“Everything is part of this discussion.” His voice hardens slightly. “When you killed Lorenzo, you made it part of this discussion.”
“I didn’t kill Lorenzo.” The words come out flat, factual. “He died in a warehouse fire during an attack on my property. An attack he initiated.”
Torrino’s expression doesn’t change. “Semantics. He died because of you. Because of your vendetta against him.”
“He orchestrated the rape and murder of my sixteen-year-old sister.” I lean forward, letting him see the rage I usually keep buried. “He framed an innocent man and destroyed multiple families to cover his crimes. He deserved worse than what he got.”
“Perhaps.” Torrino picks up his espresso again. “But he was also my son-in-law. The husband of my beloved daughter, god rest her soul. Family honor demands I avenge his death.”
I force myself to breathe slowly, to think. This is the moment I’ve been dreading since we discovered Lorenzo’s Sicilian connections. The old ways don’t allow for explanations or justifications. Blood demands blood.
“Lorenzo was a monster,” I say carefully. “He betrayed his own family. Me. His nephew. He destroyed innocent lives for power and money. Surely that matters.”
“It matters that he was family.” Torrino’s voice is implacable. “In Sicily, we have a saying:La famiglia è tutto. Family is everything. When family is wronged, we respond. It is the way things have always been done.”
“I’m trying to go legitimate.” The admission costs me, but I need him to understand. “My wife is pregnant. I want to build something clean for our child. Something that doesn’t involve this endless cycle of violence.”
For the first time, something flickers in Torrino’s eyes. Not sympathy exactly, but perhaps understanding. “A noble goal. But the old debts must be paid before new lives can begin.”
“What do you want?” I ask bluntly. “Money? Territory? I have resources. We can work something out.”
“I want blood.” He says it simply, as if discussing the weather. “Lorenzo’s blood cries out for vengeance—for my daughter. The old ways demand it.”
My hands clench into fists under the table. “I won’t let you hurt my wife.”
“I know.” He smiles, but there’s no warmth in it. “Which is why I’m offering you a choice. A very old choice, one that goes back centuries in my homeland.”
I wait, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“Trial by combat,” Torrino continues. “You fight my champion. If you win, the debt is paid. Your wife lives, your child is born, and you can pursue your legitimate dreams in peace.”
“And if I lose?”
“Then you die, and I take your wife as payment for Lorenzo’s death.” His gray eyes bore into mine. “She will live, but she will live as my property. A reminder to all who cross the Torrino family that we always collect our debts.”
Rage explodes through me, white-hot and all-consuming. I’m halfway out of my chair before I force myself to sit back down. Torrino’s men have all drawn their weapons, ready to cut me down if I make a move.
“You would enslave a pregnant woman?” My voice shakes with barely controlled fury. “What kind of honor is that?”
“The kind that has kept my family alive for hundreds of years.” He takes another sip of espresso, completely calm. “I am not without mercy, Mr. Artyomov. I could simply kill you both and be done with it. Instead, I’m giving you a chance to save her. To save your child. All you have to do is win.”
I force myself to think past the rage.
This is a trap, obviously. Torrino wouldn’t offer this deal unless he was certain his champion would win.
But what choice do I have?
If I refuse, he’ll come after Sophia anyway. At least this way, I have a chance.
“When?” I ask.
“One week from today. That gives you time to prepare, to say your goodbyes.” He stands, and his men move toward the door. “The fight will take place at the old steel mill on the waterfront. Neutral ground. You may bring witnesses, but no weapons. This is to be settled the old way—hand to hand, until one man cannot continue.”
“And if I win, this ends? No more attacks? No more vendetta?” I need to make sure. Need to know there aren’t any loopholes.
“If you win, the debt is paid.” Torrino adjusts his cufflinks, a casual gesture that somehow seems threatening. “But Mr. Artyomov, you should know…my champion has never lost a fight. Not once in fifteen years.”
He’s almost to the door when I call out, “Who is your champion?”
