We pass a jewelry store where the manager steps out, nodding respectfully. I ignore him.
"I own twenty-three restaurants across Chicago," I tell her. "The kind of places where senators have their mistresses, where deals worth millions get made over wine. That makes me a name people whisper at charity galas and country clubs."
"But no photos, no social media, nothing."
"I don't like people looking at me." I guide her around a cluster of teenagers taking selfies. "Never have. The less people know about my face, my habits, my life, the safer I am."
"Your whole family is like that," she says.
"It's how we were raised. How your family was raised too, or should have been." I think of Francesco's recent media circus. "Your uncle forgot that lesson."
A man in an suit approaches, hand extended. "Mr. Sartori, what a pleasure?—"
"We're busy," I cut him off, steering Sophia past him.
She glances back at the rejected man. "That was rude."
"That was necessary."
We enter a boutique where the staff immediately recognizes me despite my rare visits. The manager appears within seconds, dismissing other customers.
"But the photos of us," Sophia says as we're led to a private dressing area. "They're everywhere now. Your face is all over the internet with mine."
I watch her run her fingers along a rack of dresses, her touch gentle on the expensive fabrics.
"Those are the only photos I haven't paid to have removed," I admit.
She turns to me, surprise flickering across her face. "Why?"
Because I want the world to know you're mine. Because seeing those photos makes this feel real. Because for once, I don't mind being seen if it's with you.
"Strategy," I lie. "We need the public narrative."
"Right."The tone in her voice tells me she doesn't believe me. "Strategy."
The manager returns with champagne I didn't order and a selection of dresses already pulled in Sophia's size. Vittoria must have called ahead.
"Mr. Sartori, we've prepared our finest pieces for your fiancée."
Fiancée. The word sits heavy between us.
Sophia examines a black dress with delicate beading. "Must be nice, having that kind of power. Making photos disappear, having stores cleared out for you."
"It's not power." I accept the champagne, handing her a glass. "It's money."
"What's the difference?"
"Money can buy privacy, convenience, silence. Power..." I watch Dante position himself by the entrance. "Power means Francesco can't touch you. Power means the Russians think twice before moving against us. Power is what keeps you safe."
She sips her champagne, studying me over the rim. "And what happens when the photos of us aren't useful anymore? After this is over?"
The question hangs between us. After this is over. After the fake engagement ends. After she gets the ledger. After, after, after.
"Try on the dresses," I say instead of answering.
She sets down her glass, gathering several dresses. Before disappearing into the changing room, she looks back.
"You know, Lorenzo, I think you hide not because you're afraid of people looking at you, but because you're afraid of what they might see."
