to move. Need to do something other than stand here like a lamb waiting for slaughter.
But I can't.
Lorenzo mentioned Daniil might show up tonight.
"Just for appearances," he'd said. "He wants to be part of Chicago's elite, to be seen as legitimate.
" But there's nothing legitimate about the way he's looking at me.
Like I'm already his. Like this engagement to Lorenzo is just a temporary inconvenience.
"Miss Torrino," Daniil says when he reaches us. "Or should I say, the future Mrs. Sartori?"
He extends his hand toward mine, clearly expecting me to offer it for a kiss. Old-world manners hiding new-world violence.
My hand stays frozen at my side.
"How rude of me," he says, that not-smile widening. "Allow me to properly introduce myself."
Before I can react, he takes my hand anyway, his fingers closing around mine with practiced ease. His grip is cold, wrong. Everything in me recoils as he lifts my hand toward his mouth.
"Touch her again and you disappear," Lorenzo's voice cuts through the air like a blade. He's suddenly there, his hand clamping down on Daniil's wrist before his lips can touch my skin. "Not tomorrow. Not next week. Tonight. They'll never find enough pieces to bury."
The threat hangs between them, and for a moment, I think Daniil might actually back down. But then he laughs. A sound like breaking glass.
"Such passion," Daniil says, releasing my hand slowly, taking his time. "I can see why my bride-to-be finds you so... compelling."
"She's not your anything," Lorenzo says.
"Technicalities." Daniil adjusts his cufflinks, completely unbothered by Lorenzo's threat. "Contracts were signed. Agreements made. Just because she's playing with you doesn't change what was promised to me."
"Leave," Lorenzo commands. "Now. Before I forget we're in public."
Daniil's eyes find mine over Lorenzo's shoulder. It's like he's saying that we're not done yet.
My stomach turns violently.
He turns and walks away, laughing softly to himself. The sound follows him through the crowd like a poison, and I realize my whole body is shaking.
Lorenzo's arms wrap around me, solid and warm, anchoring me back to reality. His mouth finds my ear, and his voice is low enough that only I can hear.
"We're staying a little longer," he murmurs against my hair. "Then I'm getting you out of here. Just trust me and keep going."
Before I can respond, before I can tell him that Daniil's touch made my skin crawl, Lorenzo's mouth covers mine.
The ballroom erupts in applause like we're performers on a stage giving them exactly the show they came for. Lorenzo's kiss chases away the cold Daniil left behind, replacing it with heat that spreads through my chest, down my spine, into my fingertips.
When he pulls back, I'm steadier. My smile comes naturally, not forced, and Lorenzo's eyes soften just slightly at the corners.
"Perfect timing," he says quietly, then louder, "I think this is the right moment."
He signals a waiter, taking two champagne flutes from the silver tray. One finds its way into my hand, the cool crystal grounding me further. Lorenzo raises his glass slightly, not tapping it for attention—he doesn't need to. His presence alone commands the room.
"Since you're all here for our engagement," Lorenzo's voice carries across the ballroom with the same authority he uses in boardrooms and back alleys, "Sophia and I have an announcement."
The crowd quiets instantly. Even the string quartet stops playing. Every eye in the room fixes on us, and I feel the weight of their attention like a physical thing.
"We're getting married," Lorenzo continues, his free hand finding the small of my back. "In one month."
The reaction is immediate. Gasps, whispers, then thunderous applause. Someone shouts congratulations. Glasses raise throughout the room in impromptu toasts. But Lorenzo isn't finished.
He sets down his champagne and reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small velvet box. My heart stops. We never discussed a ring. This wasn't part of our arrangement, our practice, our whatever-this-is.
"Sophia," he says, and the room goes silent again.
He opens the box, revealing a ring that catches the chandelier light and throws it back in brilliant fragments.
It's not what I expected. Not some gaudy statement piece meant to impress.
The center diamond is substantial but elegant, surrounded by smaller stones in an art deco setting that looks vintage.
Lorenzo takes my left hand, and I realize I'm trembling again, but for entirely different reasons than when Daniil approached.
The ring slides onto my finger and the room explodes again—applause, cheers, the pop of champagne corks. But I barely hear any of it. All I can see is Lorenzo's face, the way he's looking at me like maybe this isn't just an arrangement anymore. Like maybe it never was.
"One month," someone calls out. "That's fast!"
"When you know, you know," Lorenzo responds smoothly, but his thumb strokes across my knuckles where the ring now sits.
Francesco's voice cuts through the celebration like a knife through silk. "How romantic. My dear niece, swept off her feet. Though I do hope you'll remember your family in all this excitement."
The threat is subtle, but it's there. Lorenzo's hand tightens on mine.
"Family is everything," Lorenzo agrees, his tone matching Francesco's for hidden menace. "Which is why Sophia will be under my family's complete protection from now on."