She has nothing to do with this world. Her biggest rebellion is dating that drummer from a rock band. But she knows enough. Knows my uncle is connected, knows the family namecarries weight in certain circles. She never judged, never asked questions I couldn't answer.
Lorenzo moves through the kitchen, starting the coffee machine. His movements are precise.
Everything about him screams control.
The flip phone weighs heavy in my pocket. I could try calling her, but I'm not stupid. This phone definitely has restrictions. Lorenzo would know immediately if I tried to contact anyone.
And then what little trust I might be building evaporates.
"Eggs? Toast?" Lorenzo doesn't look at me as he pulls items from the industrial refrigerator.
"Whatever's easiest." My voice sounds small in the vast kitchen.
Lorenzo cracks eggs into a pan with one hand while buttering bread with the other.
"How long before I can make a call?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
His hand pauses for just a second. "To who?"
"My friend. Marina. She'll worry."
"The one who knows nothing about your family business?" He flips the eggs without looking at me. "The civilian friend?"
So he already knows about her. Of course he does.
"She knew I was leaving. Not where, but—" I stop myself. Every word feels like giving him ammunition.
"She stays out of this." His tone leaves no room for argument. "For her safety and yours."
The eggs slide onto a plate. He adds the toast, pushes it across the steel counter toward me.
"Eat fast. Five minutes."
I pick up the fork, my appetite suddenly gone. Marina's probably terrified.
But Lorenzo's right. Contacting her now would only put her in danger. Francesco will be looking for me soon, if he isn't already. Anyone I've talked to becomes a potential lead.
The eggs taste like sawdust, but I force them down. Lorenzo leans against the counter, checking his phone again, that muscle in his jaw ticking with whatever he's reading.
The fork barely touches my lips when the kitchen door slams open.
"Lorenzo, we need to—" A man stops dead, his eyes landing on me. "What the fuck?"
The gun appears in his hand so fast I don't see him draw it. The black barrel points directly at my face.
My fork clatters to the plate. The eggs I just forced myself to swallow threaten to come back up.
This is it. This is how I die.
Lorenzo
The eggs on Sophia's plate might as well be scattered across the floor for how still she's gone. Her eyes lock on the Glock 19 my youngest brother points at her face.
"Nico." I keep my voice level, controlled. "Put the gun down."
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Nico's hand doesn't waver. "That's Sophia fucking Torrino sitting in our kitchen."
Of all my brothers, Nico had to walk in now. Not Pietro, whose rage at least runs predictable patterns. No—it had to beNico, with his analytical mind that questions everything and his deep-seated hatred for anyone connected to our enemies.
