CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sophia
The warehouse door groans as Lorenzo pushes it open. He moves in first, his broad shoulders blocking most of my view. I follow close behind, and Dante's presence at my back feels like a wall.
My legs shake with each step. Not from fear of dying. I made peace with that possibility when I knocked on Lorenzo's door. No, what terrifies me is seeing Uncle Francesco again.
The warehouse stretches out before us, all shadows and rust. Broken windows let in strips of moonlight that cut across the concrete floor like prison bars. Our footsteps echo in the vast space, announcing our arrival to whoever waits in the darkness.
I keep my eyes on Lorenzo's back, on the way his suit jacket pulls across his shoulders. But my mind drifts to summers at the lake house when I was seven, eight, nine years old. Uncle Francesco teaching me to fish off the dock, his laugh booming across the water when I squealed about touching the worms.
"Sophia, cara," he'd say, "you can't catch anything good without getting your hands a little dirty."
He was different then. Patient. Kind, even. While my father worked endless hours building the family's businesses, Uncle Francesco always had time. Time to braid my hair before Sunday dinner. Time to sneak me extra gelato when Mom wasn't looking. Time to tell me stories about the old country, about our grandparents who came here with nothing but determination.
Lorenzo stops abruptly. I nearly bump into him, catching myself just in time. We're maybe thirty feet into the warehouse now, and I can make out shapes ahead—men standing in a loose circle, waiting.
"Remember what I said," Lorenzo murmurs without turning around.
I nod even though he can't see me. My throat feels like sandpaper.
Everything changed after Dad died. The car accident. Uncle Francesco became head of the family overnight, and something shifted in him. Like a switch flipped. The man who used to carry me on his shoulders through street festivals became someone I barely recognized.
At first, I thought it was grief. We all grieved differently—Mom threw herself into charity work, I buried myself in schoolwork. But Francesco? He buried himself in the business. In power.
The money was always there, of course. The Torrinos never wanted for anything. But being the younger brother meant Francesco lived in Dad's shadow. Good money, sure. Nice house, nice cars. But not the respect. Not the fear. Not the final word on everything that mattered.
Now he has all of it. The entire Torrino empire answers to him. Every dollar that flows through our territory needs his blessing. Every decision, every alliance, every death—all his call.
And somewhere along the way, my Uncle Francesco disappeared. Replaced by Don Torrino, who'd sell his brother's daughter to Russian psychopaths for a better profit margin.
"Steady," Dante whispers behind me, and I realize I've stopped walking.
I force my feet forward, following Lorenzo deeper into the warehouse. The shapes ahead become clearer—five men, maybe six. I can't make out faces yet, but I know he's there. Francesco. The man who taught me to tie my shoes and now wants to tie me to a monster.
Money changes people. That's what Mom used to say when she'd see old friends from the neighborhood acting different after coming into wealth. But it's more than money, I think. It's power. The ability to decide who lives and who dies. Who suffers and who thrives.
Francesco has both now. Money and power. And it's turned him into something I don't recognize.
Lorenzo stops again, and this time I know we've arrived. The circle of men parts slightly, and there he is.
Uncle Francesco.
My stomach drops.
"Lorenzo Sartori," Francesco drawls, spreading his arms wide like we're at a family reunion. "The great diplomat. Tell me, how's the restaurant business? Still pretending you're just a businessman?"
My fingers curl into fists.
But Lorenzo doesn't move. His shoulders stay relaxed, his breathing even. "Francesco," he says, voice smooth as aged whiskey. "We're here to discuss your niece."
"My niece?" Francesco's eyes find me, and that smile grows wider.
Here we go then.
Lorenzo
Francesco's eyes slide from me to Sophia like oil on water. "There she is. My brother's daughter. Come here, cara."
