"Such a tragedy. Francesco was so young." Her fingers squeeze Sophia's shoulder. "If you need anything during this difficult time, the Benedetti family is at your disposal."
Translation: she wants to know what Sophia plans to do with Francesco's operations.
"Your kindness is appreciated," Sophia responds carefully.
Chiara's gaze shifts to me. "Mr. Sartori. How fortunate that your engagement was announced before this terrible loss. Otherwise, poor Sophia would be quite alone."
She's wondering if me or my family killed him.
"Very fortunate," I agree, my hand tightening on Sophia's waist.
The old woman moves on, but her message lingers. Everyone's waiting to see what happens next. Whether Sophia will try to claim Francesco's empire. Whether the Sartoris will back her play.
Whether the Russians will come for what they think they're owed.
"How many more of these conversations do I have to endure?" Sophia asks under her breath.
"All of them. Every family will want their moment. They need to gauge whether you're a threat or an opportunity."
"And which am I?"
"Both."
Daniil Morozov enters through the side door.
He moves through the cathedral like smoke, his men flanking him in perfect formation. The smaller families shift nervously in their pews. Conversations die mid-sentence. Even the priest stumbles over his eulogy.
Daniil's ice-blue eyes lock onto Sophia and don't let go.
He's watching her like she's a meal he's been denied. Like Francesco's death is just an inconvenience between him and what he considers his property. My hand moves to the gun at my hip, calculating angles and casualties if I put three bullets in his skull right here in God's house.
But something bothers me about this whole setup. Francesco dismissed his guards before meeting his killer. That means he trusted whoever pulled the trigger. Daniil wouldn't have earned that trust. Francesco feared the Russians too much. And Daniilwould've wanted credit for the kill. He'd have left Francesco's body displayed like a trophy, not executed quietly in his study.
The smaller families are making their own calculations. I can see it in how they position themselves, creating distance from both us and the Russians.
Daniil approaches our pew.
"My condolences on your loss," he says to Sophia.
I step between them. "You're not welcome here."
His pale eyes flick to me, amused. "According to whom?"
"Me." Sophia's voice cuts through the tension like a blade. She steps around me, chin raised, meeting Daniil's stare without flinching. "Francesco is dead. Whatever arrangement you thought you had with the Torrino family died with him."
That's my girl.
Daniil's smile spreads slow and cold. "I'm simply being polite." He says it louder, ensuring the surrounding families hear every word. "Paying my respects to a business associate. Surely you wouldn't deny me that courtesy in front of all these witnesses?"
He's establishing his claim publicly. Making it known he had dealings with Francesco that might extend beyond death. The smaller families lean in, hungry for information they can sell or leverage.
"Your courtesy isn't required," Sophia says. "Or wanted."
"Such hostility." He says.
If we weren't surrounded by half of Chicago's underworld, if Sophia wasn't standing in the middle of this powder keg, I'd have already painted the cathedral walls with his blood. Since the other night, I've been imagining exactly how I'd kill him. Slow enough to make him beg, fast enough that Sophia wouldn't have to watch him die.
Sophia
