Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Vittoria
The training session lasted exactly four hours and twelve minutes.
I know because I counted every single one of them, waiting for Dmitri Baganov to walk through that door.
He never did.
His men absorbed the security protocols like sponges.
Professional, competent, asking intelligent questions about the facial recognition algorithms. By the time I finished, they understood the system better than half of Pietro's guys.
Granite Man even cracked something resembling a smile when I showed him the behavioral analysis override.
And their boss? Nowhere to be found.
It's just beginning.
"Vittoria, are you listening?"
Lorenzo's voice cuts through my mental spiral. We're in the formal dining room. The one Mamma insisted we use tonight instead of the kitchen where we actually eat like human beings. Fresh flowers crowd every surface.
"Sorry." I smooth down my dress—a modest burgundy number that covers everything Mamma might disapprove of. "What did you say?"
"I asked if you wanted red or white wine for dinner." Lorenzo holds up two bottles, his expression patient. Sophia stands beside him, arranging place cards with the precision of a surgeon.
"Red. Definitely red."
I'm going to need it.
The front door opens, and the compound shifts. Guards straighten.
Aria Sartori has arrived.
Pietro and Nora appear first, offering Mamma his arm as she sweeps into the foyer.
At sixty-four, she remains striking. She wears black, as always.
Mourning our father. Mourning Riccardo. Mourning the daughter-in-law she'll never have now that Bruno sits in a wheelchair instead of standing at an altar.
"My children." Her voice carries the warmth of Sicilian summers and the steel of a woman who survived being married to Giuseppe Sartori. "Come. Let me look at you."
We gather like obedient puppies. Lorenzo gets his cheeks pinched. Pietro endures a searching look that probably catalogs every sleepless night he's had since becoming Don. Sophia receives an approving nod for the table settings.
She hugs Nico and Kristen.
Then Mamma's dark eyes land on me.
"Vittoria." She cups my face in her hands, studying me like I'm a code she can't quite crack. "You look tired, tesoro. Are you sleeping?"
"I'm fine, Mamma."
"Hmm." The sound conveys exactly how much she believes me. "We'll talk later."
Great. Can't wait.
Dinner proceeds with the careful choreography of a family that's survived too much to risk casual conversation. We discuss safe topics—Sophia's latest charity project, Lorenzo's new restaurant investment, the weather in Sicily. No one mentions Bruno's empty chair. No one mentions Riccardo.
No one mentions marriage.
Until dessert.
"Pietro." Mamma sets down her espresso cup with a delicate clink. "I've been thinking about Vittoria's future."
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. Tiramisu suddenly tastes like sawdust.
"Mamma—" I start.
"You're twenty-four years old." She continues as if I haven't spoken. "In our world, that's practically a spinster."
"A spinster?" The word comes out strangled. "It's not the eighteen hundreds."
"Our world operates by different rules. You know this." Mamma's gaze softens, but her resolve doesn't waver. "Your father, God rest his soul, would have seen you settled years ago. I've allowed you time to grieve. To find your footing. But we cannot ignore practicality forever."
Practicality. Such a clean word for what she actually means.
Alliance. Merger. Transaction.
I scan the table. Lorenzo stares at the table like it holds the secrets of the universe. Sophia suddenly finds the embroidery on her napkin fascinating. Pietro's jaw has that locked quality that means he's bracing for impact. Nico and Kristen remain silent as well.
They knew.
"You all agreed to this?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Before tonight?"
Silence.
Pietro finally meets my eyes. "Vittoria, you knew how these things work. You've always known."
A laugh escapes me.
"Did I? Did I really know?" I push back from the table, the chair legs scraping the floor. "Because for two years—two years—no one mentioned this. Not once. We were too busy burying Riccardo. Watching Bruno learn to live in a wheelchair. Trying to hold this family together while death and—"
I catch myself.
Secrets.
The word almost slips out. Giuseppe's other family. The fact that Riccardo was fucking Lorenzo's fiance and she gave birth to his son. A kid hidden from us too. Bruno knew it. He was the only one knowing, and kept that from us too. But I can't say all these in front of her.
"—and fucking tragedy tore through our lives like a hurricane.
" I grip the bottom of my seat. "But now that everyone's settling down, now that Pietro has Nora and Lorenzo has Sophia and we're all playing happy family again, now you remember I exist?
Now you forget about secrets and remember I'm a bargaining chip? "
"Vittoria." Mamma's voice carries a warning.
"What secrets?"
The question hangs in the air. Mamma's dark eyes sharpen, decades of survival instinct focusing on me like a laser.
Merda.
My stomach drops. I said too much. Let emotion override the careful walls I've built around the truth about Papà.
"What secrets are you referring to, tesoro?" Mamma repeats, softer now. More dangerous. "Is there something I should know?"
I force my fingers to unclench from the chair. Breathe. Think.
"Every family has secrets, Mamma." I keep my voice level.
Bored, even. The tone of someone stating obvious facts rather than deflecting from catastrophic truths.
"Ours more than most. I'm not talking about anything specific.
Just... the weight of it all. The things we don't discuss. The elephants in every room we enter."
Mamma studies me for a long moment. I hold her gaze, praying my face doesn't betray the lie.
"You're being dramatic," she finally says. "A trait you inherited from your father."
The irony almost makes me laugh again.
"Maybe I am." I shrug, letting the tension bleed from my shoulders. "It's been a long day. I'm tired. And I don't appreciate being ambushed at dinner about my marriage prospects like we're living in medieval Sicily."
"It's not medieval to want security for your daughter." Mamma rises from her chair with the grace of a queen. "It's practical. It's survival. And whether you like it or not, Vittoria, you are a Sartori. Your marriage will benefit this family."
"Or I could stay single and continue being useful with my actual skills. You know, the ones that keep our security systems running and our enemies out of our business?"
"You can do both." Pietro speaks for the first time since this conversation derailed. "No one's asking you to stop working."
I stare at him.
"How generous," I say. "I can keep my job and spread my legs for whoever benefits the family most."
"Vittoria." Mamma's voice cracks like a whip.
"I'm tired." I push back from the table. My appetite died somewhere between spinster and practical. "It's been a long day, and I have work in the morning."
"We're not finished discussing—"
"Yes, Mamma. We are." I meet her eyes. "At least for tonight."
"We'll talk tomorrow. When you've rested." Aria Sartori says.
When you've calmed down, she means. When you're more agreeable.
"Sure." I don't bother hiding my skepticism. "Tomorrow."
I kiss her cheek because I'm not a complete savage, and because despite everything, I love her. She smells like Chanel No. 5 and the jasmine that grows wild around her villa in Sicily. For a moment, I'm seven years old again, crawling into her lap after a nightmare.
Then I remember she's trying to sell me to the highest bidder, and the nostalgia evaporates.
"Goodnight, everyone."
I don't wait for responses.
Dmitri
"The source in the house confirmed it." Yuri's voice crackles through the speaker. "Aria Sartori arrived this evening. That's all he had."
"Okay." I end the call and pocket the phone.
Aria Sartori's arrival means nothing to me right now but I need to know everything and Yuri does his job.
"Boss." Viktor catches my eye in the rearview mirror. "We're here."
The warehouse sits at the edge of our territory. An unremarkable building that's witnessed more confessions than any church in Chicago. I step out.
Inside, the smell hits first. Blood. Sweat. Piss. The holy trinity of fear.
Igor meets me at the door, his expression grim. "He still hasn't talked. Sergei worked on him for three hours. Nothing."
I roll my sleeves to my elbows, exposing the tattooed text on my forearms. Bible verses. My mother's favorites. She would have hated what I use these hands for now.
"Show me."
The man hangs from chains in the center of the room, stripped to his underwear. Mid-thirties, built like someone who thought muscles would save him. His face is a mess—split lip, swollen eye, broken nose. Sergei's handiwork decorates his torso in purple and black.
Amateur hour.
I grab a metal chair and drag it across the concrete, the screech making the man flinch. Good. He's still responsive.
I sit backwards on the chair, arms crossed over the back, studying him like he's a problem to solve. Because he is.
"You know who I am?"
He spits blood onto the floor. "Fuck you."
"That's not an answer." I pull a cigarette from my pocket and light it, taking my time.
The smoke curls toward the ceiling. "Let me explain your situation.
You were selling product with our mark. The double-headed eagle.
That mark means something. It means quality.
It means protection. It means anyone who buys it knows exactly what they're getting. "
I stand, leaving the cigarette burning in my fingers.
"Your product was garbage. Cut with fentanyl. Three people died last week." I crouch in front of him, close enough to see the terror dilating his pupils. "That's three deaths connected to my family's name. Do you understand what that costs us?"
"I don't know anything," he wheezes. "I just sold what they gave me."
"Who?"
"I can't—they'll kill me."
I laugh. The sound echoes off the concrete walls, cold and empty.
"They'll kill you?" I stand, taking a long drag of the cigarette. "Moy drug, you're already dead. The only question is how long it takes."
I press the cigarette into his shoulder.
His scream bounces off the walls, high and desperate. The smell of burning flesh mingles with the blood and fear.
"Who supplied you?"
The man laughs.
"I won't talk," he says, the words wet and thick. "They'll use my family. My wife. My kids. You think this—" He gestures with his chin toward his ruined body. "—is worse than watching them suffer?"
I take another drag of the cigarette. Patient. Waiting.
"But one thing's clear, Baganov." He grins through broken teeth. "You're a fucking idiot."
Igor shifts behind me. I hold up a hand to stop him.
"Explain."
"Your family." He spits blood onto the concrete between us. "Throwing money at the Sartoris. Buying your way into their good graces like desperate dogs. And for what?"
My jaw tightens. "For what?"
"Others are going to make a real alliance. Without paying a single fucking cent." His eyes glitter with malicious satisfaction. "They're going to get the princess herself."
The world narrows.
Princess.
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
He laughs again, that wet, rattling sound. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
I crouch in front of him, the cigarette burning low between my fingers. "I'm asking nicely. Once."
"Go fuck yourself."
I grab his jaw with one hand and press the cigarette into his left eye.
The scream that tears from his throat is inhuman. Raw. Primal. His body convulses against the chains, the sound of metal scraping metal mixing with his agony. The smell of burning flesh intensifies, thick and acrid.
I hold the cigarette there for three seconds. Four. Five.
When I pull back, his eye socket is a ruined mess. Tears and blood stream down his face as he sobs, his entire body shaking.
"Talk."
"The Sartoris," he gasps, the words tumbling out between sobs. "They're putting their sister on the market. Looking for the best husband. Marriage alliance. That's all I heard from them. That's all I fucking heard."
My blood turns to ice.
Vittoria.
They're selling Vittoria.
"Who?" My voice comes out calm. Steady. The complete opposite of the storm raging inside my chest. "Who's making the alliance?"
He laughs again. Even through the pain, even with one eye destroyed and his body broken, he laughs.
"You really don't know?" He shakes his head, blood and tears dripping onto the floor. "I didn't know Russians could be such idiots. Losing strong alliances before you could even make them."
The cigarette falls from my fingers.
I stand slowly. Every movement deliberate. Controlled.
"Igor."
Igor hands me the knife without hesitation. The blade catches the dim light, gleaming silver against the warehouse shadows.
The man's remaining eye widens.
I step forward and grab his hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat.
"Give me the name." I say one last time.
"Fuck you, Baganov."
The blade slides across his throat in one clean motion.
Blood sprays across my shirt, hot and thick. His body jerks once, twice, then goes still. The chains creak as his weight settles, head lolling forward, crimson pooling beneath him.
I drop the knife. It clatters against the concrete.
"Clean this up," I tell Igor without looking at him. "Find out who's behind the counterfeit operation. And find out who's making moves on the Sartori alliance."
"Dmitri—"
"Now."
I walk out of the warehouse without looking back. The night air hits my face, cool against the blood drying on my skin. Viktor straightens when he sees me, his expression carefully neutral.
"Home," I say, climbing into the back seat.
As the car pulls away, I stare out the window at the Chicago skyline. My hands are steady. My breathing even.
But inside, something dark and primal unfurls in my chest.
Marriage alliance.
The best husband.
Someone else.
Vittoria Sartori belongs to me.
And whoever thinks they're going to claim her instead?
They're already dead.