Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Sophia
The ballroom glitters and I stand at its center with Lorenzo's arm around my waist. My face aches from smiling. Every crime family in Chicago surrounds us, raising champagne glasses to toast our union while calculating how to use it to their advantage.
"Such a beautiful couple," Chiara Benedetti coos. "Francesco would've been so proud."
My uncle's name sits like acid on my tongue. He's been dead less than a week, and here they all stand, pretending grief while measuring the power vacuum he left behind. Lorenzo's fingers tighten against my hip. A silent warning to stay calm.
"Thank you, Mrs. Benedetti." My voice comes out sweet, practiced. "We appreciate your support during this difficult time."
The old woman's lips curve. "Of course, dear. Family must stick together." She drifts away, no doubt to whisper poison in someone else's ear.
Lorenzo leans down, his breath warm against my ear. "You're doing perfectly, piccola."
Before I can respond, the Corelli brothers approach. Marco and Luca, twins who inherited their father's territory and his cruelty. They don't bother hiding their assessment of me.
"Lorenzo," Marco says, extending his hand. "Congratulations. Though we were surprised by the... speed of your courtship."
"When you know, you know." Lorenzo's tone stays pleasant, but I feel the tension coiling through his body.
Luca's gaze slides to me. "And now the new Mrs. Sartori inherits Francesco's empire. How convenient."
Heat floods my cheeks, but I lift my chin. "My uncle's business affairs will be handled appropriately. The Torrino name will continue to honor its agreements."
"Will it?" Marco's smile shows too many teeth. "Because we had certain... understandings with Francesco. Arrangements that benefited both families."
"Any legitimate business arrangements will be reviewed." Lorenzo's voice drops, acquiring that dangerous edge I've learned to recognize. "Through proper channels."
The twins exchange glances. Some silent communication passes between them before Luca speaks again. "Perhaps we should discuss this privately. Tomorrow?"
"Perhaps." Lorenzo doesn't commit, already dismissing them with his body language.
They melt back into the crowd, and I exhale slowly. Every conversation feels like navigating a minefield. These people smell blood in the water.
"Sophia!"
I turn to find Marina pushing through the crowd, Vittoria close behind. My best friend looks stunning in emerald green, though her smile wavers when she reaches us.
"You okay?" she whispers, squeezing my hand.
"Perfect," I lie.
Lorenzo's hand slides from my waist. "I need to speak with some men. Stay with Marina and Vittoria."
He crosses the ballroom toward a cluster of men near the bar, and I watch him go, already missing his solid presence beside me. The sharks circle differently when he's not here to bare his teeth.
"Finally," Marina mutters, then catches herself. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"
"It's okay." I study her face, noting the tension around her eyes, the way she keeps glancing at the exits. "Are you okay? We haven't really talked lately, not properly."
Marina's laugh comes out brittle. "Define okay."
Vittoria touches her elbow gently. "I'm going to grab us some champagne. Back in a minute."
She glides away, leaving Marina and me in our own bubble despite the crowd pressing around us. My best friend wraps her arms around herself, a protective gesture I recognize from college whenever she felt overwhelmed.
"I know this is hard for you," I say softly. "Being around all of this. Around them."
"That's the thing." Marina's voice drops. "If I hadn't lived with you all for a while now, I would've just seen..." She gestures vaguely at the room. "Criminals. Monsters. Whatever normal people call them."
"But?"
"But they're not just that." Her eyes meet mine, conflicted.
"They're human. Vittoria stays up all night hacking systems but also cries over Taylor Swift songs.
Nora makes these terrible jokes while teaching me self-defense moves Pietro has showed her.
Even Nico, who terrifies me half the time, brought me coffee this morning because he noticed I looked tired. "
I blink, surprised. "Nico brought you coffee?"
"Right?" Marina shakes her head. "It's messing with my head. I grew up thinking there were good people and bad people. Clear lines. But living at the compound... they have family dinners. They argue about music and sports. Giulia fusses over everyone eating enough."
"They're still dangerous," I remind her, though I understand exactly what she means.
"I know. God, I know. Dante literally kidnapped me." Her jaw tightens at the memory.
"Marina—"
"I don't want to be part of this world," she says quickly. "I really don't. The violence, the constant threat, the way everyone speaks in code and watches their backs. But I like Vittoria. She's become a real friend. And Nora too."
She pauses, studying my face. "And Lorenzo... I wasn't sure about him at first. The age difference, the way he looked at you like he wanted to devour you—"
Heat creeps up my neck. "Marina!"
"But he cares about you. Really cares. Not in that possessive, controlling way I expected from a man like him. Well, okay, he's definitely possessive." She manages a small smile. "But it's more than that. He sees you."
My throat tightens. "You think so?"
"Sophia, I watched him watch you during dinner last night. You were just talking to Giulia about recipes, nothing special. But he looked at you like you were rearranging his entire world just by existing."
I glance across the room where Lorenzo stands, his posture relaxed but alert. As if sensing my gaze, he looks up, our eyes meeting across the crowd. Something passes between us, electric and undeniable, before he returns his attention to his conversation.
"The whole situation is insane," Marina continues. "Three weeks ago, I was studying for finals. Now you're married to a crime boss and I'm living in a compound with armed guards."
"Do you hate me for dragging you into this?"
"No." She grabs my hand, squeezing tight. "Never. You're my best friend. I just need you to know that I see them as people now. Complicated, dangerous people who I mostly want to stay far away from. But people."
Lorenzo
The conversation with my associates drags on longer than I want. Every minute away from Sophia feels like an opportunity for someone to corner her, to plant seeds of doubt or make veiled threats.
Pietro appears at my elbow. "Time for the announcement."
Right. The performance continues. Everyone in this room already knows we're married—the photos went viral hours ago—but tradition demands its theater. I excuse myself from the men discussing territory disputes and cross the ballroom toward my wife.
My wife.
The words still feel foreign.
I take Sophia's hand, her fingers immediately interlacing with mine. "Showtime, tesoro."
She straightens her spine, that perfect society smile sliding into place. But I feel the slight tremor in her grip.
"Ladies and gentlemen." My voice cuts through the chatter, commanding attention without shouting. The room falls silent, all eyes turning toward us. "Thank you all for joining us tonight."
The crowd presses closer.
"As many of you have heard, Sophia and I were married yesterday in a private ceremony." I pull her closer, my arm sliding around her waist. "We wanted family present for that sacred moment, but tonight, we celebrate with all of you."
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Someone starts clapping and others follow suit. The applause sounds hollow, performative.
"The union of Sartori and Torrino," I continue, letting my gaze sweep the room, making eye contact with those who need reminding of what this means. "A new chapter for both families."
"To the bride and groom!" someone shouts, raising a glass.
The toast echoes through the ballroom, champagne glasses lifting in what looks like celebration but feels like calculation. Every smile hides an agenda.
I turn to Sophia, cupping her face with one hand. "My wife," I say, loud enough for those nearest to hear the possession in my voice.
Then I kiss her.
When we break apart, her cheeks are flushed, lips swollen. She rises on her toes, wrapping her arms around my neck in what looks like an embrace of joy.
"I want to get out of here," she whispers against my ear, her voice barely audible.
I hold her tighter, feeling the tension in her body. She's been performing all night, playing the happy bride while navigating threats and calculating stares. The room watches us like vultures, waiting for any crack in our facade, any mistake they can exploit.
Music begins flowing through the ballroom. Couples start moving toward the dance floor, but most eyes remain on us.
Sophia stays pressed against me, her breath warm on my neck. "They're waiting for us to dance."
"I don't dance."
She pulls back enough to look at my face, and despite everything she laughs.
"You don't dance?" Her eyes spark.
"Never learned. Never needed to."
"Well, husband." She emphasizes the word, her smile turning mischievous. "Challenge accepted."
Sophia extends her hand toward me, waiting. The gesture is simple but it might as well be a loaded gun for how it makes my chest tighten.
"Come on," she says, her voice carrying that particular note of challenge that always undoes me.
I wouldn't dance for anyone else. Not Pietro with a gun to my head. Not for a billion-dollar deal. Not to save my own life.
But Sophia could ask me to run through fire dancing reggaeton and I'd do it without a second thought.
I take her hand.
The crowd parts as we move toward the dance floor. Some pull out phones, ready to document this rare moment.
Sophia positions my hand on her waist, places hers on my shoulder. "Just follow my lead," she whispers, pressing closer.
Sophia starts moving, and somehow my feet follow. She guides me through basic steps, her body telling mine where to go.
"See? You're a natural," she says, tilting her head back to look at me.
"Liar."
She laughs and the sound cuts through all the noise in the room. Her whole face transforms with it, eyes crinkling at the corners, that fake society smile replaced with this genuine and unguarded one.
"Spin me," she says.
"I don't know how to—"
"Just lift your arm and I'll do the rest."
I raise our joined hands, and she twirls underneath, her dress flaring out in a perfect circle. When she comes back to me, she's still laughing, looking so happy.
My face hurts.
The sensation is strange, unfamiliar. At first I think it's tension from the stress of tonight, from watching every exit and threat. But then Sophia reaches up, her fingers ghosting along my jaw.
"You're smiling," she says, wonder in her voice.
That's when I realize—my cheeks ache because I'm smiling. An actual smile that's been stretching my face for... how long?
The song continues, and we keep moving. Three minutes of Sophia in my arms, laughing at my clumsy footwork, her joy infectious enough to crack through thirty-four years of carefully constructed walls.
I can't remember the last time I smiled this long. Maybe never.
"What are you thinking about?" Sophia asks, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of my neck.
"That my face hurts."
She laughs again. "From smiling?"
"It's your fault."
"Good." She rises on her toes, bringing her mouth close to my ear. "You should smile more. It's devastating."
The song begins to wind down, but I don't want to let her go. Not with the whole room watching us like sharks, waiting for their moment to strike. Not when she's looking at me like I matter.
"Another dance?" she asks, reading my reluctance to release her.
"I thought you wanted to leave."
"I did." Her eyes scan the room, taking in our audience. "But they need to see this. Need to believe we're real."
"We are real. This is the most real thing in my life."
She looks at me and smiles.
She’s so fucking beautiful.
The crowd watches us move together, probably calculating angles and advantages. Let them. They're seeing exactly what I want them to see. That Sophia Sartori is untouchable.
What they don't see is that she's also rewriting everything I thought I knew about myself, one dance at a time.