"Sit." I gesture to one of the leather chairs across from my desk. "Before you collapse."
She moves like she's walking through quicksand, each step careful. When she sits, she perches on the edge of the chair, ready to run. Smart girl.
Though if she needs to run from me, she's already lost.
I push the whiskey across the desk. "Drink."
Her hand trembles as she reaches for it, and she has to use both hands to bring the glass to her lips. The first sip makes her cough, but she takes another anyway. Color starts returning to her cheeks.
"Better?"
She nods, sets the glass down carefully. Her fingers twist in her lap, and I notice her nails are bitten down to the quick. When she finally speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.
"You saved my life once."
I wait. Let the silence stretch until she has to fill it.
"I need you to do it again."
Jesus fucking Christ.
The curse ricochets through my skull while I keep my expression blank. This is exactly what I don't need. A Torrino sitting in my office at three in the morning, asking for protection.
"That's a heavy request, Miss Torrino."
"I know what I'm asking." Her chin lifts, and for a second I see something fierce underneath the fear. "I know who you are. What you are. I know coming here makes me a traitor to my family."
"Then why?"
She reaches into her coat pocket, and I see Dante shift slightly. But she only pulls out a flash drive, sets it on my desk between us.
"Because in ten days, I'm supposed to marry Daniil Morozov." Her voice cracks on his name. "And I'd rather be a living traitor than a dead bride."
The name hangs in the air like a loaded gun. Morozov. The Russian psychopath who's been turning Chicago's underworld into his personal playground. The one who supposedly left his last girlfriend in pieces—literally.
And Francesco's selling his own niece to him.
CHAPTER THREE
Sophia
The whiskey burns a path down my throat, chasing away the cold that settled into my bones. My hands have stopped shaking from the temperature, but a different kind of trembling takes over. The kind that comes from sitting across from Lorenzo Sartori and asking him to save my life.
He hasn't moved since I said Daniil's name. Just watches me with those warm brown eyes that seem too gentle for what he is. The office lamp casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the perfect slope of his nose. His dark hair falls slightly across his forehead, and he runs his fingers through it in what looks like an unconscious gesture.
God, he's beautiful.
How can someone who orders people killed look like this? Like he stepped out of some Italian fashion magazine instead of a crime family. His suit fits him perfectly. Even at three in the morning, not a single wrinkle mars the fabric.
When he reaches for his own whiskey, his hands are steady, elegant even.
Those are the same hands that probably signed death warrants yesterday.
"Tell me about the flash drive." His voice cuts through my thoughts, smooth and deep.
I force myself to focus. "Three weeks of recordings. Francesco doesn't know I have them."
"Recordings of what?"
