Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Vittoria
Ipush scrambled eggs around my plate, avoiding everyone's eyes. The dining room feels smaller with all of them watching me.
"So." I set down my fork. "I've decided to give Dmitri Baganov three months."
Mamma's voice rises. "As I said, that's far too long, Vittoria. You should know within weeks if—"
"Three months." I meet her gaze steadily. "To see if I can stand him enough to marry him."
Or if he'll drive me completely insane first.
I take a sip of orange juice, letting the acid burn away the taste of last night's dinner. Of Dmitri's promise to kill anyone else who tries to marry me. Of the way my pulse had raced when he'd whispered what he wanted to do to me. "Unless you'd prefer I decline altogether?"
Silence.
"Because I could." My voice stays casual, but they hear the steel underneath. "I could walk out that door right now and disappear. New identity, new country. You all know I have the skills."
"You wouldn't." Mamma's face pales.
"Wouldn't I?" I lean back in my chair. "Push me harder and find out."
They know I'm not bluffing. After Riccardo died, I spent six months learning how to vanish completely. How to erase myself from every database, every trace. It was something to do besides drown in grief.
Pietro clears his throat. "Three months is reasonable."
"Fine." Mamma straightens her shoulders, switching topics with the efficiency of someone who's managed mafia dinners for decades. "Valentino arrives tomorrow."
Our cousin from Sicily, the one who runs security for Mamma and her sister, Carmela.
"How long?" Pietro asks, though his expression says he already knows.
"As long as needed." Mamma's fingers trace the rim of her coffee cup. "The situation in Sicily is... delicate."
Translation: someone's trying to kill our family there.
Nico looks up from his phone. "The Grecis?"
"Among others." Pietro's voice carries that particular tone that means bodies will start dropping soon. "We'll need Valentino's connections."
"Vittoria, you'll upgrade his security clearances when he arrives," Pietro says.
I nod.
"Good." He stands, signalling breakfast is over. "Nico, my office. We need to discuss the shipment from Miami."
They file out and I stay seated, staring at my cold eggs.
Nora gathers the empty coffee cups, her movements efficient and quiet. She catches my eye for a moment before disappearing through the kitchen door.
The silence stretches.
Mamma doesn't leave. Instead, she moves to the chair beside mine.
"Vittoria." Her hand covers mine on the table. Her fingers are cool, elegant, adorned with the diamond wedding ring Papà gave her thirty years ago. "When did we become like this?"
I stare at our hands.
"Like what?"
"Strangers." The word comes out soft, wounded. "You used to tell me everything. When you were little, you'd crawl into my bed during thunderstorms and whisper your secrets into my ear."
That was before I learned what secrets really meant.
"I grew up." I pull my hand away, reaching for my orange juice like I need something to hold. "Things change."
"They don't have to." She shifts closer, and I catch the slight tremble in her voice. "I know I wasn't... I know you were always your father's daughter. His little shadow. But I loved watching you together. The way your eyes lit up when he walked into a room."
My throat tightens.
Stop. Don't do this.
"He's gone, Mamma."
"I know." Her voice cracks. "I miss him too. Every day. But losing him doesn't mean we have to lose each other."
I force myself to look at her.
Aria Sartori is still beautiful. Silver streaks through her dark hair, and fine lines frame her eyes, but she carries herself like the queen she's always been. Strong. Graceful. Kind.
That's the worst part.
She's genuinely kind. She donates to charities, remembers every staff member's birthday, sends flowers to the wives of men who work for our family.
My mother is a good person.
And I'm lying to her face.
"Vittoria?" Her brow furrows at whatever she sees in my expression. "What is it? What's wrong?"
Everything.
Your husband had another family. Another woman. Kids. He kept her hidden away like a dirty secret, and we found out after he died. Pietro knows. Nico, Lorenzo, Bruno—they all know. And we decided you couldn't handle it. That the truth would break you.
So we smile and we lie and we pretend that Giuseppe Sartori was the perfect husband, the perfect father, the perfect Don.
And every time you look at his picture with tears in your eyes, I want to scream.
"Nothing's wrong." The words taste like ash. "I'm just tired."
"You're pulling away from me." Her hand reaches for mine again, and this time I can't stop myself from flinching. "You've been pulling away for two years. Since Riccardo—"
"Don't." The word comes out sharper than I intend. "Please. Don't bring him into this."
Her eyes fill with tears.
I can't do this.
"I have work." I push back from the table, the chair legs scraping against the hardwood. "Security protocols for Valentino's arrival. I should—"
"Vittoria Maria Sartori." Her voice stops me cold. The full name. The one she used when I broke her favorite vase at seven, when I snuck out to a party at fifteen, when I told her I was dropping out of MIT to work for the family.
First Amanda and now my mother.
I turn back slowly.
She's standing now, her hands clasped in front of her like she's praying. Maybe she is.
"I don't know what I did," she says quietly. "I don't know why you can't look me in the eyes anymore. But I'm your mother. Whatever it is, whatever secret you're carrying—I can handle it. I'm stronger than you think."
No. You're not.
None of us are.
"There's no secret, Mamma." I force my lips into something resembling a smile. "I'm just stressed about this whole marriage thing. You know how I get."
She doesn't believe me. I can see it in the way her jaw tightens, the slight narrowing of her eyes. But she's too much of a Sartori to push when she knows she won't get anywhere.
"Fine." She smooths her skirt, composing herself. "We'll talk later. When you're ready."
I'll never be ready.
I leave before she can see my hands shaking.
Dmitri
The velvet box sits heavy in my palm.
I've been staring at it for three minutes. Maybe four. The salesman hovers somewhere behind me, probably sweating wondering if I'm about to rob him blind or buy out half his inventory.
Neither.
I'm just standing here like a fucking idiot, thinking about last night.
Vittoria.
She's exactly what I imagined. Sharper. More infuriating. Perfect.
I'm not a man who talks for hours. Small talk bores me.
Business conversations serve a purpose, then end.
But Vittoria's voice in my ears? That's something else entirely.
A siren's spell winding through my skull, making me want to listen to her read a fucking grocery list if it meant she kept speaking.
I asked about the training session. How she managed to make my men understand complex security protocols in four hours.
She started explaining. Something about coding architecture and neural network integration and behavioral pattern recognition. Her hands moved while she talked, gesturing at invisible screens, drawing diagrams in the air. Her dark eyes lit up like she'd forgotten who she was sitting across from.
I understood maybe thirty percent of the technical words.
I listened to every single one.
"The key is making the system intuitive," she'd said, leaning forward slightly. "Your men don't need to understand the algorithm. They need to trust that when the screen flashes red, something's wrong. I built the interface around that instinct."
Built. Like she constructed it from nothing. Because she did.
This woman could hack into government databases, crash stock markets, probably start wars with a laptop.
Then she yawned.
Just a small thing. Her hand rising to cover her mouth, those dark lashes fluttering against her cheeks, her whole body softening for one unguarded moment.
So fucking beautiful.
I wanted to carry her home. Put her in my bed. Watch her sleep. Stand guard at the door until morning.
Insane. I know.
But I've accepted my particular brand of madness where Vittoria Sartori is concerned.
"This one," I tell the man, finally opening the velvet box again.
"Excellent choice, Mr. Baganov. Shall I wrap it?"
"No." I snap the box closed and pocket it. "I'll handle it."
Outside, Chicago's afternoon traffic crawls past while I slide into the back of my car. Igor waits behind the wheel, engine already running.
"Where to, boss?"
"The compound. I have a delivery to arrange."
The velvet box burns against my chest as we drive.
Tomorrow night. Another dinner. Another chance to watch her fight her attraction while pretending she's merely tolerating my presence. Another opportunity to crack through those walls she's built. Walls I recognize because I built identical ones around myself.
But first, this gift.
Every war begins with a first move. Every seduction starts with a single touch.
She'll probably hate it. Throw it back in my face.
But she'll think about it. About me.
She'll wonder.
And wondering is the first step toward wanting.
My phone rings.
"Speak."
"Boss." Yuri's voice carries that particular tone—the one that means he's trying not to laugh. "You're going to love this."
I shift the velvet box in my pocket. "What."
"Rogers. The American idiot." A pause. "He sent flowers to the Sartori compound."
"Flowers."
"Not just flowers, boss. Flowers." Yuri chuckles. "Megan says they cover the entire living room. Roses, lilies, orchids—the man bought out half of Chicago's florists. There's a card the size of a dinner plate apologizing for missing their date."
The laugh starts somewhere deep in my chest. I let it out—a low, rough sound that makes Igor glance at me in the rearview mirror.
Flowers.
James Rogers thinks he can win Vittoria Sartori with flowers.
"How much?" I ask, still amused.
"Megan estimates fifteen, maybe twenty thousand dollars worth. The delivery trucks blocked the compound entrance for an hour. Pietro wasn't happy."
I can picture it. Vittoria standing in a sea of petals, her dark eyes flat with annoyance.
She hates it. I know she does.
Not because flowers are inherently offensive. But because Rogers chose quantity over thought. He threw money at a problem without understanding what the problem actually was.
Vittoria doesn't want to be buried in roses. She wants to be wanted.
She wants someone who notices when she's tired. Someone who asks about her security algorithms and actually listens to the answer.
Rogers looked at her and saw a mafia princess. A prize.
I looked at her and saw a woman who could bring empires to their knees with a laptop and still yawn like a sleepy kitten at midnight.
"Should I be concerned about this?" Yuri asks. "He's clearly trying to get back in the game."
I consider the question.
James Rogers. Twenty-eight years old. Trust fund baby playing at being a businessman. His family sells luxury cars to people with more money than taste. He's handsome enough, I suppose. Polished. The kind of man mothers like Aria Sartori dream about for their daughters.
Safe.
That's what he represents. A safe, legitimate connection. No blood on his hands. No enemies lurking in shadows. No warehouse interrogations or bodies disappearing into Lake Michigan.
A month ago, he might have been a threat.
Now he's scrambling. Daddy probably called, furious about the leaked photos of his secret fiancée. Demanded James fix this mess before it cost them the Sartori alliance.
Following orders.
I almost feel sorry for him.
Almost.
"No," I tell Yuri. "He's not a concern. Just a boy doing what his father tells him."
"And if he becomes a concern?"
"Then I'll handle it."
The words come easy. Natural. Because they're true.
I could end James Rogers tonight if I wanted. One phone call. A quiet accident. A mugging gone wrong in the wrong neighborhood. His family would mourn, the police would investigate nothing, and Vittoria would never know.
But there's no sport in killing a puppy.
Not unless it bites.
"Keep watching him," I say. "And tell Megan to let me know how Vittoria reacts to the flowers."
"Already asked. She said—" Yuri pauses, clearly reading a message. "She said Vittoria took one look at the living room, said 'you've got to be kidding me,' and went back to her room. Hasn't come out since."
Perfect.
I end the call and lean back against the leather seat.