Chapter 73 Chapter 73
Chapter 73 Chapter 73
\[ SOFIA’S POV \]
The sunlight was stabbing at my eyes, but the ringing of my phone was what really woke me up. I groaned, reaching for the nightstand, my head still fuzzy from the cognac and the nightmare of Mira’s voice. I checked the screen. Esther.
"Hi girl," I said, my voice thick with sleep. I tried to sit up, rubbing my face.
"Girlfriend, check the news!" Esther’s voice was high-pitched, almost frantic. "Check what’s trending right now. Like, right this second!"
The sleep vanished instantly. I jumped up on the bed, my heart racing so hard I could feel it in my throat. My first thought was the video. Has Mira done it? Had she finally decided to humiliate me and show the world that night with the four men?
"Is it... is it about me?" I whispered, my hands shaking as I reached for my iPad.
"Just look, Sofia! It’s everywhere!"
I logged into Instagram, my fingers fumbling over the screen. I expected to see my own shame staring back at me. Instead, my eyes went wide. My father’s face was splashed across every major news outlet and social media feed.
It was a press conference, one he hadn't told me about. One he must have set up while I was sleeping off my failure. He was standing behind a podium, looking every bit the grieving, powerful patriarch.
"I give the Moretti's five days to return my daughter and all the properties I signed in the alliance," Father’s voice boomed through the speakers, steady and full of fake righteous fury. "Salvatore Moretti kidnapped my daughter after killing my wife. The Morettis called for war, and war they will get."
I stared at the screen, breathless. He had done it. He had taken the private pain of my mother’s death and the mess with Iris and turned it into a public declaration of blood. He wasn't just asking for Iris back; he was demanding every cent and every piece of land he had lost.
He hadn't mentioned the thirty dead men. He hadn't mentioned my failed raid. He had turned the whole story into a tragedy starring himself as the victim.
I looked at the comments scrolling past at lightning speed. #JusticeForIris #RussoV Moretti #WarInTheCity.
I scrolled through the comments, my vision blurring with heat and rage. The internet was a cesspool of people who knew nothing, yet they spoke as if they were sitting at our dinner table.
#1 “But didn’t Sofia say Iris seduced her husband and took off with him?” one comment read, garnering thousands of likes.
#2 “Yes! Why is the father saying she was kidnapped now? Which one is it?” another added, pointing out the hole in our story.
I felt a vein throb in my temple. My father was overplaying his hand. By changing the narrative from a cheating sister to a kidnapped victim he was making us look disorganized. He was desperate to get those properties back, but in the process, he was making me look like a liar.
#3 “I thought the mafia war was based on blood and fighting. Why are they making noise on the internet? Pathetic,” a top-rated comment sneered.
#4 “The government should do something about this. How can just two families shake the whole city?”
I let out a sharp, bitter breath. They didn't understand. We were the city. The government stayed quiet because we paid for their silence, but these digital critics were beginning to turn public opinion against the Russo name.
Then, I saw the one that made my blood boil the most.
#5 “I like the Moretti household. They’re feared for a reason. They haven’t made a single comment or post about all this. That’s what they call maturity.”
I slammed the iPad down onto the silk duvet and hissed. Maturity? No. It was silent because Salvatore didn't need to bark when he was already holding the leash. He was letting my father scream into the void while he planned his next move in the dark.
Every word my father said was a gamble, and every comment I read was a reminder that we were losing the image of the all-powerful Russo family. While my father was making noise for the cameras, Mira was sitting in a warehouse with a video that could end us all, and Salvatore was probably watching this press conference with a glass of whiskey, laughing at how pathetic we looked.
Father had just lit a match under a mountain of gunpowder. And if Mira decided to drop that video now, in the middle of this holy war I wouldn't just be a whore. I would be the reason the Russo Empire burned to the ground.
My phone let out a sharp peep, the screen illuminating on the bed. I reached for it, my heart hammering against my ribs. I expected another mocking link from Mira or a notification of a new disaster, but the message on the screen was from an unknown, encrypted number.
I clicked on it, my breath hitching as I read the words:
Do you like all that you’re seeing on the internet or do you want to kill Iris and have your man back?
If you want him back, send “I’m in” to this number and if you think you can fight your war alone then don’t bother to reply.
I stared at the glowing text, reading it over and over until the words blurred. Kill Iris. Have Salvatore back. It was everything I had been screaming for in my head while my father wasted time on press conferences and empty threats.
The internet was laughing at us. My father was lying about kidnappings. Mira had my dignity on a hard drive. And in the middle of all that noise, someone was offering me the one thing that actually mattered, a way to win.
Who could it be? The thought flashed through my mind for a split second, could it be a trap from the Morettis? A test from my father? Or someone else entirely, watching from the sidelines as our two families tore each other apart?
But this wasn't the moment to overthink. I was drowning, and this message was a lifeline made of jagged glass. I didn't care who was holding it as long as it pulled me out of the dirt.
I didn't hesitate. I didn't even put the phone down.
I’m in.
I typed the two words, my thumb hovering over the screen for only a heartbeat before I clicked send. The message bubbled up, marked as Delivered.
The phone vibrated against the silk duvet, a sharp peep that cut through the silence of my room. I lunged for it, my fingers trembling as I swiped the screen.
Come to All Stars Restaurant. I booked a VIP section. A waitress will lead you in.
I stared at the address. All Stars was one of the most exclusive spots in the city, neutral ground, but elite enough that no one asked questions about blacked-out SUVs or private conversations.
I didn't waste a second. I didn't call my father, and I didn't check the news again. This was my play.
I rushed into the bathroom, stripping off my silk pajamas and stepping into a steaming hot shower. I needed to wash off the smell of that dusty warehouse and the lingering fear of Mira’s voice. In exactly thirty minutes, I was done, hair slicked back into a sharp, lethal ponytail, and my makeup done with precision that masked the dark circles under my eyes.
I chose a blood-red dress that hugged every curve, paired with black stilettos that felt like weapons. If I were going to meet a ghost to plot a murder, I was going to look like a Russo while I did it.
I grabbed my clutch, tucked a small derringer inside just in case, and headed for the garage. I didn't take the usual guards, I took a private car and drove myself, weaving through the morning traffic of a city that had no idea it was about to bleed.
\~~~~~~~~~~
When I pulled up to All Stars, the valet didn't even ask for my name. He just bowed and took the keys.
As I stepped inside the cool, dimly lit foyer, a waitress in a crisp uniform approached me immediately. Almost everyone in this city recognized my face.
"This way, Miss Russo," she whispered, gesturing toward a private elevator at the back. "The guest is already waiting."
My heart hammered against my ribs as the elevator doors slid shut. I was stepping into the lion's den, but for the first time, I wasn't the one being hunted.
The elevator opened to the VIP level—a long, plush hallway lined with soundproof doors. The waitress stopped at the very last one, pushed it open, and stepped aside.
I walked in, the scent of expensive cigars and aged wine hitting me instantly. The room was shadowed, the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight against the morning sun.
"I didn't think you'd have the nerve to come alone," a voice said from the corner, dark and familiar.