No kissing Nico Sartori. No thinking about kissing Nico Sartori. No replaying that almost-moment over and over until I drive myself insane.
Even if his thumb on my cheek felt like the first gentle touch I've experienced in years.
Even if the way he looked at me made me feel seen. Actually seen. Not as Jack's wife. Not as Lily's mother. Just... me.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see stars.
This is so messed up.
A soft knock at the door makes me jump. My heart lodges in my throat.
"Yes?"
The door opens, and Sophia pokes her head in. Her auburn hair falls over one shoulder, and her expression is warm. Kind.
"Hey," she says. "Lily's asking for you. She wants to show you the picture she drew."
Relief floods through me. Lily. My girl. My reason for everything.
"I'll be right there."
Sophia nods and disappears.
I stand, smoothing down my shirt with shaking hands. One foot in front of the other. That's all I can do right now. Focus on Lily. Focus on work. Focus on surviving.
Everything else will have to wait.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Nico
The back office of Bellini's is quiet and the best place having meetings in. Lorenzo's restaurant serves as neutral ground for meetings we don't want at the compound.
I tap my finger against the table, scanning the quarterly reports Claudio spread across the surface twenty minutes ago. Numbers don't lie. People do. Numbers just sit there, waiting to tell you exactly how fucked you are if you're smart enough to read them.
"The Bratva undercut us by fifteen percent on the last three shipments to the West Side," Claudio says, sliding another paper toward me. He's been with us eight years—started as muscle, proved he had a brain worth using. "Dealers are switching. Can't blame them when the price difference is that significant."
Liam sits to my right. His eyes haven't stopped scanning the room since we walked in.
"Which faction?" I ask.
"Baganovs."
My jaw tightens. Of course it's the fucking Baganovs. The same crew holding Kristen's debt over her head like a guillotine blade. They're the smallest of the Bratva operations trying to carve territory in Chicago—desperate, hungry, and stupid enough to think low prices will build loyalty.
"Quality?" Liam's voice cuts through, British accent subtle but present.
Claudio shrugs. "Word is it's garbage. Cut to hell. Three ODs in Pilsen last week traced back to their product."
"Being cheap means being shit," I say, leaning back. "Anyone can slash prices. Takes actual infrastructure to maintain quality while staying competitive. The Baganovs don't have that. They're burning through capital to grab territory they can't hold."
"Agreed. Short-term problem. They'll collapse under their own business model within six months." Liam says.
"Unless they find alternative revenue streams." I pull up the intel report on my phone, scrolling to the section that's been keeping me awake. "They're diversifying. Protection rackets on the South Side. Loan sharking."
The words taste bitter. Loan sharking. Like the $140,000 noose they slipped around Kristen's neck while her piece-of-shit ex-husband pocketed every payment she scraped together.
"The Morozovs and Volkovs are the real concern," Claudio continues, oblivious to where my mind just went. "They've got actual backing from Moscow. The Baganovs are?—"
