Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
ONE MONTH LATER
Vittoria
Thirty-one days of voluntary exile in the compound, burying myself in code and security protocols like they could somehow protect me from the memory of gray eyes and a kiss.
Dmitri Baganov never said a word.
Not to Pietro. Not to anyone in my family.
The alliance negotiations continued without a single mention of the Sartori princess who'd followed a stranger to his private room like some naive civilian who'd never heard of leverage or blackmail.
Every time Pietro came back from a meeting with the Bratva, my stomach twisted into knots, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It never did.
Which somehow made it worse. Because now I owed him something. Or maybe he was just waiting for the perfect moment to use it against us. Against me.
Stop thinking about him.
I drag my attention back to the wall of monitors in front of me, the blue glow painting shadows across my bedroom.
The cursor blinks at me accusingly.
My father would be disappointed. Giuseppe Sartori raised me to be smarter than this.
To see threats before they materialized, to never let emotion cloud judgment.
He'd sit in his study for hours, teaching me chess when I was barely tall enough to see the board, explaining how every piece had a purpose, every move had consequences.
"Vittoria, mia stella," he'd say, tapping his temple. "The game is won up here. Never let your opponent see what you're thinking."
I loved him so completely it felt like breathing. When he died something inside me shattered. I was thirteen and suddenly the world made no sense anymore.
Then Riccardo stepped in.
My oldest brother, fifteen years my senior, who'd always seemed more like an uncle than a sibling.
He took over as Don, yes, but he also took over as my anchor.
He'd show up at my door with gelato when I couldn't stop crying.
He taught me to code when I needed something to occupy my mind besides grief. He never tried to replace our father.
Just quietly filled the empty spaces Giuseppe left behind.
And then he died too.
Everyone I love leaves.
I shove that thought down where it belongs, in the same locked box where I keep the other secret. The one that makes me want to scream every time I look at my mother's face.
Giuseppe Sartori, the man I worshipped, had another family. A whole other life none of us knew about. A woman. Children. Years of lies.
Everyone knows now.
Mamma doesn't.
We all agreed that telling Aria would destroy her. She's already lost her husband and her oldest son. Learning that Giuseppe betrayed her for decades? That his heart was never fully hers?
It would kill her.
So I smile at family dinners when she is in Chicago and pretend my childhood memories aren't tainted. I watch my mother light candles at Giuseppe's portrait and bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper. I carry this secret like a stone in my chest, getting heavier every day.
My phone buzzes against the desk. I glance at the screen, grateful for any distraction from the spiral my thoughts have taken.
Nora: Pietro needs you in his office. Something about the security system you worked on last month. He wants to show it to someone.
Nora O'Sullivan. Pietro's secretary and, somehow, the woman who managed to crack through my brother's titanium walls. She walked into Sartori Import & Export as a temp replacement. Now she's practically family.
I still remember the first time I caught Pietro staring at her. The ruthless Don of the Sartori family, reduced to stolen glances at his secretary.
It would be hilarious if it wasn't so terrifying.
Because Nora came with her own secrets. Irish mob princess turned fugitive, hiding from another family that wanted her dead. Pietro found out and instead of using the information, he burned down half of Boston's underworld to keep her safe.
Love makes monsters of men, our father used to say. And fools of the rest of us.
I type back a quick response.
Vittoria: On my way.
No point in arguing. When Pietro summons, we come. That's how this works.
I push back from my desk and catch my reflection in the dark monitor screen. Hair in a messy bun, oversized MIT hoodie, leggings. Not exactly boardroom appropriate, but Pietro's seen me in worse.
The walk from my room to Pietro's home office takes three minutes. I've counted. The compound is massive. Marble floors, vaulted ceilings, artwork worth more than most people's houses. All of it designed to intimidate.
I grew up here and it still works on me sometimes.
Pietro's office door is closed. I knock twice and push it open without waiting for a response. My brothers stopped expecting politeness from me years ago.
"You wanted to see me about the—"
The words die in my throat.
Pietro stands behind his desk, and there's a man in the leather chair across from him. Broad shoulders, dark hair.
His back is to me.
My brother's eyes flick to mine. Something passes across his face. Warning? I can't read it before it's gone.
"Vittoria. Good timing." Pietro gestures toward the other chair. "I was just telling our guest about the security upgrades you implemented."
The man rises.
He turns.
Pale gray eyes lock onto mine like a missile finding its target.
No.
No, no, no.
Dmitri Baganov stands in my brother's office, six feet four inches of Bratva heir wrapped in a suit. His mouth curves into the barest hint of a smile. The same mouth that was on mine a month ago.
The same mouth that still haunts my dreams.
"Miss Sartori," he says, and his voice rolls through me like thunder. Deep. Unhurried. Like he has all the time in the world. "A pleasure to finally meet you properly."
Finally.
Properly.
The bastard.
Pietro rounds his desk, oblivious to the fact that my heart is currently trying to escape through my ribcage. "Dmitri, this is my sister Vittoria. She designed our entire security infrastructure. Best tech mind in Chicago, if I'm being honest."
Dmitri extends his hand toward me.
I stare at it.
His fingers are long, elegant. The hands of a pianist or a surgeon.
Move, I scream at myself. Say something. Do something.
But my feet are rooted to the imported Italian marble and my tongue has apparently decided to take an unscheduled vacation.
Dmitri's smile widens. Just a fraction. Just enough to tell me he knows exactly what he's doing.
"Vittoria?" Pietro's voice cuts through the fog. "You okay?"
"Fine." The word comes out strangled. I force my hand into Dmitri's grip. "I'm fine. Nice to meet you, Mr. Baganov."
His palm is warm against mine. He holds on a beat too long.
"Please," he says, those pale eyes never leaving my face. "Call me Dmitri."
Dmitri
She looks like she rolled out of bed.
An oversized black hoodie swallows her frame, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows.
Gray leggings cling to those legs I've been dreaming about for a month.
Her dark hair is pulled into a messy knot on top of her head, loose strands framing her face.
No makeup. No jewelry. Nothing but Vittoria Sartori in her most unguarded state.
Bozhe moy. She's fucking stunning.
Pietro gestures toward the chair beside me. "Vittoria, take a seat. I want you to walk Dmitri through the security system we discussed for the new club."
She doesn't move. Those dark eyes flick between her brother and me like she's calculating escape routes. Smart girl. She should run.
But she won't.
I can see it in the tension along her jaw, the way her fingers curl at her sides. She's terrified, but she's also furious. At me. At the situation. At whatever cosmic joke put us in the same room again.
Good. I want her fire.
"Of course." Her voice comes out steady, professional. She finally moves, settling into the leather chair with deliberate grace, keeping as much distance between us as the furniture allows.
Pietro launches into something about the joint venture.
Our families' first legitimate business together, a club in the West Loop that will cement the Baganov-Sartori alliance.
I should be listening. This deal represents months of careful negotiation, a bridge between Bratva and Italian interests that my father fought for before his illness.
Instead, I'm watching the way she breathes.
Short, controlled inhales. She's hyperaware of my presence, her body angled slightly away like she can minimize how much of her I can see.
It doesn't work. I notice everything. The pulse fluttering at her throat.
The flush creeping up her neck despite her composed expression. The way she won't look at me directly.
"...Vittoria designed the entire system herself," Pietro says, pulling my attention back. "It's beyond anything currently on the market."
"Impressive." I keep my voice neutral, but my eyes stay on her. "Tell me about it."
She finally meets my gaze. Challenge sparks there.
There she is.
"The system integrates facial recognition with behavioral analysis." She shifts forward, and the motion pulls her hoodie tighter across her chest. "It doesn't just identify known threats. It predicts potential ones based on movement patterns, body language, even micro-expressions."
Her mouth keeps moving. Technical terms. Algorithms. Processing speeds.
I don't hear a single word.
I'm too busy remembering how those lips tasted. The way she gasped when I pressed her against the window. How her fingers had tangled in my hair before she pushed me away.
That push.
Fuck. That push did something to me.
I've had women throw themselves at my feet. Models and socialites drawn to the danger. None of them ever said no. None of them ever could.
But Vittoria Sartori shoved me back and walked out.
I should have been furious. Instead, I was intrigued.
That night, I had Igor follow her car to make sure she got home safe. Then I put eyes on the compound. Discreet surveillance—nothing invasive, just enough to know she was protected. For a month, I watched through reports and camera feeds as she locked herself away.
She didn't leave. Not once.
The princess built herself a cage, and it drove me absolutely insane.
Every day she stayed hidden, my obsession grew. I imagined her in that bedroom. I wondered if she thought about me. If she touched herself remembering my hands on her body. If she regretted walking away.
I left her alone. Gave her space. Let her believe she'd escaped.
But patience is my greatest weapon. I can outwait anyone.
Now she sits three feet away, pretending I'm just another business associate, and all I can think about is bending her over Pietro's desk.
"...can train your team within a week," she finishes, finally pausing for breath.
Pietro nods, clearly pleased. "What do you think, Dmitri?"
I let the silence stretch. Watch the color rise in her cheeks as my gaze traces down her body with deliberate slowness.
"I think," I say, voice dropping low, "your sister is remarkably talented."
Her eyes narrow. She heard the double meaning.
Good.
"The system sounds perfect for our needs." I lean back, keeping my posture relaxed even as everything inside me coils tight. "When can she begin the training?"
"Tomorrow, if you'd like," Pietro offers. "Vittoria, you can work with his team at Nexus—"
"No."
The word cuts through the room. Vittoria's hands grip the armrests, knuckles white.
Pietro frowns. "No?"
"I mean—" She catches herself, smooths her expression. "I can do remote training. Video calls. There's no need for me to be on-site."
Oh, moya krasotka. You think distance will save you?
"Remote training won't work," I say, keeping my tone reasonable. "My men learn better with hands-on instruction. They'll need her there."
Her jaw tightens. "I'm sure your tech team can—"
"I don't have a tech team." I shrug. "The Bratva prefers... traditional methods. Your expertise is exactly what we need."
It's not entirely a lie. But it's not the whole truth either.
The truth is I want her in my space. On my territory. Where I can watch her work, hear her voice, breathe the same air. Where she can't hide behind compound walls and locked doors.
Pietro looks between us, something calculating in his expression. He's not stupid—he sees the tension. But he's also a businessman, and this alliance matters more than his sister's comfort.
"Vittoria." His voice carries the weight of a Don's command. "You'll work with Dmitri's team at Nexus. Starting tomorrow."
Her throat works as she swallows. For a moment, I think she'll argue. Fight. Show that fire I've been craving.
Instead, she stands. "Fine."
One word. Cold as ice.
She turns to leave, and I let her get almost to the door before speaking.
"Vittoria."
She stops. Doesn't turn around.
"I look forward to working with you."
Her shoulders stiffen. Then she's gone, the door clicking shut behind her.
Pietro exhales. "She's been... difficult lately. Since Riccardo."
"Grief changes people." I keep my voice neutral, but inside, I'm already planning. Tomorrow. Nexus. Her.
The game starts again.
And this time, I'm playing to win.