Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Vittoria
The smell of fresh espresso and frittata pulls me downstairs before my alarm even goes off.
I pad into the kitchen wearing an oversized hoodie and leggings, my hair piled in a messy bun that screams I gave up on adulting before it started. The morning light streams through the windows, casting golden rectangles across the marble countertops.
Lorenzo stands at the stove, spatula in hand, while Sophia perches on a barstool with her fingers wrapped around a ceramic mug. They look disgustingly domestic. Sickeningly adorable. The kind of couple that makes single people want to throw things.
"Morning, sleepyhead." Sophia grins at me over the rim of her coffee. "Rough night?"
"Debugging a firewall until three a.m." I slide onto the stool next to her and reach for the espresso machine. "The system kept flagging phantom threats. Turns out someone—" I shoot a pointed look at Lorenzo "—forgot to update his biometric profile after his last haircut."
Lorenzo doesn't even have the decency to look embarrassed. "My hair grows fast."
"Your hair is going to get you shot by our own security system."
Sophia snorts into her coffee. This is why I love her.
Sweet when you need comfort, sharp when you need backup.
She doesn't treat me like the fragile princess everyone else sees.
When Lorenzo brought her into our lives, I expected another delicate flower who'd wilt under the weight of our family's darkness.
Instead, I got a woman who could match my brothers' intensity and still make me laugh until my stomach hurt.
They've been coming to the compound more often lately.
Months have passed since everything with the Torrinos imploded, and slowly—painfully—we're rebuilding something that resembles normal.
Or whatever passes for normal in a family where Sunday dinner conversations include territory disputes and money laundering logistics.
Lorenzo flips the frittata. He was the one who knew about our father's secret family.
Kept it hidden from all of us for years.
The betrayal still stings sometimes, a splinter I can't quite dig out.
But watching him now, the way his eyes soften when Sophia laughs, the way he's fighting to earn back our trust one breakfast at a time. ..
Things are getting better. Not healed. Just better.
"Amanda texted me six times last night," I say, checking my phone. "She wants to know if I've 'met anyone interesting'."
Sophia raises an eyebrow. "Have you?"
Yes. A Russian mobster who kissed me like he was trying to memorize my taste. A man I'm now forced to train because my brother has zero concept of boundaries.
"Nope." I pop the 'p' and gulp my espresso like it's a shot of vodka.
Amanda and I have been friends since kindergarten.
Twenty years of sleepovers, bad decisions, and matching friendship bracelets that we definitely still have hidden in jewelry boxes somewhere.
She's sunshine and designer handbags, a woman who genuinely believes the biggest problems in life are finding the perfect shade of lipstick and landing a guy with a black AmEx.
She doesn't understand the mafia. Not really. To her, my family's "business" is just a vague concept that explains our security guards and expensive cars. She thinks being hot and having money is what matters. Danger is something that happens to other people, in movies, far away from her bubble.
But God, I love her anyway. Because when Riccardo died, she showed up at my door with ice cream and trashy reality TV and didn't ask a single question. She just stayed. That kind of loyalty doesn't come with a price tag.
The kitchen door swings open, and Pietro strides in. His jaw is set in that particular way that means he's about to deliver news none of us want to hear.
"Morning." He kisses the top of my head before grabbing a plate from Lorenzo. "Everyone sleep well?"
"Define 'well,'" I mutter.
Pietro ignores me and settles at the head of the table. Sophia and I exchange a look. Lorenzo sets down his spatula and crosses his arms.
"Just say it," Lorenzo sighs. "You've got that face."
"What face?"
"The one that means we're not going to like whatever comes next."
Pietro takes a bite of frittata, chews slowly, swallows. The man could weaponize silence. "Mamma is coming to stay for a while."
My fork clatters against my plate. "What?"
"She called this morning. Her flight lands Thursday."
Aria Sartori. My mother. The woman who raised six children in a world of blood and bullets, then retreated to Sicily after my brother's death to live with her also widowed sister.
"For how long?" Lorenzo's voice is carefully neutral.
"She didn't specify."
Wonderful. Because what this household needs is more emotional landmines. More secrets to keep. More pretending that everything is fine while the foundation cracks beneath our feet.
My life is a house of cards, and someone just announced a windstorm.
Fantastic.
Dmitri
The monitors beep in a steady rhythm that sounds too much like a countdown.
My father's bedroom smells like a hospital room does. Two nurses hover near the medical equipment that's transformed his master suite into a hospital ward. Machines track his heartbeat, his oxygen levels, his slow march toward death.
Alexei Baganov lies propped against silk pillows, his once-powerful frame diminished but his eyes still sharp as broken glass. Cancer doesn't give a shit about power or legacy. It takes what it wants.
"Leave us," he says to the nurses.
They scatter without argument. Even dying, my father commands instant obedience.
I close the door and cross to the chair beside his bed. The leather creaks as I sit. "You wanted to see me."
"Sit." He waves a thin hand. "Don't hover like a vulture."
"Already sitting."
His lips twitch. Almost a smile. "So you are."
I wait. Patience is a weapon, and my father taught me how to wield it. The monitors continue their mechanical symphony
"The doctors say six months," he says finally. "Maybe less."
I knew. Of course I knew. But hearing him say it makes the countdown real.
"They've been wrong before."
"They're not wrong now." He shifts against the pillows, and I see the effort it costs him. "Which means we need to discuss succession."
"I'm ready."
"You're capable." His eyes fix on mine. "That's not the same thing."
I don't argue. He's right.
"The men respect you. Fear you. That's good." He pauses to catch his breath. The simple act of talking exhausts him now. "But the Bratva needs stability. Continuity. A pakhan without a wife is vulnerable."
There it is. The conversation I've been dodging for three years.
"Papa—"
"Don't." His voice sharpens despite his weakness. "I'm dying, Dmitri. I don't have time for your usual deflection."
"Marriage isn't exactly my area of expertise."
"Expertise can be learned."
"I've tried." The words come out harsher than intended. "Remember Katya?"
His expression sours. "That vapid creature your mother liked? She lasted three weeks."
Three weeks of forced smiles and empty conversation. The woman giggled at nothing and complained about everything. Three weeks of wanting to put my fist through a wall every time she opened her mouth.
I'd ended it before I did something I couldn't take back.
"She was... incompatible."
"She was an idiot," my father says bluntly. "But she wasn't the only option."
"They're all the same." I lean back in the chair. "Simpering. Calculating. Looking at me and seeing the Bratva heir, not a man."
"Does it matter what they see, as long as they perform their function?"
"It matters to me."
The admission surprises us both. I'm not a man who discusses feelings. Neither is he. We speak in actions, in loyalty, in blood.
My father studies me for a long moment. "There's someone."
It's not a question.
"No."
"Dmitri." He says my name like a warning. "I taught you to lie better than that."
Vittoria's face flashes through my mind. Dark eyes. That fucking mouth. The way she'd kissed me back before her conscience caught up.
"There's no one."
"The Sartori girl."
My jaw clenches. "What about her?"
"I'm dying, not blind." He coughs, and I reach for the water on his nightstand. He waves me off. "You've mentioned their security system three times this week. You never mention anything three times."
"It's a good system."
"I'm sure it is." His eyes gleam with something that might be amusement. "An alliance with the Sartoris would strengthen our position. Their territory complements ours. Their legitimate businesses provide excellent cover."
"This isn't about strategy."
"Everything is about strategy." He reaches out and grips my wrist. His fingers feel like paper over bone, but his grip is still strong. "Find a wife. Soon. I want to see you married before I die."
The words land like bullets.
"Promise me."
I look at my father—this man who raised me, trained me, made me into the weapon I am today. He's never asked me for anything. He's ordered, demanded, commanded. But never asked.
"I promise."
He releases my wrist and sinks back against the pillows. "Good. Now get out. The nurses will fuss if you tire me."
I stand. At the door, I pause.
"I'll find someone."
"I know you will." His eyes are already closing. "You always do what needs to be done."
I leave his room with my promise burning in my chest.
A wife.
I shove through the door to my private office and pour three fingers of vodka.
I don't want a wife.
I want—
No.
I drain the glass and pour another.
Stop.
I set the glass down hard enough that vodka sloshes over the rim, pooling on the desk. I watch it spread rather than clean it up.
Vittoria Sartori.
Her name loops through my head like a song I can't stop humming.
Pathetic.
I'm Dmitri Baganov. Future pakhan of the Chicago Bratva. I don't obsess over women. Women obsess over me.
Except this one. This one ran.
That's the problem. That's why I can't stop thinking about her. She rejected me twice, and my pride can't handle it. Simple as that.
I've had beautiful women before. Dozens. Hundreds. They blur together in my memory. Forgettable faces, forgettable bodies, forgettable everything. I fucked them and forgot them and never thought twice.
But Vittoria?
I remember exactly how her lips tasted. I remember the small sound she made when I pulled her closer. I remember the way her fingers curled into my hair like she wanted to crawl inside my skin.
And then she stopped. Pushed me away. Left.
That's why you can't forget her. She's the one who got away. Classic psychology. Unfinished business.
The explanation makes sense. It should satisfy me.
It doesn't.
My father wants me married. Wants stability for the Bratva. Wants to die knowing his legacy is secure.
I should find a suitable woman. Someone from a connected family. Someone who understands our world, who won't flinch at blood or ask inconvenient questions. Someone who'll look good on my arm and stay out of my way.
There are plenty of candidates. Daughters of allies. Sisters of associates. Women who would kill for the chance to be Mrs. Baganov.
None of them interest me.
Because none of them are her.
I slam my fist against the wood. The pain grounds me. Reminds me who I am.
This obsession is weakness. My father would be disgusted. Hell, I'm disgusted. I don't pine. I don't chase. I don't lie awake at night wondering what a woman is thinking, feeling, wanting.
But last night I dreamed about her. Dreamed about finishing what we started. Dreamed about her underneath me, around me, saying my name—
Enough.