Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Vittoria
Ipause in the dining room's doorway, taking in the scene.
Pietro at the head of the table. Nico to his right, tablet already in hand because the man probably sleeps with spreadsheets.
Lorenzo across from him, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.
Bruno in his wheelchair at the far end, jaw set in that permanent scowl he's worn since waking up.
And Mamma. Sitting with her back straight like she's posing for a portrait, pearls already on at eight in the morning.
No Sophia. No Nora. No Kristen. No staff.
Family only.
This is an ambush dressed up as breakfast.
"Buongiorno, tesoro." Mamma's smile is warm, but her eyes scan my outfit—jeans and an oversized sweater—with mild disappointment. "You slept well?"
"Like the dead." I cross to the sideboard and pour myself coffee, taking my time. Let them wait. They've clearly been discussing my future without me, so they can suffer through thirty seconds of silence while I add cream.
"Vittoria." Pietro's voice carries that particular weight. The Don voice. "Sit."
I take the empty chair between Lorenzo and Mamma, wrapping my hands around the warm cup. "I'm guessing this isn't about my security protocols."
"We need to discuss your options," Pietro says.
Options. Cute.
Here's the thing about being born into this family.
You don't get to pretend the cage doesn't exist. I figured that out around age twelve, when I realized my trust fund could buy a small country but I couldn't walk to the corner store without a guard.
This life comes with private jets and designer wardrobes and the kind of freedom money buys.
I've traveled the world with Mamma, shopped in Milan, coded in Parisian cafés with Elio lurking three tables away.
I like my life. The resources. The access. The fact that my "expensive hobby" of building security systems gets funded without question.
What I don't like is this. The traditions. The marriages arranged like business mergers. The expectation that I'll smile and accept whoever they've chosen because that's what Sartori women do.
Not this Sartori woman.
"Before you continue," I say, setting my cup down, "I have conditions."
Bruno snorts. "Conditions. She has conditions."
"Yes, Bruno." I meet his glare without flinching. "I do. Would you like to hear them, or should I just leave and let you all decide my life without me? Again?"
"Let her speak." Lorenzo's voice is soft but firm.
I take a breath. "I want to meet any candidate myself. Dinner, public setting, my choice of location. I want veto power—if I say no, it's no. And I want a minimum three-month engagement before any wedding. Non-negotiable."
Mamma clutches her pearls like I've suggested we start worshipping Satan. "Three months? Vittoria, that's—"
"Reasonable," Pietro interrupts. His dark eyes study me. "Fine. You'll meet them both."
Both.
My stomach drops. "Both?"
"James Rogers approached us first." Pietro slides a folder across the table. "His family deals in luxury automobiles. Fifteen dealerships across the country. They're not in the life, but they want the protection our name provides."
I flip open the folder. James Rogers stares up at me from a glossy photo—blonde, clean-cut, the kind of handsome that looks manufactured. I first met him at a charity gala three years ago. We had dinner once. He spent the entire meal talking about his car collection.
"And the second?"
Pietro's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "The Baganovs made an offer yesterday."
The coffee turns to acid in my throat.
Dmitri.
"Absolutely not." Bruno's wheelchair scrapes against the marble as he shifts forward. "He's Russian, Pietro. It's not done."
"Times change," Pietro says evenly.
"Tradition exists for a reason." Bruno's knuckles go white on his armrests. "Our grandfather would be spinning in his grave. The Bratva are animals. They don't operate by our rules, our code—"
"Their distribution network covers the entire Midwest," Nico cuts in, not looking up from his tablet. "And their political connections run deeper than ours. Strategically, it's sound."
"I don't give a damn about strategy." Bruno's voice rises. "This is our sister. Our blood. And you want to hand her to some Russian thug who probably keeps a torture chamber in his basement?"
Actually, I'm pretty sure it's a private room above a nightclub, but semantics.
"Dmitri Baganov is heir to the Chicago Bratva," Pietro says. "He's educated, connected, and his father is dying. In six months, maybe less, he'll be pakhan. That kind of alliance—"
"Is an insult to everything our family stands for."
The brothers stare at each other. Two years ago, Bruno would have been sitting where Pietro sits. He would have been making these decisions. Now he's stuck at the end of the table, fighting for relevance in a world that moved on without him.
I almost feel sorry for him.
Almost.
"What does Vittoria think?" Lorenzo asks quietly.
Every head turns toward me.
I think about how he orchestrated everything to get close to me. How he's been watching me. How he probably knew about this marriage conversation before I did.
Manipulative bastard.
Devastatingly attractive manipulative bastard.
"I'll meet them both," I say carefully. "Starting with Rogers."
Bruno's shoulders relax slightly.
"The safer choice," Mamma murmurs approvingly.
Pietro's eyes narrow, but he nods. "I'll arrange dinner for this weekend."
I pick up my coffee and take a long sip, hiding whatever expression my face is trying to make.
Safe. Right.
Because nothing about this situation feels safe. Not James Rogers with his car dealerships. Not the Bratva heir who kissed me like he was staking a claim.
And definitely not the way my pulse kicks every time I think about pale gray eyes and the low rumble of Dmitri Baganov's voice.
Amanda sprawls across my bed like she owns it. She's mid-sentence about some guy from her marketing team who apparently thinks sending memes counts as flirting.
"—and then he sent me a cat falling off a table, V. A cat. Falling. Off a table." She throws her hands up. "What am I supposed to do with that? Send back a laughing emoji like some desperate millennial?"
I snort, tucking my legs under me on the window seat. "You are a millennial."
"Actually Gen Z. I refuse to claim the avocado toast generation."
"You literally ordered avocado toast yesterday."
"That's different. That was brunch." She rolls onto her stomach, propping her chin on her fists. "Brunch doesn't count. Everyone knows brunch exists outside normal food rules."
God, I've missed this.
The thing about Amanda is that she's smart.
Like, scary smart. She graduated summa cum laude with a double major in marketing and psychology, currently runs campaigns for a luxury fashion brand, and can calculate tip percentages faster than I can hack a firewall.
People see the blonde hair and the perfect makeup and assume she's all surface.
Their mistake.
"So," she says, eyeing me with that look. The one that means she's about to dig. "Your mom's here."
"Yep."
"And she wants you to get married."
"Also yep."
"To someone she picks."
I grab a throw pillow and hug it to my chest. "The tradition lives on."
Amanda sits up, crossing her legs beneath her.
"Okay, but like..." She gestures vaguely. "This is the twenty-first century. You can say no."
Can I?
"It's complicated," I say.
"It's archaic." She reaches for the wine we opened earlier, topping off her glass. "You're not some medieval princess being traded for political alliance."
The irony burns. I am exactly that.
"I have conditions," I offer. "Veto power. Three-month minimum engagement. I get to meet them first."
"Them? Plural?"
Shit.
Amanda's eyes go wide. "Victoria Maria Sartori, are you telling me there are multiple suitors? Like, actual suitors? Competing for your hand?"
"Don't say it like that."
"Like what? Like it's the most dramatic thing I've ever heard?" She sets down her wine with a decisive clink. "This is insane. This is amazing. This is literally a Regency romance novel except with Italian food and better clothes."
"It's not romantic."
"It's extremely romantic. Who are they? Wait—" She holds up a hand. "Let me guess. Some boring finance guy with a trust fund and a personality disorder?"
"James Rogers. His family does luxury automobiles."
"Called it. And the other one?"
My stomach tightens. Dmitri's face flashes through my mind—those pale eyes, that knowing smirk, his hand on my jaw in his office.
"This isn't over."
"Someone else," I say carefully. "Russian."
Amanda's eyebrows shoot up. "Russian? Like, Russian Russian? Bratva Russian?"
"He's the one from the club," I admit. "The one who—"
"OH MY GOD." Amanda nearly launches off the bed. "The tall-dark-and-disappeared guy? The one you snuck off with and then refused to tell me about for an entire month?"
"I didn't refuse—"
"You gave me nothing, V. Nothing! I thought maybe you'd finally gotten laid and were being modest about it, but this?" She grabs my hands. "This is so much better. He's pursuing you. Like, formally. With marriage intentions."
"It's not—"
"It's exactly that." Her grip tightens. "Do you like him?"
Oh…
Do I like Dmitri Baganov?
I like the way he looks at me. I like that he didn't treat me like glass when we kissed, didn't handle me like the precious Sartori princess everyone else sees. I like his directness, his refusal to play games.
I hate that I like any of it.
"He's dangerous," I say finally.
Amanda's smile turns knowing. "That's not a no."
"It should be."
"But it's not." She squeezes my hands once more before releasing them. "Okay. Movie time. We're watching something with a hot morally questionable love interest, and you're going to tell me everything about this Russian of yours."
"He's not my—"
"Sure, babe." She's already reaching for the remote. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
I watch her queue up something on the streaming service, her profile lit by the screen's glow.
Do I like him though?
Dmitri
The text message arrives at 11:47 PM.
I'm in my office at Nexus, reviewing distribution reports that mean nothing to me right now. My mind keeps circling back to the same dark-haired woman who occupies every waking thought.
Yuri: Saturday. 8 PM. Vittoria Sartori. James Rogers. Dinner at Marchetti's.
I read the message three times. Each time, my grip tightens on the phone until the case creaks.
Marchetti's. The upscale Italian restaurant on Michigan Avenue where Rogers probably thinks he can impress her with overpriced wine and mediocre conversation.
I pour myself a vodka. Yuri calls thirty seconds later. I answer without greeting.
"How reliable is this information?"
"Solid." Yuri's voice carries that particular satisfaction he gets when his plans work perfectly. "Megan confirmed it herself. Heard the arrangements being made this afternoon."
Megan. Yuri's American girlfriend who, through remarkable coincidence, secured a position in the Sartori household three months ago.
The truth is far less romantic than coincidence.
Yuri spotted her at a coffee shop near the Sartori compound six months ago. Young, ambitious, desperate for connections in Chicago's elite circles. She had no idea what she was walking into when the charming Russian with the expensive watch started flirting with her.
He courted her properly. Dinners, flowers, the whole performance. By the time she was thoroughly in love with him, he'd already positioned her to apply for the Sartori job opening. She thinks she's helping her boyfriend with harmless business intelligence.
She has no idea she's a spy.
"What else did she hear?" I ask.
"Apparently, Vittoria agreed without argument."
Without argument.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache.
"The mother is pushing hard for this match," Yuri continues. "Megan says Aria Sartori has been planning the wedding colors since the proposal came through."
I drain the vodka and pour another. "Rogers has no territory. No soldiers. His family sells cars."
"His family has connections to legitimate business circles the Sartoris want access to. Political donors. Real estate developers." Yuri's tone is careful. "They see him as safe."
Safe.
They think she needs safe. A bland businessman who'll give her a bland life in a bland mansion somewhere far from the blood and bullets that built her family's empire.
They don't see what I see.
Vittoria Sartori doesn't want safe.
She wants to burn.
"What's Rogers's schedule this week?" I ask.
"Working on it. Megan can only access Sartori information directly. But I have other sources tracking him."
I set down my glass. "I want to know everywhere he goes. Everyone he meets. Every woman he looks at twice."
"You think he's dirty?"
"Everyone's dirty, Yuri. We just need to find the right stain."
I hang up and pour another vodka.
Why would she agree?
I set the glass down hard enough to crack the base. The question keeps circling, a vulture over carrion.
James Rogers.
I remember him from the gala. The way he cornered Vittoria near the champagne table, his hand wrapped around her upper arm like he owned her. She'd pulled back. Said no.
That was the night I kissed her hand. The night she fled from me like I was the dangerous one.
But Rogers? Rogers she'll meet for dinner?
Something doesn't fit.
Unless she's buying time.
She agreed because refusing would mean losing control entirely. Her family would choose for her. At least this way, she gets to pretend she has options.
She thinks she has options.
There's no way she would agree to marry Rogers. Not willingly.
Of course, there's also no way she would agree to marry me.
I know this.
Irrelevant. She will marry me eventually. She just doesn't know it yet.
Right?
The doubt tastes like ash.
My phone sits on the desk. I stare at it, weighing options I've never considered before.
Dmitri Baganov doesn't chase women. Women come to me, drawn by power and money and the danger they think they understand. I've never had to pursue. Never had to prove anything.
Vittoria makes me want to prove everything.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm grabbing the phone. Her number has been in it for months.
I've never used it.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
This is stupid. Reckless. The kind of impulsive decision my father would beat out of me if he still had the strength.
I type anyway.
Marchetti's serves overcooked pasta and watered-down wine. You deserve better.
I hit send before I can delete it.
The message sits there, delivered, mocking me.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
I'm watching three dots like a teenager waiting for his crush to text back.
Pathetic.
The dots vanish.
One minute passes. Two.
My phone buzzes.