"Wasn't going to say anything." He takes a sip of his espresso, but I catch the corner of his mouth twitching. "Though if you're having fun, perhaps we should discuss your approach."
"She's twenty years old."
"So you keep saying." Dante follows me to my office. "Like you're trying to convince yourself."
I drop into my chair, already reaching for the whiskey. Too early, but I need something to wash away the image of Sophia's face when she realized what she'd done. That mix of terror and defiance and almost like fucking amusement.
"Brief me on today." I pour a glass of whiskey, ignoring Dante's look.
He settles into the chair across from my desk, pulling out his phone. "The Torrino shipment from last night needs addressing. Pietro wants blood, but if we move now, Francesco will know we have inside information."
"Which leads back to her."
"Precisely." Dante scrolls through his notes. "I suggest we wait. Let Francesco think his theft went unnoticed while we verify everything on that flash drive. If even half of what she claims is true?—"
My phone vibrates against the desk. Vittoria's name lights up the screen.
"One second." I answer on the second ring. "What's wrong?"
"Why does something have to be wrong?" My sister's voice carries that particular tone that means she's bored and looking for trouble. "Can't I call my favorite brother?"
"You tell all of us that."
"Only when I want something." At least she's honest. "Come to dinner with me tonight. That new place in River North you mentioned."
I glance at Dante, who's pretending not to listen. "I'm busy, Vittoria."
"You're always busy. Come on, Lorenzo. Ava's in one of her moods again—won't leave her room, won't talk to anyone. I'm going crazy in this house."
Ava. Riccardo's widow barely speaks since the funeral. Vittoria's been trying to pull her back to life for weeks now, but grief doesn't follow anyone's timeline.
"Ask Nico."
"Nico would terrify the waitstaff." She sighs. "Please? Just dinner. Two hours. You can brood over your whiskey while I talk about anything except dead brothers and territory wars."
The exhaustion in her voice cuts through my refusal. She's twenty-three, should be finishing her master's degree, dating inappropriate men I'd have to threaten. Instead, she's trapped in our world of blood and vengeance, trying to hold what's left of our family together.
"Fine. Eight o'clock."
"Seven. And wear something that doesn't scream 'I kill people for a living.'"
She hangs up before I can respond.
"Is she okay?" Dante asks, and for a second I think he means Sophia. Then I realize—Vittoria.
I set the whiskey down harder than necessary. "She's twenty-three years old, Dante. She lost her father when she was a kid. Giuseppe was everything to her. Her hero, her protector, the one who called her his little princess and meant it."
Dante stays silent, letting me talk. He knows when to push and when to listen.
"Then Riccardo stepped in." My throat tightens at his name. "For her entire life, he was her second father. She adored him, and God knows he spoiled her worse than Giuseppe ever did. Every school play, every graduation, every birthday. Riccardo was there. Making up for the father she lost."
I stand, needing to move. The office feels too small suddenly.
"Now he's dead too. Shot at Bruno's wedding like some common soldier, not the Don of Chicago. And Vittoria watched it happen. Watched the blood spread across his shirt while the rest of us tried to stop what couldn't be stopped."
"Lorenzo—"
"Ava's like a sister to her." I cut him off, pacing to the window. "They were planning Ava and Riccardo's anniversary party together. Shopping for dresses, arguing about flowers. Normal things. Things that let Vittoria pretend for a few hours that we're not who we are."
