Chapter 33 Sophia
SOPHIA
I spread the photographs across Mikhail’s desk, my hands trembling slightly as I arrange them in chronological order.
Each image is a violation, a reminder that our privacy is an illusion.
Me at the grocery store.
Mikhail leaving his office.
Us having dinner at our favorite restaurant.
The timestamps span the last three weeks.
“These aren’t random surveillance,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Whoever took these has been following us for a while.”
Mikhail stands beside me, his jaw tight as he studies the photos. The dragon tattoo on his neck seems to pulse with his rapid heartbeat. “The quality is professional. Military-grade equipment.”
I pick up one of the photos, examining the angle. “And they’re not trying to hide it. They want us to know we’re being watched.”
“A message.” His green eyes darken. “But from who?”
I’ve been thinking about that since we found the envelope. Lorenzo is dead, his organization scattered.
The Bratva families have accepted our transition to legitimate business. So who has the resources and motivation to target us now?
“I need to do some research,” I tell him, already moving toward my laptop on my desk.
For the next two hours, I dig through everything I can find about Lorenzo’s background, his connections, his history.
Mikhail makes calls, reaching out to his remaining contacts in the underworld. Slowly, a picture begins to emerge.
“The Sicilian Cosa Nostra,” I say finally, pulling up an article about organized crime families in Italy. “Lorenzo had ties to them before he came to America. His father was a made man in Palermo.”
Mikhail leans over my shoulder, reading the screen. “I knew he had connections in Sicily, but I didn’t realize how deep they went.”
I click through several more articles, piecing together the history. “It’s more than connections. It’s a vendetta. Lorenzo’s father was killed in a power struggle thirty years ago. The family blamed the Morozovs for providing intelligence to their rivals.”
“That’s insane.” Mikhail’s hand tightens on the back of my chair. “My family had nothing to do with Sicilian politics.”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s untrue.” I turn to look at him. “They believe it. And now that Lorenzo is dead, they’re coming for revenge.”
The weight of this settles over us like a shroud.
We’re not just dealing with local threats anymore.
We’re facing a centuries-old organization with resources that dwarf anything we’ve encountered before.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call. Tony’s name flashes on the screen.
“Hey,” I answer, putting it on speaker.
“I heard about the photos.” Tony’s voice is concerned. “Are you two okay?”
“We’re fine. How did you know?”
“Word travels fast in certain circles.” He pauses. “Sophia, I need to tell you something. I’ve been doing some digging since I recovered, trying to figure out who might still have it out for Mikhail. The Sicilians have been asking questions about you two. Lots of questions.”
Mikhail and I exchange a glance. “What kind of questions?” he asks.
“Your routines, your security, your businesses. They’re planning something big.” Tony’s voice drops lower. “I can help you disappear. New identities, new location, completely off the grid. I have contacts who specialize in this kind of thing.”
The offer hangs in the air between us. Running. Starting over. Again.
Mikhail has old contacts who could do the same, but I’m unsure.
I think about the life we’ve built here.
The legitimate businesses Mikhail has worked so hard to establish.
The home we’ve made together.
The future we’ve been planning.
And I think about the baby growing inside me.
“No,” I say firmly. “I won’t run again.”
“Sophia—” Tony starts, but I cut him off.
“Thank you for the offer, Tony. Really. But we’re not running anymore.”
After I end the call, Mikhail turns to me. “Are you sure about this? The Sicilians are not like the Bratva families. They don’t negotiate. They don’t forgive.”
“I know.” I stand and move to the window, looking out at the estate grounds. “But I’m tired of looking over my shoulder. I’m tired of wondering when the next threat will come. I want a normal life, Mikhail. A legitimate life.”
“We’re working on that—”
“I want our child to have a different life. Not this constant danger. Not always looking over our shoulder. I want legitimate businesses, a normal home, a future that doesn’t involve bulletproof vests and armed guards.”
He pulls back slightly, his expression hardening. “That’s not possible. Not now. Not with the Sicilians coming for us.”
“It has to be possible.” I grip his shirt, feeling the solid muscle beneath. “How many times have I almost died already, Mikhail? How many more close calls before our luck runs out? And now we have our child to consider.”
“Which is exactly why we can’t go continue to be totally legitimate right now.” His voice is firm, the pakhan speaking. “We need the protection of the Bratva, the resources, the soldiers. Going legitimate made us vulnerable.”
“We were already vulnerable!” My voice rises despite my attempt to stay calm.
“Lorenza proved that, and these photos are just more of the same thing. Another family knows where we live, where we go, who we care about. The Bratva didn’t protect us from pain and loss. Going back will just bring more of it.”
He releases me and turns away, running a hand through his dark hair.
He’s quiet for a long moment, his thumbs brushing across my knuckles.
I can see the war playing out behind his eyes.
The pakhan who has spent decades building his empire versus the man who just learned he’s going to be a father.
“It was different when I thought we were out of danger,” he says finally. “When Lorenzo was dead and we could breathe. But now there’s this new threat, and every instinct I have is screaming at me to fortify, to prepare for war.”
“I know.” I squeeze his hands. “But we can’t live our entire lives preparing for the next war. At some point, we have to choose peace.”
He studies my face for what feels like an eternity.
Then he cups my cheek, his thumb brushing across my skin with surprising gentleness. “I love you, Sophia. I love you and our unborn child more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life. But right now, all I want to think about is you.
He lifts me easily, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he lays me down on top of his desk.
Papers scatter, pens clatter to the floor, but neither of us care.
His mouth finds mine, hungry and demanding, and I lose myself in the kiss.
His hands slide under my shirt, warm against my skin, and I arch into his touch.
This is what I need, to feel alive, connected, safe in his arms even when the world outside is falling apart.
“I need you,” he murmurs against my lips, his voice rough with desire. “Right now.”
“Yes,” I breathe, already working at the buttons of his shirt.
He helps me, shrugging out of the expensive fabric and tossing it aside.
My hands explore the familiar landscape of his chest, tracing the dragon tattoo, feeling the solid muscle beneath.
He’s beautiful and dangerous and mine.
His hands slide up my thighs, pushing my skirt higher, and I gasp as his fingers find the edge of my panties.
He hooks them with his thumbs and pulls them down slowly, his green eyes never leaving mine as I lift my hips to help remove my underwear.
His hand splays across my still-flat stomach, reverent and possessive all at once.
Then he’s kissing me again, deeper this time, as his fingers slide between my thighs, my legs hanging over the edge of his desk.
I’m already wet for him, already aching, and when he touches me, I moan into his mouth.
“That’s it,” he encourages, his fingers working me with practiced skill. “Let me hear you, moya lyubov.”
I grip his shoulders, my nails digging into the wood of the desk.
He knows exactly how to touch me, exactly what I need.
His thumb circles my clit while two fingers slide inside me, and I cry out at the sensation.
“Mikhail,” I gasp. “Please.”
“Please what?” His lips trail down my neck, finding that spot that makes me shiver. “Tell me what you want.”
“You. Inside me. Now.”
He groans, the sound vibrating against my throat.
His fingers withdraw, and I hear the sound of his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper.
Then he’s positioning himself at my entrance, the head of his cock pressing against me.
“Look at me,” he commands, and I open my eyes to find him watching me with an intensity that steals my breath. “I want to see your face when I make you mine.”
He pushes inside in one smooth thrust, and we both moan at the sensation, my hands lifting to grip his shoulders.
He fills me completely, stretching me in the most delicious way.
For a moment, he stays still, letting me adjust, his forehead pressed against mine.
“You feel incredible,” he whispers. “So tight, so perfect.”
Then he starts to move, slow and deep, each thrust deliberate and controlled.
His hands grip my hips, holding me in place as he sets a rhythm that has me gasping.
The desk creaks beneath us, more papers sliding to the floor, but I don’t care about anything except the feel of him inside me.
“Faster,” I beg, wrapping my legs tighter around his waist. “Harder.”
He complies, his pace increasing, his thrusts becoming more forceful.
The sound of our bodies coming together fills the study, mixed with our moans and gasps.
I can feel the tension building, that familiar coil of pleasure tightening in my core.
His hand slides between us, finding my clit, and I nearly scream at the added sensation.
He’s relentless, driving into me while his fingers work magic, pushing me closer and closer to the edge.
“Come for me,” he growls, his voice strained with his own need. “I want to feel you come around my cock.”
His words push me over the edge.
My orgasm crashes through me in waves, my inner walls clenching around him as pleasure explodes through every nerve.
I cry out his name, my back arching off the desk, my nails raking down his back.
“Fuck, Sophia,” he groans, his rhythm faltering.
He thrusts a few more times, deep and hard, then stills as his own release takes him.
I feel him pulse inside me, feel the warmth of him filling me, and it triggers another smaller wave of pleasure that makes me shudder.
We stay locked together for a long moment, both of us breathing hard, our hearts pounding in sync.
Finally, he pulls out gently and helps me sit up, his hands tender as he smooths my hair back from my face.
“I love you,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. “Whatever comes next, we face it together.”
“Together,” I agree, wrapping my arms around his neck.
He helps me clean up and straighten my clothes, his touch gentle and caring.
We’re just finishing when his phone rings.
He glances at the screen and his expression darkens.
“It’s Marco,” he says, answering. “What is it?”
I watch his face as he listens, see the color drain from his cheeks, see his jaw clench with barely controlled rage.
“When?” he asks, his voice deadly calm. “How bad?”
He listens for another moment, then ends the call. When he looks at me, I feel like a boulder just landed in my stomach.
“What happened?” I ask.
“The warehouse on Fifth Street. The one we just converted into a distribution center for the import business.” His hands curl into fists at his sides. “Someone bombed it. The entire building is gone.”