CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Lorenzo
The buzzing cuts through my exhaustion like a blade. One hour. That's all the sleep I managed after keeping Sophia up until dawn, learning every inch of her body.
My phone vibrates against the nightstand again. Pietro's name flashes on the screen at 6:47 AM.
I slide out of bed, careful not to wake Sophia. She's sprawled across the sheets, her hair a dark tangle against the pillow, bruises from my mouth blooming across her throat and shoulder.
The bathroom door clicks shut behind me before I answer.
"What?" My voice comes out rough, scraped raw from groaning her name all night.
"Francesco's dead." Pietro doesn't waste time on pleasantries. "Found him in his office an hour ago. Three bullets to the head, execution style."
The words hit like ice water. I grip the marble counter, my knuckles going white. "When?"
"Sometime after midnight. His men found him when they came for the morning shift change."
"Daniil?" I ask, though I already know.
"Has to be. The Russians don't take rejection well." Pietro's voice drops lower. "Lorenzo, if he killed Francesco over this?—"
"He won't stop." The words taste like ash. "Francesco was her blood. If Daniil's willing to kill family over a broken deal, Sophia's next."
"We’ll be ready."
"Get to the compound. Now. Dante and two of our best are already on their way up. You've got ten minutes to get her ready."
The line goes dead.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My chest bears scratches from Sophia's nails, my shoulder marked where she bit down to muffle her screams. And now I have to tell her that her uncle is dead.
Worse, I have to tell her she's in more danger than ever. Because she won't care about him being dead.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to shake off the fog of too little sleep and too much whiskey. My gun sits on the bathroom counter where I left it before undressing Sophia for the first time. I check the clip, then grab a clean shirt from the hook behind the door.
Seven minutes left.
Back in the bedroom, Sophia hasn't moved. The sheet barely covers her, and I can see every mark I left on her skin. Mine, mine, mine—the word pounds through my head with each heartbeat. But being mine means being a target.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my hand hovering over her shoulder. She looks so peaceful.
"Sophia." I keep my voice gentle, my hand finally making contact with her warm skin. "Piccola, wake up."
She stirs, a soft moan escaping as she stretches. Her eyes flutter open, still hazy with sleep and satisfaction. "Lorenzo?" Her voice is hoarse from screaming. "What time is it?"
"Early. We need to go."
Something in my tone must alert her because she sits up immediately, the sheet falling away. "What's wrong?"
I force myself to meet her eyes, not letting my gaze drop to her exposed breasts, to the evidence of our night together written across her skin. "Your uncle's dead. We need to get to the compound. Dante will be here in five minutes."
The color drains from her face. "Francesco's... when?"
"Last night. After the party." I stand, pulling her up with me. "We need to move. Now."
She doesn't argue, doesn't ask questions. She just nods and starts gathering her clothes from where I threw them hours ago. But I see her hands shaking as she pulls on her dress, see the way her breathing has gone shallow.
