My blood turns to ice.
33
SOPHIA
I spread the photographs across Mikhail’s desk, my hands trembling slightly as I arrange them in chronological order.
Each image is a violation, a reminder that our privacy is an illusion.
Me at the grocery store.
Mikhail leaving his office.
Us having dinner at our favorite restaurant.
The timestamps span the last three weeks.
“These aren’t random surveillance,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Whoever took these has been following us for a while.”
Mikhail stands beside me, his jaw tight as he studies the photos. The dragon tattoo on his neck seems to pulse with his rapid heartbeat. “The quality is professional. Military-grade equipment.”
I pick up one of the photos, examining the angle. “And they’re not trying to hide it. They want us to know we’re being watched.”
“A message.” His green eyes darken. “But from who?”
I’ve been thinking about that since we found the envelope. Lorenzo is dead, his organization scattered.
The Bratva families have accepted our transition to legitimate business. So who has the resources and motivation to target us now?
“I need to do some research,” I tell him, already moving toward my laptop on my desk.
For the next two hours, I dig through everything I can find about Lorenzo’s background, his connections, his history.
Mikhail makes calls, reaching out to his remaining contacts in the underworld. Slowly, a picture begins to emerge.
“The Sicilian Cosa Nostra,” I say finally, pulling up an article about organized crime families in Italy. “Lorenzo had ties to them before he came to America. His father was a made man in Palermo.”
Mikhail leans over my shoulder, reading the screen. “I knew he had connections in Sicily, but I didn’t realize how deep they went.”
I click through several more articles, piecing together the history. “It’s more than connections. It’s a vendetta. Lorenzo’s father was killed in a power struggle thirty years ago. The family blamed the Morozovs for providing intelligence to their rivals.”
“That’s insane.” Mikhail’s hand tightens on the back of my chair. “My family had nothing to do with Sicilian politics.”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s untrue.” I turn to look at him. “They believe it. And now that Lorenzo is dead, they’re coming for revenge.”
The weight of this settles over us like a shroud.
We’re not just dealing with local threats anymore.
We’re facing a centuries-old organization with resources that dwarf anything we’ve encountered before.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call. Tony’s name flashes on the screen.
“Hey,” I answer, putting it on speaker.
“I heard about the photos.” Tony’s voice is concerned. “Are you two okay?”
“We’re fine. How did you know?”
