Chapter 35 Sophia
SOPHIA
I stare at the laptop screen until my eyes burn, scrolling through another database of Sicilian crime family records.
In four days, Mikhail will step into that steel mill to fight Marco, and I still haven’t found anything that can stop it.
My hand drifts to my stomach, a gesture that’s becoming automatic. The baby is barely the size of a grape, but already I feel the weight of responsibility crushing down on me.
What kind of mother lets her child’s father walk into a fight he might not survive?
“You should be sleeping.” Mikhail’s voice comes from the doorway, rough with exhaustion.
I don’t turn around. “So should you.”
He crosses the room and places his hands on my shoulders, his thumbs working at the knots of tension there. “Sophia, you need rest. The baby needs rest.”
“The baby needs a father.” The words come out sharper than I intend, and I feel him tense behind me. “I’m sorry. I just…there has to be another way.”
“There isn’t.” He spins my chair around to face him, and the resignation in his green eyes breaks my heart. “I’ve been over every option. This is the only way to keep you safe.”
I grab his hands, holding them tight. “What if you lose?”
“I won’t.”
“But what if you do?” My voice cracks. “Torrino takes me as his property. Our child grows up without his father. Is that really better than running?”
“Running means looking over our shoulders forever.” He kneels in front of me, his hands moving to cup my face. “This way, if I win, it’s over. Really over. We can have the life we’ve been planning.”
“And if you lose, I become a slave to a Sicilian crime lord.” I lean into his touch, memorizing the feel of his calloused palms against my skin. “That’s not a life, Mikhail. That’s a nightmare.”
He pulls me into his arms, and I breathe in his scent, trying to commit it to memory. We stay like that for a long moment, holding each other in the pre-dawn darkness.
When he finally releases me and heads back to bed, I return to my research with renewed determination. There has to be something. Some leverage, some secret, some weakness in Torrino’s organization that I can exploit.
I dig deeper into the Torrino family history, following threads that lead to dead ends and connections that go nowhere.
My eyes are crossing with fatigue when I stumble across an old newspaper article from Palermo, dated twenty-three years ago.
Local Woman Found Dead in Apparent Suicide
The article is in Italian, but I run it through a translator.
A young woman named Giuliana Torrino was found dead in her home, an apparent overdose.
The police ruled it a suicide, but there were whispers of foul play. She was recently married to Lorenzo.
My heart starts racing.
I click through to related articles, piecing together the story.
Giuliana had been dating someone her family disapproved of before her marriage.
There were rumors of a pregnancy, and not by Lorenzo.
Then suddenly she was dead, and the investigation was closed within days.
I dig deeper, following the trail of breadcrumbs.
It takes me three more hours and a dozen different databases, but finally I find it.
A sealed police report that someone leaked years later.
Witness statements that were never followed up on.
And a name that makes my blood run cold.
Marco Torrino. Salvatore’s son and Giuliana’s brother.
Marco and Lorenzo had been seen arguing with Giuliana the night she died.
I sit back in my chair, my mind racing.
This is it.
This is the leverage I need.
If Marco and Lorenzo killed Giuliana, then the Moretti’s don’t owe a blood debt for Lorenzo’s death.
His death was half the debt paid for Salvatore’s daughter’s murder.
But revealing this information could make everything worse. It could reignite a blood feud that’s been simmering for decades. It could put us in even more danger.
I need to think this through carefully.
Over the next three days, I gather more evidence.
Photos, witness statements, financial records showing payments made to silence potential witnesses.
By the time the day of the fight arrives, I have a folder thick with proof that Marco Torrino and Lorenzo Moretti murdered Giuliana Torrino and covered it up.
The question is whether to use it.
Mikhail spends those three days training with am intensity that frightens me.
He works with a guard who had sparred with Marco the most, knowing his fighting style more intimately than any other.
He studies videos of Marco’s previous fights, looking for weaknesses.
He pushes his body to the limit and beyond, coming to bed each night covered in bruises and too exhausted to do more than hold me.
On the morning of the fight, I wake to find him already dressed, staring out the window at the gray sky.
I slip out of bed and wrap my arms around him from behind, pressing my cheek against his back.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“I love you too.” His hands cover mine where they rest on his stomach. “No matter what happens today, remember that.”
“Don’t talk like that.” I squeeze him tighter. “You’re going to win. You’re going to come home to me.”
He turns in my arms and kisses me, deep and desperate. When we break apart, there are tears on both our faces.
“Promise me something,” he says. “If I lose, if Torrino takes you, promise me you’ll find a way to escape. Take our child and run as far as you can.”
“Mikhail—”
“Promise me, Sophia.”
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
The steel mill is exactly as ominous as I imagined.
Rusted metal and broken windows, the smell of decay and old machinery thick in the air.
Torrino’s men are already there when we arrive, forming a circle in the center of the vast space.
Marco stands in the middle, stripped to the waist, his muscled body covered in scars that tell the story of a lifetime of violence.
Mikhail removes his shirt, and I see Tony’s eyes widen at the fresh bruises mottling his ribs.
He’s been training too hard, pushing too far.
He’s not at full strength.
Torrino approaches us, his gray eyes cold. “Mr. Artyomov. Are you ready to settle this debt?”
“I am.” Mikhail’s voice is steady.
“Then let us begin.” Torrino gestures to the circle. “The rules are simple. No weapons. No outside interference. The fight continues until one man cannot continue or submits.”
Mikhail squeezes my hand once, then releases it and steps into the circle.
Marco grins at him, cracking his knuckles.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” Marco says.
The fight begins with a flurry of movement. Marco is fast, faster than I expected, and his first punch catches Mikhail in the ribs.
I hear the impact from where I stand, and Mikhail staggers back.
They circle each other, trading blows.
Mikhail lands a solid hit to Marco’s jaw, but Marco barely seems to notice.
He’s bigger, stronger, and he’s been doing this his whole life.
I watch in horror as Marco drives Mikhail back, landing punch after punch.
Blood streams from Mikhail’s nose, and I can see him favoring his left side where Marco’s fist keeps finding his bruised ribs.
This is wrong.
All of this is wrong.
I look at Torrino, standing calm and composed at the edge of the circle.
How will he act when he learns the truth?
Marco lands a devastating uppercut that sends Mikhail crashing to the ground.
He doesn’t get up immediately, and my heart stops.
Tony moves forward, but Torrino’s men block him.
“Stay down,” Marco taunts. “Make this easy on yourself.”
Mikhail struggles to his feet, swaying. There’s blood in his mouth, and one eye is already swelling shut. He can’t win this. Not like this.
I make my decision.
“Stop!” My voice cuts through the warehouse. “Stop the fight!”
Everyone turns to look at me.
Mikhail’s eyes widen in alarm, but I’m already moving forward, the folder clutched in my hands.
“This fight is based on a lie,” I shout, my voice echoing off the metal walls. “Marco Torrino and Lorenzo Moretti murdered Giuliana Torrino together!”