“Think about it,” he says, soft and reasonable. “Lorenzo Santoro locked you in a room and left you behind. Is that the act of a partner? Or a jailer?”
The words hit hard. Because they’re not wrong.
“You owe him nothing,” Flavio continues. “You gave him information. He gave you a cage.”
Say yes.The voice is louder now. More insistent.You can end this. Tonight. One word.Sofia has been suffering the whole time. In a place likethis.
My throat aches for water. My wrists burn. Somewhere in the building, something crashes and someone cries out.
I close my eyes.
And I think about Lorenzo. Not the cage. Not the lock. The other things.
The mug on my desk every morning. Made right. Without being asked.
Giada hugging him and him just standing there. Rigid. Learning to tolerate it because his sister needed to show love that way.
The garden before dawn. His mother’s space.
The way he said my name like it meant everything to him.
Flavio watches me, tracking every micro-expression.
He locked me up because he was terrified of losing me. Not cruelty. Fear. Still wrong. Still a fight we’ll have, if we survive this. But not the same as what Paolo did. Not even close.
And I think about Paolo. My stepfather, who taught me to ride a motorcycle when I was twelve. Who helped Sofia with her homework. Who sat at our dinner table every Sunday and laughed at our mother’s bad jokes. Who sold his stepdaughter to cover his gambling debts. Who put Sofia in a place like this.
If I say yes to Flavio and hand Lorenzo’s trust to his enemy, I become the same thing.
I won’t be Paolo.
I open my eyes. Look at Flavio.
“No.” The word comes out quiet but steady.
Flavio’s eyebrows rise. “I’m sorry?”
“No.” Stronger now. Clearer. “I’m not doing it.”
“Ms. Vitale.” His tone takes on a patient, almost paternal quality. “I don’t think you understand what you’re refusing. Your sister is?—”
“I understand exactly what I’m refusing.” I meet his eyes. Hold them. “I’ve spent years hunting the people who betrayed my sister. My stepfather sold her. My mother knew and said nothing. Everyone she trusted turned into a knife in her back.” I don’t shake. I might be trembling against the restraints, but the words hold strong. “I’m not becoming one of them.”
Silence.
“That’s very noble,” he says. “But noble people die in this world, Ms. Vitale. Frequently. Painfully.” He stands, straightening his jacket. “The Santoros think they’re noble too, you know. Salvatore built his empire on the same violence every family uses, then drew a line at trafficking and called himself righteous.” His lip curls. “He held the other families hostage with that rule. Anyone who moved product through his city, he crushed. Not because he cared about the women. Because he cared about control.”
“You’re wrong.” The words are out before I’ve decided to speak.
“Am I?” He tilts his head. “I’ve met men like Salvatore. They don’t ban trafficking out of mercy. They ban it because it’s the one thing that makes the public look too hard. And looking too hard is bad for everyone’s business.”
“Lorenzo Santoro is a weapon. Empty eyes, blood on his hands, nothing inside but violence. Do you think he’ll come for you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re very certain.”
“I am.”
