Something flickers across his face, too quick to read. "I'm not doing you a favor, Sophia. I'm making sure you get inside." He shrugs.
He walks toward the massive front entrance, expecting me to follow. I take one last breath of free air, then trail after him toward whatever judgment waits inside.
The foyer steals my breath.
A chandelier hangs from the ceiling like frozen fireworks. The staircase curves up both sides, meeting somewhere I can't see.
We pass through an archway into what must be the living room, though calling it that feels like calling the ocean a puddle.
My legs turn to water.
They're all here. All of them watching me.
Pietro Sartori sits in an armchair like it's a throne, and I know it's him without anyone saying a word. He has Lorenzo's dark hair but there's something harder in his face, something that makes my survival instincts screamrun. His eyes are almost black, tracking my every movement like he's deciding if I'm worth the energy to kill.
A young woman sits beside him on the arm of his chair. She's beautiful and she's watching me with curious eyes, not hostile ones.
Thank God.
Another woman stands near the fireplace, younger than the first, maybe early twenties. She's got the same dark hair as the men but softer features. Her head tilts as she studies me, like she's trying to solve a puzzle. No hatred there either, just interest maybe?
Nico leans against the far wall, arms crossed, still looking at me like I'm a bomb about to explode. Dante stands near the door we just came through—blocking it, I realize. No escape that way. Liam positions himself by the windows, completing the cage.
"Sophia Torrino." Pietro's voice fills the room without him raising it. "Francesco's niece."
It's not a question but I nod anyway. My throat feels like sandpaper.
"Sit."
He gestures to a chair across from him. I'm terrified to touch it. But this isn't a request. I force my legs to move, lowering myself onto the edge of the seat.
"I'm told you came to my brother for protection." Pietro's fingers drum once on the armrest. "That your uncle sold you to the Russians."
"Yes." The word comes out as barely a whisper. I clear my throat. "To Daniil Morozov. We're supposed to marry in nine days."
"Supposed to." He leans forward slightly. "You seem very certain we'll prevent that."
"I—" My hands twist in my lap. "I hoped?—"
"Hope." He says it like it's a foreign word. "You hoped my family would save you from yours."
The woman beside him shifts, her hand moving to rest on his shoulder. He doesn't acknowledge it, but something in his posture changes, becomes marginally less terrifying.
"Tell me about your information," he says.
I glance at Lorenzo, who's moved to stand behind my chair. I can't see his face but somehow knowing he's there helps.
"Three weeks of recordings. Everything Francesco discussed in his office. The deal with the Russians, the shipment they stole from you, which cops he's paying off. All in a USB." I force myself to meet Pietro's eyes. "He doesn't know I have it."
"And the ledger you mentioned to Lorenzo?"
"Francesco keeps it in his office safe. All his business dealings, every transaction, everyone he's paid or threatened. I know the combination."
The younger woman by the fireplace steps forward. "How do you know the combination?"
"He told my mother once when he was drunk. She was supposed to get it if something happened to him." My voice cracks. "She's dead now, so I guess it's mine."
"Convenient," Nico mutters from his wall.
