"I don't know how to?—"
"Just lift your arm and I'll do the rest."
I raise our joined hands, and she twirls underneath, her dress flaring out in a perfect circle. When she comes back to me, she's still laughing, looking so happy.
My face hurts.
The sensation is strange, unfamiliar. At first I think it's tension from the stress of tonight, from watching every exit and threat. But then Sophia reaches up, her fingers ghosting along my jaw.
"You're smiling," she says, wonder in her voice.
That's when I realize—my cheeks ache because I'm smiling. An actual smile that's been stretching my face for... how long?
The song continues, and we keep moving. Three minutes of Sophia in my arms, laughing at my clumsy footwork, her joy infectious enough to crack through thirty-four years of carefully constructed walls.
I can't remember the last time I smiled this long. Maybe never.
"What are you thinking about?" Sophia asks, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of my neck.
"That my face hurts."
She laughs again. "From smiling?"
"It's your fault."
"Good." She rises on her toes, bringing her mouth close to my ear. "You should smile more. It's devastating."
The song begins to wind down, but I don't want to let her go. Not with the whole room watching us like sharks, waiting for their moment to strike. Not when she's looking at me like I matter.
"Another dance?" she asks, reading my reluctance to release her.
"I thought you wanted to leave."
"I did." Her eyes scan the room, taking in our audience. "But they need to see this. Need to believe we're real."
"We are real. This is the most real thing in my life."
She looks at me and smiles.
She’s so fucking beautiful.
The crowd watches us move together, probably calculating angles and advantages. Let them. They're seeing exactly what I want them to see. That Sophia Sartori is untouchable.
What they don't see is that she's also rewriting everything I thought I knew about myself, one dance at a time.
CHAPTER FORTY
Lorenzo
Ilean back in my leather chair, staring at the stack of invoices that have piled up on my desk. Three weeks of neglect show in every corner of my restaurant empire. Supply orders unsigned, vendor contracts waiting for review, profit margins unchecked. The legitimate side of my business doesn't run itself, despite what my brothers think.
My phone sits silent on the desk. Too silent. Daniil hasn't made a move since Francesco's funeral, and that silence crawls under my skin like insects. Russians don't forgive. They don't forget. They plan.
I force myself to focus on the computer screen, pulling up the monthly reports from all twenty-three locations. The numbers blur together. All I can think about is Sophia back at the compound, probably curled up in our bed with her hair spread across my pillow. The image makes my chest tight.
Christ, I need to be inside her. Need to feel her wrapped around me, hear those little sounds she makes when I push deep. Need to tangle myself so completely with her that I don'tknow where I end and she begins. The wanting is a physical ache, worse than any bullet wound I've taken.
I push away from the desk and walk to the window, looking out at the Chicago skyline as my mind drifts to the future I want. A penthouse apartment downtown, just the two of us.
