"She stays where she is," I say.
His smile doesn't waver, but something shifts in his stance.
"Let's be clear about something, Sartori." Francesco says. "She's my blood. My responsibility. You return her to me right now, or we go to war." He pauses, letting the threat settle in the stale warehouse air. "The Russians will support me. Daniil wants what was promised to him. The Corellis are interested in new partnerships. Even the Benedettis here might reconsider their neutrality."
Marco Benedetti shifts uncomfortably but says nothing. Smart man.
"War." I taste the word, roll it around like wine. "Over one girl?"
"Over family," Francesco corrects. "Over respect. Over you thinking you can take what's mine."
The warehouse goes quiet except for the distant sound of traffic outside. This is the moment. The pivot point where everything changes.
"She's under my protection," I say, each word deliberate, "as my fiancée."
The silence that follows is absolute. Even the traffic seems to pause.
Then Francesco laughs.
"You expect me to believe you're marrying my niece?" He's practically choking on his disbelief.
"Believe what you want." I cut him off before he can finish that thought. "The arrangement is made."
Francesco's laughter dies. His eyes narrow, searching my face for the lie. But I've been playing this game long enough. My expression gives him nothing.
Movement beside me. Sophia steps forward, and before I can process what she's doing, her hand slips into mine. Her fingers are ice-cold and trembling, but when I instinctively intertwine our fingers, she steadies. The contact grounds us both.
"It's true, Uncle." Her voice carries across the warehouse, stronger than I expected. "Lorenzo and I are engaged."
The transformation is instant. Francesco's face goes from disbelief to rage, the color rising from his neck to his cheeks until he's practically purple.
"You little whore." The words explode from him like bullets.
I move before the thought fully forms. One second I'm standing beside Sophia, the next Francesco is against the warehouse wall with my hand wrapped around his throat. His feet barely touch the ground.
"Speak about her like that again," I say, my voice deadly calm, "and arrangement or not, I'll kill you."
His men reach for their weapons. Dante already has his gun out, aimed at the closest one. The Benedettis step back, hands raised—they want no part of this.
Francesco claws at my hand, his face going from red to purple. His eyes bulge, but there's still defiance there. Still that arrogance that makes him think he's untouchable because he's a Don now.
"Lorenzo." Sophia's voice, soft but urgent.
I don't look at her. Can't look at her. If I see fear in her eyes—fear of me—I'll do things I won't control.
"Your brother would be ashamed," I tell Francesco, applying just enough pressure to make him wheeze. "Anthony was twice the man you'll ever be. He'd never sell his daughter. Never call her those names."
Francesco's eyes widen at his brother's name. Good. Let him choke on that truth along with my grip.
"Lorenzo," Sophia says again, and this time her hand touches my arm. Not pulling, not demanding. Just there. "Please."
The please does it. I release Francesco, and he drops to his knees, gasping and coughing. His men start forward, but he waves them off, one hand massaging his throat.
Francesco pushes himself to his feet, still rubbing his throat. His voice comes out rough, damaged. "What the hell do you want?"
I adjust my cuffs, taking my time. Let him sweat.
"She's already promised to Daniil," he continues, trying to regain some authority. "The deal is done. The Russians?—"
