Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Vittoria
The Mercedes glides through the compound gates, and my stomach drops straight to my heels.
Oh, for God's sake.
Pietro and Nico stand at the main entrance like a welcoming committee from hell. Arms crossed. Jaws tight. Behind them, at least eight guards fan out across the steps, hands resting on weapons that catch the moonlight.
"Looks like we have a reception," Dmitri says, his voice flat as the car rolls to a stop.
"They're going to shoot you." I unbuckle my seatbelt with shaking fingers. "They're actually going to shoot you on our front steps."
"They won't."
The driver opens Dmitri's door first. He steps out with the kind of deliberate calm that makes my pulse spike. Not rushed. Not worried. Like he's walking into a business meeting instead of a potential execution.
I scramble out my side before anyone can open it for me, nearly tripping on my heels in my haste to get between Dmitri and my brothers.
Too late.
Dmitri moves toward them, each step measured and unhurried. The guards shift. Hands tighten on weapons. Someone's safety clicks off.
"What the hell is going on?" I demand, my voice sharper than I intend.
Pietro ignores me completely. His eyes lock onto Dmitri with the kind of focused intensity that usually precedes bloodshed. "What does this mean, Baganov? You take my sister from a restaurant, announce yourself as her fiancé in front of witnesses, and now you show up at my compound?"
Dmitri stops three feet from my brother. Close enough to be dangerous. Close enough that any of those guards could put a bullet in him before he blinked.
"It means exactly what I said." Dmitri's pale eyes don't waver. "Vittoria and I are going to get married."
The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.
Pietro's head snaps toward me. His expression—Dio, his expression. Confusion wars with fury across his features, his jaw working like he's physically restraining himself from violence.
"You didn't tell me this." The words come out low, controlled, but I hear the accusation underneath. "We had an agreement. Three months. You said nothing about accepting his proposal."
My throat tightens. Because he's right. I didn't say anything.
Because I didn't know.
Dmitri announced our engagement without asking me. Without warning. Without giving me a single second to process before he claimed me in front of James Rogers and half of Lorenzo's restaurant staff.
But standing here now, with my brothers' guards ready to turn Dmitri into Swiss cheese, with Nico's hand inching toward his weapon, with Pietro looking at me like I've betrayed everything our family stands for—
I make my choice.
"That's right." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "We're getting married."
Pietro's nostrils flare. For a long moment, nobody moves.
Then Pietro exhales through his teeth.
"Stand down," he orders, not taking his eyes off Dmitri. "All of you. Inside. Now."
They move. Reluctantly. Weapons lowering, bodies filing through the main entrance until only the four of us remain on the steps—me, Dmitri, Pietro, and Nico.
"Follow me." Pietro turns on his heel. "Both of you."
I watch Dmitri's face. He's not used to following orders. Every line of his body screams resistance, screams I give commands, I don't take them.
But he moves.
One step. Two.
We cross the threshold into the foyer.
Pietro leads us toward his study without looking back. Nico falls into step behind us, and I feel his stare burning into the back of my head.
Great. Just great.
I came home from a disaster dinner to announce a surprise engagement.
We enter the office and Pietro heads to his desk. He doesn't sit in the chair. Instead, he leans against the front of his desk, arms crossed, ankles crossed. Casual if you don't know him. Lethal if you do.
Nico closes the door behind us. He stays there, back against the wood, blocking the only exit. His hand rests on his hip. Close to his weapon. Ready.
I stand three feet from Dmitri. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. Far enough that my brothers can see space between us.
As if that matters now.
Pietro's dark eyes move from me to Dmitri. Back to me. Then settle on Dmitri with the kind of focused stillness that precedes violence.
"You know better than anyone," Pietro says, his voice low and controlled, "that these things don't work this way."
The words hang in the air.
Dmitri doesn't flinch.
"You wanted a marriage for Vittoria." His pale eyes meet Pietro's without hesitation. "You have one."
Pietro's jaw tightens. "That's not—"
"I respected you and your family enough to bring her back here tonight." Dmitri's voice cuts through my brother's objection. Smooth. Final. "We are going to get married."
The silence that follows is suffocating.
I should speak. I should say something. Defend myself, explain, protest—something.
But my mouth stays shut.
Because here's the thing that's crawling under my skin, making my palms sweat and my heart race: Dmitri isn't wrong.
They wanted a marriage.
Dmitri is giving them one.
On his terms.
And standing here, watching my brother's fury simmer behind that controlled mask, I realize something that should terrify me.
I agree with him.
Pietro pushes off the desk. One step toward Dmitri. Then another. They're nearly the same height, my brother and this Russian monster I've agreed to marry.
"You think you can just take her?" Pietro's voice drops to something dangerous. "Announce it in public without discussing it with me first? Without asking for my blessing?"
"I'm not asking for your blessing." Dmitri's head tilts slightly. "I'm informing you of what's happening."
Nico shifts by the door. I hear the creak of leather as his hand tightens on his weapon.
"Vittoria." Pietro doesn't look at me. His eyes stay locked on Dmitri. "Is this what you want?"
My throat tightens.
Is it?
I think about the three months I demanded. The control I thought I had. The careful evaluation I planned to conduct, weighing pros and cons like Dmitri was a business decision.
That's gone now. Shattered the moment he announced our engagement in front of witnesses.
The decision is made. No more dinners with James Rogers. No more candidates. No more my mother's disappointed sighs or Bruno's bitter comments or the constant parade of men who see me as a stepping stone to power.
Just Dmitri.
"Yes." The word comes out steadier than I expect. "This is what I want."
Pietro's head snaps toward me. "You're sure." It's not a question. It's a demand.
I meet my brother's eyes. "I'm sure."
For a long moment, nobody moves.
Then Pietro exhales. A slow, controlled breath that seems to drain some of the tension from his shoulders. Not all of it. Not even most of it. But enough.
"Fine." The word comes out clipped. Hard. "You want to marry my sister, Baganov? Then we do this properly. Contracts. Negotiations. Nothing happens without my approval."
Dmitri's lips curve into something that's almost a smile. "I would expect nothing less."
"Get out of my house." Pietro's voice is flat. "We'll discuss terms tomorrow."
Dmitri doesn't argue. He turns toward the door, pausing only when he reaches me. His hand brushes mine—just a touch, barely there—and his pale eyes find mine in the dim light.
"Spokoyno? nochi, solnyshko." The Russian words roll off his tongue like silk. "Good night, little sun."
Then he's gone, Nico stepping aside to let him pass.
The door closes.
Pietro's gaze lands on me with the weight of a guillotine blade.
"You have a lot of explaining to do."
Pietro sits behind his desk, jaw tight. Nico leans against the bookshelf, arms crossed, watching me with that stare that makes me feel like he's already dissected every decision I've made in the last month.
Bruno's wheelchair is positioned near the window, his expression a mask of cold fury.
Dante stands by the door like a statue carved from granite.
And Mamma perches on the edge of the settee, her hands folded in her lap, disappointment radiating from every pore.
One big happy family.
"Let me understand this correctly," Pietro says, his voice dangerously calm. "You agreed to marry Dmitri Baganov. Then you went to dinner with James Rogers. And at no point did you think to mention any of this to me?"
I meet his gaze. "You want an answer? Fine. I didn't think I had a choice."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means exactly what it sounds like, Pietro." I lean forward, my palms pressing into my thighs. "You all sat me down at breakfast and told me I was getting married. Not asked. Told. Like I was a piece of property being shuffled between buyers."
Mamma makes a sound of protest. "Vittoria, that's not—"
"Isn't it?" I cut her off, and immediately regret the sharpness in my voice. But I'm past the point of polite deflection. "I was given two names and told to pick. So yes, I met with both of them. I evaluated my options. Like a good little Sartori princess."
Silence.
Pietro exhales through his nose. "And Baganov? When did that become an engagement?"
"Tonight. At the restaurant." I pause, choosing my words carefully. "James was... informative."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning James Rogers had a secret fiancée up until very recently."
Mamma's sharp intake of breath cuts through the room. "What?"
"It's true." I turn to face her directly. "He told me himself. Bragged about it, actually. Said he ended things with her because I was the better political move."
"That's not possible." Mamma shakes her head, her perfectly manicured nails pressing into her palms. "His mother never mentioned another woman. We spoke just last week about—"
"About our wedding?" I finish for her.
The color drains from her face.
"Yeah." I nod slowly. "James told me that too. Said you and his mother were already planning a June ceremony. Without asking me. Without telling Pietro."
Pietro rises from his chair, and for a moment, I see the Don. The man who commands a criminal empire. His eyes sweep from me to our mother with barely contained fury.
"What the hell is wrong with everyone in this house?"
Mamma stands, her posture defensive. "I was trying to protect her—"
"By arranging her marriage behind my back?" Pietro's voice rises. "Behind her back?"
"The Rogers family has connections we need. And is a good family." Mamma's chin lifts. "I was doing what was best for this family."
"You were doing what you thought was best." Pietro stalks around his desk. "Without consulting me. Without consulting Vittoria. In direct violation of everything we agreed to when I became Don."
Bruno laughs—a cold, bitter sound that makes my skin crawl. "Welcome to the club, Pietro. Being undermined by your own family. How does it feel?"
"Bruno." Nico's voice is a warning.
"No, let him talk," Pietro snaps. "Let everyone just say whatever the fuck they want, apparently. That's how we operate now."
I push to my feet. "Pietro—"
"Sit down." His command is sharp enough to cut glass.
I don't sit. "I chose Dmitri."
"You chose him tonight. After going to dinner with another man. After keeping secrets. After—"
"After being treated like I had no say in my own future?
" I hold his stare. "Yes. I did what I had to do to figure out which option was less terrible.
And you know what I found out? James Rogers is a manipulative, entitled stronzo who thought he could threaten me into compliance.
He told me the Sartori family is growing weak.
That we need his father's political protection. "
Nico pushes off the bookshelf. "He said that?"
"Word for word." I cross my arms. "So yes. I chose the Russian. Because at least Dmitri Baganov doesn't pretend to be something he's not."
Mamma's voice is small. "Vittoria..."
I look at her. And I see the fear beneath the carefully constructed mask of maternal authority. She's scared. Scared of losing control.
But fear doesn't excuse deception.
"You should have told me," I say quietly. "About the meeting with his mother. About the plans. I deserved to know."
Her eyes glisten. "I only wanted—"
"I know what you wanted." I soften my voice, just slightly. "But I'm not thirteen anymore, Mamma. I'm not the little girl you can protect by keeping secrets."
The irony isn't lost on me. I'm lecturing her about secrets while hiding the biggest one of all.
Pietro runs a hand through his hair, visibly forcing himself to regain composure. "Fine. Baganov it is. But this happens my way now. Everything goes through me."
"Agreed."
He points at Mamma. "And you. No more secret meetings. No more wedding planning without my approval. Capisce?"
Mamma nods stiffly.
Bruno wheels toward the door. "Well. This has been entertaining. Wake me when someone remembers I exist."
He's gone before anyone can respond.
Dante opens the door for him, then closes it again, resuming his position like nothing happened.
Nico catches my eye. "You're sure about Baganov?"
I think about Dmitri's hand reaching for mine in the car. About the crack in his armor when he told me his father was dying.
"I'm sure."
Nico nods once. It's not approval, but it's not disapproval either.
Pietro collapses back into his chair. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow we start the negotiations."
I head for the door, my legs steadier than they should be after that interrogation. But before I reach it, Mamma's voice stops me.
"Vittoria."
I turn.
She stands there, looking smaller than I've ever seen her. Older. Human.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I should have... I should have talked to you."
I swallow the lump in my throat. "Yeah. You should have."
Then I leave, because if I stay another second, I might say something I can't take back.