We circle each other on the mats. He's maintaining careful distance, treating this like any other lesson. My grip tightens on the knife handle.
"Attack stance." He demonstrates. "Remember?—"
I lunge without warning. He deflects easily, but surprise flickers across his face.
"Again." His voice drops lower. "Properly this time."
I adjust my stance, then strike. He blocks, counters. Our bodies move through the familiar dance. His hand guides my wrist, adjusting my angle. Fire races up my arm.
"You're holding back." The words are sharp, an accusation I didn't mean to make.
"Focus on your form."
"My form's fine." I spin away from his next instruction. "You're the one holding back."
"Sophia—"
"Don't." The word is a blade in the quiet room. "Don't pretend last night didn't happen."
"We're training. Again." He says ignoring what I just said.
This time when we engage, the pretense falls away. Every block brings us closer. Every parry requires his hands on me.
Repositioning, guiding, burning through the thin fabric of my clothes. His body slams mine against the mirrored wall. One hand captures my wrist, pinning it high above my head. The practice blade clatters to the mat.
His chest heaves against mine, and the ragged breaths we share have nothing to do with the fight.
"You're getting dangerous." He says.
"Good." My chin lifts. "I'm tired of being helpless."
"You were never helpless." His free hand rises to my face, thumb tracing my jaw with a reverence that contradicts his distance all day. "Just untrained."
The space between us is a taut wire. His body cages mine against the wall, one hand still pinning my wrist, the other cupping my face like something precious.
The door slams open. We spring apart as Nico appears, his face pale, his usual calm shattered.
"Emergency family meeting." His gaze flicks between us, taking in our positions, my flushed face, Lorenzo's defensive stance. "Now. A woman is here and says she has something that she needs to ask."
Lorenzo goes rigid. "What?"
"She's in Pietro's office. Move."
Lorenzo
The walk to Pietro's office stretches like a death march. My mind races through possibilities, each worse than the last. Nico's tension radiates behind me, and Sophia trails us both, confusion written across her face.
I push open the door.
Rafaella Conti sits in the leather chair across from Pietro's desk. Dark hair, sharp cheekbones, eyes that mirror our father's. My stomach drops through the floor.
"Lorenzo." She stands, smoothing her designer dress. "It's been too long."
Pietro's gaze cuts to me, ice-cold fury barely contained. "You know this woman?"
The room fills with family. Vittoria enters with Giulia. Bruno wheels himself in, Dante close behind. Everyone waiting for an explanation I can't give without destroying everything.
"We've met." My voice stays level despite the chaos in my chest.
