"We're already at risk," Lorenzo says quietly. "Have been since the Russians moved into Chicago."
"Not like this." Bruno wheels closer, and I force myself not to step back. "Francesco's dead. The Torrino empire is up for grabs. Every family in Chicago is going to be scrambling for a piece, and his dear niece here is the key to that. Whoever controls her?—"
"No one controls me," I interrupt, finding my voice despite the trembling in my chest.
Bruno's laugh is sharp enough to cut. "Really? Because it looks like my brother's doing a pretty good job of it. Tell me, princess, did he at least wait until after the engagement party to fuck you, or?—"
Lorenzo moves so fast I barely see it. His hand slams against the wall beside Bruno's head, the sound echoing through the foyer.
"Finish that sentence," Lorenzo says, his voice deadly quiet. "I dare you."
I don't think that Bruno is ready to stop. He's about to talk again.
"Lorenzo." Pietro's voice cuts through the tension. He stands at the top of the stairs, looking down at all of us with an unreadable expression. "My office. Now."
Lorenzo straightens slowly, his hand dropping from the wall. There's a crack in the plaster where his palm hit.
"This isn't over," Bruno says as we pass.
"No," Lorenzo agrees without looking back. "It's not."
As we climb the stairs, I can feel Bruno's eyes burning into my back. My legs shake with each step.
Behind us, I hear Vittoria's soft voice trying to calm Bruno, and his harsh response. But I can't make out the words over the pounding of my heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Lorenzo
The cathedral reeks of lilies and hypocrisy.
I stand beside Sophia in the front pew, watching Chicago's underworld pretend to mourn Francesco Torrino. Every known family has sent representatives. They're not here to pay respects. They're here to size up the competition for Francesco's empire.
And every single one of them keeps staring at Sophia.
She looks lethal in the black Versace that Vittoria picked out. The dress transforms her from grieving niece to a power player they don't know how to read. Her face stays perfectly composed, not a tear in sight. The lack of grief makes her more dangerous somehow. More unpredictable.
"The heirs keep watching," I murmur against her ear, my hand on her lower back. What I really want to say is that killing every single one of them would bring me joy.
"Let them look." She says. "They're all trying to figure out what I know. What Francesco left me."
She's right. The vultures started circling the moment news of Francesco's death spread. Families offering condolences while fishing for information about his operations, his contacts, his territories.
Pietro sits two rows behind us with Nico and Dante. Bruno refused to come, claiming his wheelchair would draw too much attention.
The priest drones on about Francesco's dedication to family and community. I bite back a laugh. His dedication extended only as far as his bank account.
Movement catches my eye. Fabio Corelli slides into the pew across the aisle, his gaze locked on Sophia. He's twenty-eight, ambitious, and his family's been trying to expand into Francesco's waterfront territories for years.
The priest calls for a moment of silent prayer. Heads bow throughout the cathedral, but I keep my eyes open, scanning for threats. The Russians haven't shown their faces yet, but they're here somewhere. Daniil wouldn't miss this.
A hand touches Sophia's shoulder from behind. We both tense.
"My condolences, dear."
It's Chiara Benedetti, the matriarch of the Benedetti family. Seventy-three years old and sharp as the blade she allegedly keeps in her cane.
"Thank you, Mrs. Benedetti." Sophia's voice stays steady.
