Chapter 7 - What Lorenzo Never Told Me
I turned on Michael.
“The rest?”
He looked guilty.
I hated that expression.
It meant another person had decided truth was optional.
“What else is there?”
Michael sat.
“Your fathers hoped you would meet.”
Lorenzo laughed in disbelief.
“Mine died when I was twelve.”
“Yes.”
“Sofia was what? Nine?”
“Eight,” I said.
Michael nodded.
“They obviously didn’t plan a marriage.”
“Then what did they plan?” I asked.
“A connection between the families.”
My father and Alessandro had realized their children might someday inherit the consequences of their mistakes.
So they created safeguards.
Shared trusts.
Business overlaps.
Legal relationships.
People who could quietly introduce us if danger returned.
Victor had been one.
Apparently, even the debt Lorenzo inherited was connected.
“My father didn’t really borrow eleven million?” I asked.
Michael shook his head.
“It was money moved through Bellini Imports to hide it from Adrian’s network.”
“Then the debt was fake.”
“Legally complicated.”
Lorenzo’s expression turned lethal.
“You told me the debt was real.”
“I told Victor to explain everything if the two of you ever crossed paths.”
“Victor didn’t.”
“No.”
“Because Adrian had leverage on him?”
“Yes.”
I stared at my wedding ring.
Lorenzo had proposed because he thought I was useful politically.
I had agreed because I thought my family was financially trapped.
Both reasons had been manipulated.
Our marriage began inside a lie.
I stood.
“I need air.”
Lorenzo followed me outside.
For once, Brooklyn was quiet.
The river reflected city lights.
“I didn’t know,” he said.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
“You were manipulated too.”
He leaned against the railing.
“I still offered you a loveless marriage.”
“That part was definitely you.”
“I thought honesty made it less cruel.”
“It did.”
He frowned.
“You’re agreeing with me?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
He smiled faintly.
Then the smile vanished.
“When this is over, you can leave.”
I stared at him.
“Do you want me to?”
“No.”
The answer came too fast.
Neither of us moved.
“Then why say it?”
“Because I promised you freedom.”
“You promised me no love.”
His eyes met mine.
“That promise became difficult.”
My heart hammered.
“How difficult?”
He looked away.
Very Lorenzo.
A man could stare down armed enemies but apparently not one inconvenient emotional question.
I stepped closer.
“Lorenzo.”
“Extremely.”
I almost smiled.
“Extremely difficult?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“What?”
“When did it become difficult?”
His jaw tightened.
“You want a date?”
“I like specifics.”
He sighed.
“Night ten.”
“The pasta?”
“You laughed at me.”
“I laughed at your obsession with cooking sauce correctly.”
“You sat on the counter barefoot and argued with me for forty minutes.”
“That made you fall in love with me?”
“I didn’t say love.”
I raised an eyebrow.
He cursed softly.
I waited.
Finally he said, “I knew I was in trouble that night.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want you to leave the kitchen.”
Something inside me softened.
“When did you know for sure?”
“The balcony.”
“When you got shot?”
“A moment before.”
“What happened?”
“I saw the reflection of the rifle sight.”
“That’s romantic.”
“No.”
“You’re bad at this.”
“I’m aware.”
He stepped closer.
“I knew because when I understood you were in danger, there was no calculation.”
His voice lowered.
“No contract. No family. No business.”
He touched my cheek.
“Only you.”
I closed my eyes for one second.
Three weeks earlier, I would have laughed if someone said Lorenzo Santangelo could look vulnerable.
Now I understood vulnerability had nothing to do with weakness.
It was giving someone the power to matter.
I kissed him.
Not because cameras watched.
Not because guests expected it.
Not because a contract said we were married.
He froze for half a heartbeat.
Then kissed me back.
Gentle first.
Then like a man who had spent weeks refusing something he no longer wanted to refuse.
When we separated, I said, “For a meaningless marriage, you’re becoming very inconvenient.”
His forehead rested against mine.
“You have no idea.”
Adrian’s prosecution began two months later.
The evidence dismantled his network.
Several officials resigned.
Others were charged.
Bellini Imports was cleared of fraudulent liabilities.
The eleven-million-dollar debt was formally voided.
My father’s name was restored.
But there was one problem.
Adrian offered information in exchange for a reduced sentence.
He claimed there was another person involved.
Someone still close to Lorenzo.
Someone who had ordered the shooting in Italy.
Rachel called us into her office.
“Adrian says he wasn’t the shooter.”
“He hired someone,” Lorenzo said.
“No.”
Rachel slid a photograph across the desk.
“It was someone else.”
The picture showed the villa balcony.
Security footage.
A figure stood near the lower garden.
The image was blurry.
But the person wore a Santangelo security uniform.
Lorenzo studied it.
“One of my guards.”
Rachel nodded.
“Adrian gave us a name.”
“Who?”
She hesitated.
“Your head of security.”
Lorenzo went still.
“Matteo?”
Matteo had worked for Lorenzo since he was twenty.
He had been at our wedding.
He had helped carry Lorenzo after the shooting.
He had stood beside the doctor.
“Where is he?” Lorenzo asked.
“We don’t know.”
Lorenzo called him.
Disconnected.
We drove to Matteo’s apartment.
Empty.
No clothes.
No photographs.
Nothing.
Then I noticed a drawer slightly open.
Inside was a photograph of me.
Taken before the wedding.
Another.
Outside my office.
Another.
At my father’s grave.
Lorenzo’s face darkened.
“He was watching you.”
“Why?”
I found a folder.
Inside were documents about my mother.
Marco.
Bellini Imports.
And one photocopy of the original marriage contract.
Clause Twelve circled.
Twenty-one days.
Someone had known exactly where we would be.
Before the honeymoon.
Before the wedding.
Maybe before Lorenzo proposed.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
Matteo.
“Sofia.”
Lorenzo reached for the phone.
I moved away.
“What do you want?”
“To correct one mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“Lorenzo survived.”
My blood went cold.
“Where are you?”
“Look outside.”
I turned toward the apartment window.
Across the street, a black car waited.
The rear window lowered.
Matteo sat inside.
May you like
A rifle rested across his lap.
And the red laser settled directly on Lorenzo’s chest.
