If Daniil killed Francesco, he's declaring war. And Sophia just became the prize everyone will kill to claim.
My phone buzzes. Dante's text is brief: Back entrance. Two minutes.
I grab Sophia's hand. "They're here."
At the door, I stop and turn to face her. Her eyes search mine, and I see the fear she's trying to hide. Not for herself—I know that look. It's the same one Nora gets when Pietro takes unnecessary risks.
"Nothing's going to happen to you." The words come out fiercer than intended. My free hand cups her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone. "I promise you that."
She leans into my touch, and what she says next stops my heart.
"I'm more scared for you than I am for myself."
I stare at her, this woman standing here worried about me.
This can't be real. This feeling in my chest—like something cracking open, letting light into places that have been dark for years. I've spent my entire adult life being the one who worries, who protects, who carries the weight of keeping everyone safe.
But Sophia's looking at me like I matter. Like my safety means something beyond my usefulness to the family.
My phone buzzes again. Dante's getting impatient.
"We need to go." I squeeze her hand tighter, already making plans. The compound first, then somewhere more secure. Somewhere Daniil can't reach. I'll lock her away if I have to, keep her in a room where no one can touch her, where she can't leave, where she'll be safe even if she hates me for it.
I know what that means though. Caging her like that would be worse than the alternative. At least if I let her walk around she would have had some freedom before Daniil inevitably killed her. With me, she'll be a prisoner indefinitely. My prisoner.
But alive. She'll be alive.
We take the back stairs, our footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell. Each floor we descend, my mind races through options. The compound isn't secure enough—if Daniil killed Francesco in his own office, nowhere in Chicago is truly safe. Maybe the cabin upstate. Or further. Canada, Europe, somewhere the Russians have no reach.
"Lorenzo." Sophia's voice pulls me back. We've reached the ground floor. Through the small window in the door, I can see Dante's SUV idling in the alley, exhaust visible in the cold morning air.
"Stay behind me." I draw my gun, checking the alley through the window. Empty except for our men. "When we move, we move fast. Straight to the car."
She nods, but her grip on my hand tightens.
I push open the door. The November air bites at our faces. Dante's already out of the driver's seat, scanning the rooftops while Marco covers the alley entrance.
"Clear," Dante calls.
We move. Ten feet to the car. Five. Sophia's hand in mine, her breathing quick and shallow behind me.
Then we're inside, Dante slamming the door and sliding back behind the wheel. The locks engage with a solid thunk.
"Compound?" Dante asks, already pulling into traffic.
"For now." I keep Sophia pressed against my side, my arm around her shoulders. Through the tinted windows, I watch every car, every pedestrian, every shadow that could hide a Russian shooter.
Sophia burrows closer into my side, and I hate myself for what I'm about to do to her. For the cage I'm building in the name of keeping her safe.
Sophia
My entire body aches in ways I didn't know were possible. Every shift against the leather seat sends little sparks of pain mixed with memory through me. Between my legs throbs with a soreness that makes me want to squirm and hold still at the same time. But there's no time to process what happened last night.
Francesco is dead.
"Intel came through about an hour ago," Dante says from the driver's seat, his eyes constantly checking mirrors. "A maid at Francesco's estate called the compound. She was hysterical."
Lorenzo's arm tightens around me. "How did she know to call us?"
