"Let's see what Francesco's been up to," Pietro says, clicking through files.
The recordings start playing—Francesco's voice mixing with Russian accents, discussing shipments and territories. But I'm not hearing it. Not really. My mind keeps drifting to the third floor, to that guest room where Sophia's probably sitting on the bed.
"Lorenzo." Pietro's voice cuts through my thoughts. "You listening?"
"Yeah." I straighten, forcing myself to focus on the screen. "They're discussing the dock schedules."
But even as I say it, I'm thinking about how she held her chin up when Pietro was interrogating her. Twenty years old and facing down one of the most dangerous men in Chicago without flinching. Most grown men can't do that.
"This is good intel," Nico admits grudgingly, leaning forward to study the screen. "They're planning to hit three more shipments this month."
I should be calculating our counter-moves, figuring out how to use this information. Instead, I'm remembering the way her voice cracked when she talked about her mother. The way she said Francesco wasn't family anymore, cold and final.
I don't like what games my mind is playing.
I've had beautiful women in my bed more times than I can count. Models, actresses, daughters of other families looking for a thrill. They come, we have our fun for a few hours, maybe a few days if they're particularly entertaining, and then they go. None of them ever stuck in my head like this.
None of them werehereither.
Christ, she's fourteen years younger than me.
I need to stop this.
Stop thinking about her.
She's a job, a situation to be handled. Nothing more.
CHAPTER NINE
Sophia
One hundred and twelve. That's how many roses bloom in the Persian rug's pattern beneath my feet. I've counted them seventeen times since breakfast arrived via Giulia, a woman who wouldn't meet my eyes, just set the tray on the dresser and fled like I might contaminate her with my Torrino blood.
The walls press closer with each circuit of my room. Ten steps from window to door. Eight from bed to bathroom. The math of my captivity measured in footsteps and counted flowers.
Outside, the sun paints the compound grounds. Guards patrol the perimeter, their movements efficient, practiced, talking, laughing, free to walk wherever they choose. One lights a cigarette, passes it to his partner. Such a simple gesture. Such impossible freedom.
My mother would have hated this room. Too opulent, she'd say. Too many reminders of the life that killed my father.
The memory crashes over me without warning. Her last lucid day. She'd gripped my hand with surprising strength, her eyes clear for the first time in days.
"Don't let them cage you, Sophia. Promise me."
I'd promised. Held her hand and swore I'd stay free, stay myself, stay away from the violence that defined our family.
Another broken promise to add to my collection.
Lorenzo's been avoiding me since yesterday. Breakfast came via Giulia. Lunch via Vittoria, who'd tried to make conversation about the weather but I don't think she wanted to do much talking so I kept my answers simple until she left.
A hot, frantic energy buzzes under my skin. My throat is tight. I need to scream or shatter something. Anything. I need to feel something other than this suffocating mix of grief and boredom and want I shouldn't feel for a man who keeps me like an exotic pet.
My reflection in the window looks pale, diminished. The girl who painted her walls would spit on me. Waiting. Always waiting for some man to decide if I get to live.
Pathetic.
Clarity hits me like a slap.
No more.
