"The Sartori family has codes," Lorenzo says. "Lines we don't cross. Human trafficking. Forced prostitution. Exploitation of the vulnerable." He pauses, letting each word land with weight. "If the Baganovs ever start working in any of these areas, the deal is off. Vittoria gets a divorce. The alliance ends."
My jaw tightens.
If anyone else had implied I would traffic human beings, I would have put a bullet between their eyes. The suggestion alone would be enough to start a war. My father built the Bratva on principles—ruthless, yes, butprincipled. We deal in weapons, drugs, in information, in influence. We control territory and eliminate competition. But we don't sell people.
Never.
But these aren't enemies making accusations. These are men who have watched their world destroy innocents. Men who have seen what happens when organizations abandon their codes. They're not insulting me. They're drawing a line in the sand.
The same line my own family drew generations ago.
"The Baganovs don't deal in flesh," I say quietly. "We never have. We never will." I meet Lorenzo's gaze without flinching. "My mother died bringing my youngest sister into this world. Myfather went mad with grief and killed the doctor who couldn't save her. He was wrong to do it, but he did it because he loved her." I pause. "We understand the value of human life, even when we're taking it."
Lorenzo studies me for a long moment. Then he nods.
"Good."
Pietro opens the folder and slides a stack of papers across the desk. "Our lawyers drafted these last night. Standard alliance terms, financial separation clauses, the conditions Lorenzo just outlined." He taps the top page. "Read them. Have your people review them. We'll sign when you're satisfied."
I take the folder but don't open it. "I'll have them back to you by tomorrow."
"No rush." Pietro's voice softens slightly. "Your father... how long does he have?"
The question catches me off guard. I expected business, not sympathy.
"Days," I admit. "Maybe less."
"Take the time you need," Pietro says. "The papers can wait."
I nod once. Stand. Igor rises beside me, his posture still rigid with tension.
"I'll be in touch."
Vittoria
"Come in."
Megan pushes through the door carrying a black box tied with silver ribbon. "This arrived for you, Miss Sartori."
"Thank you, Megan."
She nods and slips out, closing the door behind her.
I turn the box over in my hands. The weight suggests something substantial inside. My fingers work the ribbon loose, and I lift the lid.
Nestled in black velvet sit a pair of rose gold handcuffs, lined with soft leather, with a chain connecting them. Beautiful and terrifying.
A cream envelope rests beneath them.
I unfold the note, my pulse already quickening.
Solnyshko,
6 PM tonight. Grand Theatre.
Bring these.
—D
