The irony tastes bitter as the whiskey.
Francesco kept her out of the business just long enough to preserve her innocence. Made her the perfect bride for his deals. Unspoiled. Untouched by our violence. Everything those Russian psychopaths want in a wife they can break.
She doesn't know about Luna and me. Can't know, or she never would have come here. Francesco must have kept that secret too, along with all his others.
My phone buzzes against the glass table.
I glance at the screen. Unknown number.
Can I wear some of the clothes in the dresser? Mine are still damp from the rain.
I stare at the message longer than necessary. Those clothes belong to no one. Just spare items I keep in all the safe rooms—sweatpants, t-shirts, basic necessities for situations exactly like this.
Yes.
Short. Direct. No room for interpretation.
She texts back.
Thank you. The shirt smells like cedar. Is that on purpose or just good luck?
I don't respond. There's no point encouraging conversation. The cedar blocks are in every dresser in this building. Keeps the moths away and happens to mask other scents. Blood. Gunpowder.
Another message.
I'm sorry for showing up like this. I know it puts you at risk.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I could tell her that risk is all I deal in. That harboring Francesco's niece is actually the least dangerous thing I've done this week.
But I don't.
I promise I'll earn my keep. I'm good with numbers. Really good. I can help with your books. My mom always said I got my brain from my father's side. Before he died, I mean. Car accident when I was three.
I know about her father. Anthony Torrino. Except it wasn't a car accident. Francesco had him killed for trying to leave the family business.
Or at least that's what my father told me back then.
And that's not the only secret he shared with me.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sophia
The shouting downstairs yanks me from sleep. Male voices, angry and sharp. I stand from the bed instantly.
Where—
Right. Lorenzo's building. The locked room. Safety that doesn't feel safe at all.
Gray morning light filters through heavy curtains. I check the phone—7:23 a.m.
The voices rise again. Italian curses mix with English threats. A door slams hard enough to rattle the window.
Lorenzo never answered my texts last night. Not the one about helping with his books. Not the attempt at conversation about the cedar. Of course he didn't.
My bladder screams for attention. I've been holding it since before I fell asleep, too afraid to text him. Too proud to beg for basic human needs.
The room has no bathroom.
