Page 10

Chapter Nine

Sophia

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet chime, revealing the dimly lit, industrial-chic space that makes up Angelo’s office. The decor is sparse but stylish—exposed brick walls, sleek furniture, and a large desk that dominates the room. Despite its minimalism, everything in here screams power.

I step inside, my heart pounding in my chest. This isn’t just some run-of-the-mill introduction. This is part of rejoining the mafia world, my father’s world, and now—whether I like it or not—it’s mine. Angelo was right about one thing: I had to confront this head-on.

Angelo is already standing by the window, hands in his pockets, looking as composed as ever. His calm, collected demeanor is still irritating to me, especially when I feel like my nerves are about to snap. But my attention shifts when I see the man standing beside him.

He’s tall, almost too lean, with a dark, brooding energy that makes the air feel a little heavier. His hair is slicked back and a shadow of stubble lines his jaw. He’s dressed in black, from his tailored suit to the steel-toed boots that peek out from under his pant cuffs.

This is an old-school mafia man in new clothes. I remember men like him meeting with my father at all hours of the day and night. A true Sicilian mobster never fails to make my blood run cold.

“Franco,” Angelo says smoothly, gesturing toward me, “this is Sophia Agostini.”

Franco’s eyes meet mine, and I feel the weight of his gaze—cold, assessing, like he’s trying to read me with a single glance. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t even bother pretending to be polite.

He just stands there, arms crossed, like he isn’t sure if he should shake my hand or toss me out the window. Honestly, I expect either thing in equal measure. I can’t tell anything about his intentions when I look into his dark eyes.

For a stretch, he says nothing. His silence is almost unbearable.

I square my shoulders, refusing to be intimidated. “Nice to meet you, Franco,” I say, my tone sharp.

“Is it?” he replies, his voice low and rough. He seems like he doesn’t believe me for a second.

I raise an eyebrow. So, this is how it was going to be.

Angelo clears his throat, stepping forward to ease the tension. “Franco’s my second-in-command. He’ll be working with us while you’re here, ensuring your safety.”

“Good to know,” I say, keeping my eyes on Franco, who hasn’t moved an inch. He’s standing so still, is so in control, that it almost makes me want to poke him just to see if he’s human.

“Is that a problem for you?” Franco asks, his tone cool, almost bored.

I narrow my eyes, not appreciating his attitude. “Why would it be?”

“Because,” he says, his gaze hardening, “you’re the daughter of Carlo Agostini. That makes you more of a liability than an asset. For now.”

I feel a spark of irritation flare in my chest. “I didn’t ask for this,” I shoot back. “I didn’t ask to be part of this mess. But I’m here now, so the least you could do is pretend to trust me.”

Franco’s jaw clenches, but his expression doesn’t change. “Trust is earned, not given.”

I hold his gaze, refusing to back down. “I wasn’t planning on asking for it.”

Angelo, watching this exchange with an unreadable expression behind his glasses, finally steps in. “That’s enough,” he says firmly, cutting through the tension. “We’re all on the same side here.”

Franco says nothing, but I can see the flicker of annoyance in his eyes. He doesn’t like me, that much is clear. But I’m not here to make friends—I’m here to survive. If he doesn’t want to trust me, that’s his problem.

Still, I can’t help but feel a little slighted. Who the hell is Franco Pesci to judge me? He doesn’t know what I’ve been through, what I’ve lost. I have spent my entire life running from the world he calls home, and now that I’m standing in the middle of it, I’m not going to let him treat me like I don’t belong.

“I’ve been running from this my whole life,” I say, my voice quieter, but no less steady. “But I’m not running anymore. Whether you like it or not, I’m part of this family.”

Franco’s eyes flicker over me, something unreadable passing behind them. He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell I’ve struck a nerve.

Angelo glances between us, his brow furrowing slightly. “Franco, you know that she’s here because she needs our help. She’s under my protection.”

Franco finally unfolds his arms, taking a step closer. His movements are slow, deliberate, like a predator sizing up its prey. “I don’t care whose protection she’s under,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “As long as she doesn’t get in the way.”

I clench my fists, fighting the urge to snap back. But instead of responding with anger, I take a deep breath and meet his gaze head-on. “I don’t plan to. But I’m not going to sit around and play the damsel, either.”

For a moment, Franco doesn’t react. He just looks at me, his dark eyes boring into mine, like he’s searching for something. Then, slowly, a flicker of something—respect, maybe—crosses his features.

“Good,” he finally says, his voice quieter but still rough around the edges. “Because this isn’t a game, and you’re not a spectator.”

I nod, feeling the shift between us. Franco doesn’t trust me, but he isn’t dismissing me either. And for now, that’s enough. Respect is a start. I can work on trust later.

Angelo, sensing the tension has diffused, claps Franco on the shoulder. “We’ve got a meeting soon. Sophia, you should head back to the penthouse. Franco and I will handle things for now.”

“Right,” I say, glancing at Angelo before turning back to Franco. “I’ll let you get to it.”

Angelo glances at his watch, clearly ready to wrap things up. "We should head to the meeting," he says, his tone all business again. But before I can react, he steps closer to me, his hand catching mine in a firm grip. The warmth of his touch sends a spark up my arm, catching me off guard.

He leans down, his mouth pressing a quick but hard kiss to mine, a show of possession that leaves my head spinning for a second. When he pulls back, his eyes linger on mine for a beat longer than necessary.

Franco raises an eyebrow, watching the exchange with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. "Well, that's one way to say goodbye," he mutters under his breath, arms still crossed as he eyed us both.

I shrug, trying to play it off, though my face probably gives me away. "We are betrothed after all."

Angelo shoots Franco a look, and I can see the flicker of warning in his eyes. " Comportati ," he says in a low, commanding tone. I’m not fluent in Italian, but I’m pretty sure the word means something along the lines of “behave”.

Franco gives a mock salute, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. " Capito , boss," he replies dryly.

I have to stifle my giggle, biting my lip as I turn away, but Angelo catches the hint of my smile and squeezes my hand once more before letting go. “We’ll be back soon,” he says, his voice softer as his gaze meets mine again.

I’m not sure what to make of him yet, but one thing is clear: Franco Pesci is a force to be reckoned with.

And whether he likes it or not, I’m not going anywhere.

As I walk out of the office and head toward the elevator, I can’t help but replay the conversation in my mind. Franco is tough, no doubt about that, but there is something else about him—something that makes me wonder if his hard exterior is just a front.

Angelo trusts him, that much is clear. And if Angelo trusts him, I’ll have to find a way to make things work between us. I’m not looking for friends in this world, but if Franco is going to be part of my life now, we have to find some kind of common ground.

The elevator doors slide open, and I step inside, my mind already racing ahead to the next challenge.

Justine will be landing tomorrow, and I can’t wait to see her, to have some piece of my old life back. Angelo was not pleased with the idea of bringing an innocent into this mess, but he had agreed to Justine flying out when I made it clear she would just do so on her own if she didn’t hear from us soon.

As the elevator rises toward the penthouse, I can’t shake the feeling that things are only going to get more complicated from here.

Franco is right about one thing—this isn’t a game. And if I’m not careful, I could end up being just another casualty in a world that doesn’t forgive mistakes.