Chapter 6 - The Gathering Storm
The name Viktor Petrov sent an immediate chill through the estate.
Over the next two weeks, the atmosphere inside the Oak Brook property shifted dramatically. The invisible security that had previously surrounded the estate became overtly visible. Armed guards with automatic weapons patrolled the perimeter walls twenty-four hours a day. Black SUVs came and went at all hours of the night.
I learned from Dante that Viktor Petrov was the ruthless head of the Russian Syndicate in the Midwest. For a decade, an uneasy truce had existed between the Moretti family and the Bratva, dividing Chicago's territory along the river. But Petrov was ambitious, cruel, and eager to capitalize on any perceived weakness in the Moretti empire.
And my presence had given him a target.
Despite the rising tension, my days with Isabella remained a sanctuary. We stayed indoors, playing chess, listening to classical vinyl records, and keeping the darkness of the outside world at bay. Lorenzo was rarely home now, working tirelessly to secure his territories and protect his family.
One evening, around eight o'clock, I was preparing to head home to Lincoln Park. The rain was pouring down in heavy sheets, thunder rattling the grand leaded-glass windows of the estate.
I stood in the main foyer, wrapping my wool coat around myself, waiting for my driver.
The heavy front doors swung open, and Lorenzo stepped into the house. His suit jacket was soaked through with rain, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. Behind him, Dante looked equally grim, carrying a leather briefcase.
Lorenzo stopped when he saw me. "Sophie? Why are you still here?"
"The driver was delayed by the storm," I said, stepping forward. "Lorenzo... you look terrible. Are you okay?"
He let out a short, humorless breath, running a hand through his wet hair. "Just tired, little bird."
Little bird. The nickname slipped out so naturally that my heart skipped a beat.
"Come into the study," he said, turning toward the stairs. "You shouldn't be waiting in the cold hallway."
I followed him up to his grand office. He kicked off his wet leather shoes, poured two fingers of amber liquid into a glass, and tossed it back in one single gulp. He slumped into his large leather executive chair, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.
I walked over to his desk, picking up a dry towel from a side table, and gently stepped behind his chair. Without asking, I began to carefully dry his damp dark hair.
Lorenzo went completely still under my touch. For a second, I thought he was going to snap at me for crossing a boundary. But then, he let out a deep, long breath, leaning back into my hands, letting his eyes stay closed.
"You shouldn't be so kind to me, Sophie," he murmured softly. "I'm not a good man."
"You protected me," I whispered, continuing to dry his hair with gentle, deliberate movements. "You took care of my brother. You love your mother with everything you have. A bad man doesn't do those things."
"A bad man does whatever it takes to keep his world standing," Lorenzo said, opening his dark eyes and looking up at me. "Viktor Petrov is testing me. He thinks because my mother is ill, and because I brought a civilian into my inner circle, that I've gone soft."
"Are you going to war?" I asked, my voice trembling slightly.
Lorenzo reached up, his large, warm hand catching my wrist, stopping my movement. He slowly turned his chair around to face me. He pulled me slightly closer until I was standing between his knees.
"There won't be a war, Sophie," Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a dark, hypnotic register. "Because I am going to end him before he gets the chance to start one."
He looked up at my face, his gaze dropping to my lips, then rising back to my eyes. The tension in the room was suffocating, charged with a fierce, magnetic pull that neither of us could deny.
"I should go," I whispered, though I didn't move an inch.
"Yes," Lorenzo agreed softly, his thumb gently caressing the inside of my wrist, where my pulse was racing out of control. "You should."
Neither of us moved.
Suddenly, the landline phone on his desk rang—a sharp, shrill sound that shattered the intimate moment.
Lorenzo released my wrist, stepping back into his icy boss persona as he picked up the receiver. "Moretti."
He listened for three seconds. Then, every muscle in his body locked into stone.
"Say that again," Lorenzo ordered, his voice dropping into absolute zero.
He listened for another moment, then slowly hung up the phone. He looked at me, a look of profound, terrifying fury washing over his face.
"Lorenzo?" I panicked. "What is it? What happened?"
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Lorenzo stood up, pulling a heavy silver pistol from his desk drawer and sliding it into his shoulder holster.
"They grabbed Leo," he said.
