Trust him.
"Lorenzo—"
"Please." The word cracks something in his composure. "Sophia, please. Trust me."
I try to speak, but my throat is a knot of glass. I just nod.
He leads me through hallways, his hand never leaving my wrist. We pass armed guards who straighten at his approach, their faces grim.
The hair on my arms prickles. Even the silence between footsteps feels stretched thin, ready to snap.
We reach the main room, and Lorenzo pauses at the threshold. His fingers slide from my wrist to interlace with mine, the gesture so smooth it feels rehearsed. His palm is warm, steady. Mine trembles.
"Remember," he breathes against my ear. "Play along."
The door opens.
Francesco stands in the center of the room like he owns it, his six men spread in a semicircle behind him. Pietro occupies a leather chair near the fireplace, one ankle crossed over his knee. He looks relaxed, almost bored, but his stillness is that of a predator waiting for the first sign of weakness. Nico leans against the far wall. Guards line every exit.
My uncle's eyes find mine across the room.
"Sophia." He says my name like it tastes bitter. "I received an interesting call this morning. From our Russian friend."
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.
"Daniil has made me a counter-offer." Francesco's voice carries the weight of a loaded gun. "If I deliver Sophia to him within forty-eight hours, he'll ally with the Torrinos against the Sartoris immediately. Full support. Men, weapons, territory."
My knees threaten to buckle. Lorenzo's grip is the only thing keeping me upright.
"He doesn't know she's here, of course." Francesco's smile is all teeth. "He suspects she's run off somewhere. Maybe California. Maybe New York. But I can find her. He knows I always find what belongs to me."
"She doesn't belong to you." Lorenzo's voice could cut glass.
"She's a Torrino." Francesco spreads his hands. "Blood is blood."
Pietro shifts in his chair, the leather creaking. "Why are you here, Francesco? You could have made your threats over the phone."
"Because I'm a reasonable man." My uncle straightens his tie. "And reasonable men negotiate."
"There's nothing to negotiate," Lorenzo says. "Sophia is my fiancée. That ends any discussion."
Francesco laughs. "Your fiancée? Please. You think I don't know a sham when I see one? You think the rest of Chicago won't see through this pathetic attempt to?—"
"Careful." Pietro's voice is soft. Deadly. "You're in my house."
Francesco's men shift, hands drifting toward weapons. The Sartori guards mirror the movement.
Lorenzo releases my hand and steps forward. The loss of contact leaves me cold.
"Let me explain something to you, Francesco." His voice carries that dangerous calm I've come to recognize. "The Torrinos owe the Sartoris a debt. A blood debt."
My uncle's jaw tightens. "Luna is dead. That debt died with her."
"Luna betrayed us. Four of my men died because of her." Lorenzo moves closer to Francesco, each step deliberate. "A Torrino woman cost us blood. Now a Torrino woman will restore the balance."
"You think Daniil will accept that logic?"
"I think Daniil understands the old rules better than you do." Lorenzo's hands slip into his pockets, casual despite the tension crackling through the room. "Blood for blood. Loss for loss. Sophia is mine by right of that debt."
