The room we keep ready is at the end of the hall. It's nothing fancy. A bed, a window with bars disguised as decorative ironwork. We've used it for witnesses, for people who need protection, for situations exactly like this.
Or nothing like this at all.
I don't knock. Just turn the handle and walk in like I own the place—which I do.
Sophia jumps in her seat, nearly dropping the glass of water she's holding. She's perched on the edge of the bed like she's afraid to get comfortable, still wearing that same black dress from earlier. Her coat is folded neatly on the chair beside her.
"Mr. Sartori." She sets the glass on the nightstand with careful precision, but I catch the tremor in her fingers.
"Stand up."
CHAPTER FOUR
Sophia
My legs shake as I stand, the command in his voice leaving no room for argument. The room suddenly feels smaller, the walls pressing in as Lorenzo towers over me. My pulse races so fast I feel dizzy
"Arms up." He says.
Of course. A wire. He thinks I'm wearing a wire.
My mouth goes dry. I lift my arms slowly, mechanically, like a marionette on strings. I can't stop trembling.
"I need to be sure." He steps closer. His hands hover near my sides, not touching yet. "This is just?—"
He stops. An expression I can't read flickers across his face,. His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he looks almost... uncomfortable? The Lorenzo Sartori, who is part of one of Chicago's most powerful crime families, seems awkward about patting me down.
I would laugh if I wasn't terrified.
"I don't have a wire." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "But if you need to be certain..." I swallow hard, forcing thewords past the lump in my throat. "I can take off my clothes. You can have someone check them. Whatever makes you feel secure."
His eyes snap to mine.
"That won't be necessary,” he says. Although I know that it probably is.
He moves then, his hands starting at my shoulders, sliding down the outside of my arms with clinical efficiency. His touch burns, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound.
His hands move to my sides, fingers ghosting along my ribs, checking for anything taped to my skin.
I stand frozen, barely breathing. His face remains expressionless, professional. His hands pause at my waist for a fraction of a second before continuing down to my hips. The search is thorough but strangely careful, like he's trying not to actually touch me despite needing to check.
"Turn around." The command comes out rougher than before.
I obey, facing the wall of windows that overlook the dark Chicago streets.
In the reflection, I watch him crouch behind me, his hands checking my ankles, sliding up the outside of my legs. My dress isn't short, hitting just below my knees, but his touch still feels too intimate, too much. Heat floods my cheeks.
He stands, and his hands move to my back, checking along my spine. His breath disturbs the hair at the nape of my neck, and goosebumps race down my arms.
"Hair up."
With shaking fingers, I gather my long hair, lifting it to expose my neck. He checks behind my ears, his fingers barely grazing my skin, but even that whisper of contact sends electricity shooting through me.
"You can put your arms down."
I drop them immediately, my hair falling back around my shoulders like a curtain. When I turn to face him, he's already stepped back, putting distance between us.
His expression is carved from stone, giving nothing away, but his hands are clenched at his sides.
