Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Lorenzo
The interrogation room reeks of blood and piss.
Giovanni sits in the metal chair, wrists zip-tied to the armrests, his suit torn where Dante dragged him down the concrete stairs.
His left eye has swollen shut, purple-black spreading across his cheekbone like spilled ink.
The right eye tracks my movement as I circle him, calculating, defiant.
Behind me, Pietro leans against the wall, arms crossed. His knuckles are split from the initial beating, blood crusting between his fingers. Nico stands by the door with his tablet, recording equipment spread across the metal table like surgical instruments.
"Twenty years," Giovanni said, his voice a dry scrape of sound from his split lips. "Twenty years I've served this family. Longer than you, Lorenzo. Longer than all of you."
I stop in front of him. "And how many of those years were you selling us out?"
His good eye glitters. "Does it matter?"
Pietro pushes off the wall, fists clenching. "You held Vittoria at her christening."
"I held a lot of things." Giovanni spits blood onto the concrete. "Your father's secrets. Your mother's tears when she found out about his mistress."
Pietro lunges. I catch his arm, holding him back while Giovanni laughs—a wet, broken sound.
"See? No control. Just like Giuseppe always said."
"Giuseppe trusted you." Pietro's voice cracks. "We all did."
"Giuseppe trusted his cock more than his family." Giovanni shifts in the chair, zip-ties cutting into his wrists. "You want to know the truth? Fine. Let's talk about truth."
I release Pietro, moving to the table where Nico has set up the recording equipment. Red lights blink like eyes in the harsh fluorescent glare.
"Everything's ready." Nico adjusts the microphone angle. "Whatever he says, we'll have it."
Giovanni watches me check the equipment. "Planning to play this for the Commission? They won't care. Half of them bought information from me."
"Which half?"
"Wouldn't you like to know." Giovanni's tongue probes his split lip. "But we're not there yet. First, let's talk about Luna."
He says her name—*Luna*. The air in the room thins. Pietro goes rigid.
"What about her?"
Giovanni's good eye finds mine. "She came to me six months ago. Walked into my restaurant like she owned it. Twelve years since you threw her away, and she looked exactly the same. That Torrino beauty."
WHAT THE FUCK?
"Luna's dead." The words come out flat, automatic.
Giovanni's laugh bubbles up through the blood in his throat. "Is that what helps you sleep at night, Lorenzo?"
My hands find the edge of the metal table, gripping until my knuckles go white.
"We had confirmation." But even as I say it, doubt creeps in like poison.
Pietro moves closer, his breathing harsh. "You're lying."
"Am I?" Giovanni shifts forward as much as the zip-ties allow. "Ask yourself this. Did anyone actually see the body? Did anyone check the dental records? Or did everyone just accept what they were told because it was convenient?"
The room tilts.
"Continue." My voice doesn't sound like mine.
"She knew things. About the family, about our operations. Things only someone on the inside would know." Giovanni leans forward as much as the restraints allow. "At first, I thought she'd been watching us. Then I realized. She never stopped watching. All those years in Europe? She was planning."
"Planning what?" Pietro demands.
"Her return. Her revenge." Giovanni's gaze slides to me.
"So you helped her." The admission burns in my throat.
"I gave her information. She gave me money. Lots of money." Giovanni shrugs, zip-ties straining.
Pietro moves toward him again. This time I don't stop him. His fist connects with Giovanni's jaw, snapping his head back.
"Let him talk." I pull Pietro back. "All of it. Every detail."
"Every detail?" Giovanni laughs. "That'll take hours."
"We have time."
I pull a chair from the corner, positioning it directly in front of him. Close enough to see every micro-expression, every tell.
"Start with Francesco's death."
"Francesco?" Giovanni's swollen eye twitches. "I know nothing about that. Luna never mentioned him."
"Then what did she want?" My voice drops to a dangerous register.
"Information about your family. Your routines. Your weaknesses." Giovanni shifts in the chair, dried blood flaking from his chin. "She approached only me because—" He pauses, that broken laugh bubbling up again. "Because she said Riccardo was trusting me."
"What the hell does that even mean?" The words explode from me before I can stop them. Riccardo died six months ago. If Luna approached Giovanni around the same time...
"Means what it means." Giovanni's tongue probes his split lip again. "Your dead brother trusted the wrong people. Just like you're doing now."
Pietro's fist connects with Giovanni's ribs. The crack echoes off concrete walls.
"Where is she now?" I lean forward, close enough to smell the copper tang of his blood.
"I don't know."
"Bullshit."
"I don't." Giovanni wheezes through the pain. "She contacted me. Never the other way around. Different phones each time. Different meeting spots. The woman's a ghost."
"A ghost who pays well." Nico steps forward, tablet in hand. "Speaking of payment—who else bought information from you?"
Giovanni's good eye slides to Nico, then away. His jaw sets.
"Names," Pietro demands, grabbing Giovanni's hair and yanking his head back. "Every fucking name."
Silence stretches between us, broken only by Giovanni's labored breathing.
"The Corellis?" I prompt.
Nothing.
"The Benedettis?"
Still nothing.
"All of them." Nico looks up from his tablet. "Jesus Christ, you sold to all of them."
"Information is currency." Giovanni finally speaks. "And I've been rich for years."
"Names." I stand, looming over him. "Every contact, every buyer, every secret you sold."
"Or what? You'll kill me?" Giovanni laughs. "I'm dead already. Have been since you dragged me here."
"There are worse things than death."
"Like what? Torture?" He spits again. "I'm seventy-three years old, Lorenzo. My body's already torture."
I study him, this man who helped raise us, who sat at our table for decades while selling us out.
"Nico, how much would it take to destroy someone financially? Complete ruin?"
My brother's fingers fly across his tablet. "Depends on their assets. But with the right information—"
"You have three children." I keep my voice conversational. "Seven grandchildren. College funds, trust funds, mortgages."
Giovanni goes still.
"Your oldest grandson just got into Harvard.
Full ride would mean everything to your daughter.
" I pull out my phone, scrolling through files Nico pulled.
"Your youngest son's restaurant is three months behind on rent.
Your middle daughter's husband needs experimental treatment for his 'car accident'. Insurance won't cover it."
"You wouldn't."
"I'm not going to hurt them." I set my phone on the table. "I'm going to do nothing. Absolutely nothing. No protection, no money, no influence. They'll sink on their own."
"That's not—"
"Or." I lean forward. "You tell us everything. Every secret, every contact, every piece of information you sold. We record it all. And your family stays under Sartori protection after your death."
Giovanni's good eye darts between us, calculating.
"You think I care about protection?"
"I think you care about legacy. You betrayed this family for money and spite. But your children don't know that, do they? Your grandchildren think you're a successful businessman, a respected elder."
Nicos found it—the pressure point. Giovanni's jaw works.
"What happens to the recording?"
"We use it as necessary." I straighten. "Leverage against our enemies. Insurance against future betrayal."
"And if I refuse?"
Pietro steps forward. "Then I handle this my way. And trust me, old man, I'm not feeling as charitable as my brother."
Giovanni looks at each of us. In the harsh light, he looks ancient, shrunken.
"Start from the beginning." I pull the microphone closer. "Every detail."
Giovanni closes his eye, exhales slowly. When he opens it again, the defiance has drained away.
"It started fifteen years ago. Your father was expanding territory, making enemies. The Irish approached me first..."
Three hours. Three hours of names, dates, transactions. Giovanni's voice grows hoarse as he details every betrayal, every secret sold. Blackmail material on half of Chicago's power structure.
Nico types frantically, organizing the information into categories. Pietro paces, fists clenching with each revelation. But I stay focused on Giovanni, pulling every detail from his rotting soul.
By the third hour, Giovanni's voice is barely a whisper. He's detailed corruption throughout the city, secrets that could topple governments, destroy families, start wars.
"This is everything?" I stand, stretching muscles cramped from sitting.
"Everything I remember." Giovanni raises his head with effort.
I stand, my chair scraping against concrete. "Pietro, Nico. Outside."
Sophia
The door clicking shut pulls me from sleep.
"Lorenzo?" My voice cracks with sleep.
A shadow moves near the closet. The mattress dips as I reach for the nightstand lamp, flooding the room with soft light.
Blood.
It's everywhere. His shirt, his hands, dark stains spreading across fabric like spilled wine.
"Don't." His voice stops me halfway out of bed. "Stay there."
"You're hurt." I stand anyway, bare feet hitting cold floor.
"It's not mine."
I move closer, reaching for his shirt buttons.
"Sophia, don't—"
"Stop." My fingers work the first button free. "Just stop."
"You don't want this on your hands."
"Your hands are my hands now." The second button gives way. "That's what love means."
"Not this kind of love. Not with this kind of blood."
I look up at him then. His jaw works like he's grinding glass between his teeth. Those warm brown eyes have gone somewhere dark, somewhere he thinks I can't follow.
"You think I'm too innocent for this."
"I know you are."
"I'll be here." The words come out steady, certain. "Every time you come home with someone else's blood on your clothes, I'll be here to help you take them off."
"Sophia—"
"Because I know you." I pull my wrists free, returning to the buttons. "I know you don't hurt people who don't deserve it. Every drop of blood on these clothes? They earned it."
His breath shudders out. "You can't know that."
"I do know that." The shirt falls open. "Because I know you."
He stands still as I push the fabric off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. The blood has soaked through to his undershirt. I reach for that too, but he catches my hands again.
"Luna's alive."
The room tilts. My knees forget how to work.
"What?"
"Giovanni told us. She's been in Europe. She contacted him six months ago."
"No." The word comes out wrong, broken. "She died. The car bomb. Everyone said—"
"Everyone was wrong."
This is a nightmare. I'm still asleep, and this is one of those dreams where everything you thought was real crumbles into dust.
"That's not possible."
"It's true." His hands tighten on mine. "Giovanni's been feeding her information about the family. About us."
My legs give out. Lorenzo catches me, pulling me against his blood-stained chest. The metallic smell fills my nose, makes my stomach turn.
"She's dead. She has to be dead."
"She's not."
"But the funeral. My mother went to her funeral." The memory surfaces sharp and clear. Mom in her black dress, eyes red from crying. "She mourned her. We all did."
"There was no body to identify. The explosion—" Lorenzo's voice catches. "We assumed. We all assumed."
The room spins. I press my face into Lorenzo's chest, not caring about the blood, needing something solid to hold onto.
"She's been alive this whole time?"
"Yes."
"Watching? Planning?"
"According to Giovanni, yes."
"Does she know about us? About the wedding?"
"I don't know for sure." His arms tighten around me. "Giovanni didn't have any leads on her location. Just that she contacted him six months ago."
"Six months." The timeline burns through my brain.
"We took his phone. Vittoria will search everything she can find." His hand strokes my hair, the gesture meant to comfort but it just makes everything worse. "Until then, you need to stay calm. Let me worry about this."
I pull back to look at him. Blood has dried dark on his skin, someone else's life painting him in violence. But that's not what makes my stomach turn.
It's the way he said her name.
Luna's alive.
Not "the woman who betrayed me." Just Luna. Like her name still means something. Like it always meant something.
"You're shaking," he says.
I'm not scared of what Luna might do to me. I'm not worried about some ghost from Lorenzo's past coming to hurt us.
I'm terrified of something much worse.
What if he still wants her?
The thought slithers through my mind like poison. She was his first love. The one who broke him. The one he's never really talked about except in fragments of pain. And now she's alive, breathing somewhere in this world, maybe watching us right now.
"Sophia?" Lorenzo's thumb brushes my cheek. "Talk to me."
But what am I supposed to say? That I'm drowning in what-ifs? That every kiss we've shared suddenly feels like borrowed time?
What if he loved her more than he could ever love me?
What if seeing her again awakens something that never really died?
What if I'm just the replacement, the consolation prize, the young girl who threw herself at him when he thought his real love was gone?
"I need a shower." He steps back, and the loss of his warmth feels like prophecy. "Get some sleep."
"Okay."
He pauses at the bathroom door, looking back at me. For a second, I think he might say something.
Instead, he just goes inside and closes the door.
The second I hear the water turn on, I collapse onto the bed. The sob tears out of me before I can stop it. I press my face into the pillow, biting down on fabric to muffle the sound.
She's alive.
Another sob escapes. I press harder into the pillow, my whole body shaking with the effort of staying quiet. He can't know I'm falling apart. Can't know that three words have shattered everything I thought we were building.
What if he realizes he never stopped loving her?
What if our whole relationship has been him trying to forget her, and now that she's back, he won't need me anymore?
The tears come faster. My chest burns with the effort of crying silently, every muscle tensed to keep the sobs from echoing off these walls.
What am I supposed to do now?
How do I compete with a ghost who isn't dead?
How do I fight for a man who might already belong to someone else?
The pillow muffles another sob.