Page 160 of Pietro

Evidence that could destroy him. Evidence that could get me killed.

But it's all I have to bargain with.

My fingers trace the restaurant's name etched in the glass. Rosso's. Lorenzo Sartori owns this place. I know because Francesco complains about it constantly. How Lorenzo turned legitimate businesses into an empire while keeping his hands clean of the real family work.

"Soft," Francesco calls him. "Thinks he's better than the rest of us with his restaurants and his suits."

But I remember different.

I was eight, chasing a ball into Michigan Avenue traffic. My mother's scream still echoes in my nightmares sometimes. The taxi should have killed me. Would have, if a man hadn't yanked me back so hard we both hit the pavement.

"You okay, piccola?" His voice had been gentle. Blood dripped from a gash on his palm where he'd scraped it. "You gotta be more careful."

He'd walked me back to my mother, who'd been crying too hard to speak. Later, she told me who he was. Lorenzo Sartori. The enemy's son.

"But he saved me," I'd said, confused by the idea that someone bad could do something good.

"Sometimes," she'd said carefully, "people are more complicated than the families they're born into."

Twelve years. He was twenty-two then, which makes him thirty-four now. I know it because I've searched him online these days. Second in command of the Sartori family. The diplomat, they call him, though Francesco says that's just another word for manipulator.

The man who saved me might not exist anymore. Twelve years in this life changes people. Hardens them. Breaks them into shapes that fit the violence better.

But I'm out of options.

The door suddenly opens, and I stumble forward, barely catching myself. Light floods my vision, and when it clears, I'm staring at a man in an suit. Not Lorenzo.

"We're closed," he says, already moving to shut the door.

"Wait!" I wedge my foot in the gap, desperation making me bold. "I need to see Lorenzo Sartori."

His eyes narrow. "Nobody sees Mr. Sartori without an appointment."

"Tell him—" My voice cracks. I clear my throat and try again. "Tell him Sophia Torrino is here. Tell him the girl from Michigan Avenue needs his help."

The glance that he gives me says everything to me.

"Torrino?" His hand moves to his hip, where I can see the outline of a gun. "Francesco's niece?"

"Yes." The word tastes like ash. "But I'm not here for him. I'm here because—" I pull out the flash drive, holding it up like a white flag. "Because I have information the Sartoris need. About the shipment. About everything."

The man stares at me for a long moment. I can see him weighing options, calculating risks. Finally, he steps back.

"Wait here."

The door closes in my face. I'm left standing in the cold again, but they haven't sent me away.

Yet.

I press my back against the brick wall, legs shaking from more than cold.

The door opens again.

LORENZO

The office door opens without a knock. Only one person has that privilege.

"We have a situation." Dante's voice cuts through the whiskey haze I've been cultivating for the past hour.