Page 9

Chapter Eight

Angelo

The penthouse is quiet, the only sound the soft click of the door as Sophia disappears into her bedroom. I watch her go, my eyes lingering on the spot where she just stood, the echo of her presence still vibrating in the air.

She’s like a storm, that woman—fierce, unpredictable, and impossible to ignore. No matter how hard I try to keep my focus on the task at hand, she has a way of pulling me in, dragging me into the eye of the hurricane she carries with her.

And I’m being dragged willingly, aren’t I?

The thought makes me scowl as I turn away from the bedroom door. It’s dangerous, this pull I feel toward her. Dangerous for me, dangerous for her, and dangerous for the plan. But no matter how many times I remind myself of that, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m standing on the edge of something I can’t control.

It doesn't help that I can still taste her on my tongue, I can still feel her skin on mine, the hard pull of her fingers in my hair. I can still see her eyes shrouded in desire. Fuck, I could still hear her screaming my name as she came for the second time, quivering and holding onto me for dear life.

I was an idiot to think once with her would be enough. It was the classic case of an addict saying, “just one more time, and then I’ll quit”.

I walk to the massive windows that line the far wall of the living room, the city sprawling out beneath me in a glittering web of lights and shadows. New York is a city of contrasts, a place where power and vulnerability coexist in a precarious balance. It’s a place that has given me everything, and taken away just as much.

And now, I’m bringing Sophia into it, into this world of power plays and hidden dangers. She is strong—stronger than she knows—but this world has a way of breaking even the toughest of us. It broke me once, and I wasn’t sure I had the strength to keep her from the same fate.

But I will try. For her, I will try.

A low buzz from my phone snaps me out of my thoughts. I pull it from my pocket, glancing at the screen. Franco’s name flashes across it, a reminder that there is still work to be done, still threats lurking in the shadows.

“Franco,” I greet him, keeping my voice low. “We’re back.”

“Good,” he replies, his tone clipped. “Is she settled?”

“She’s okay,” I say, glancing back at the closed door. “Trying to get some rest.”

“Rest might be hard to come by for any of us for a while,” Franco says, his voice tight. “We’ve got movement on our end. Costa’s men have been spotted in the city. They’re looking for her.”

A surge of anger rises in me, cold and sharp. Giuseppe Costa has been a thorn in my side for years, always lurking in the background, waiting for his moment to strike. And now, with Sophia back in the picture, he clearly saw an opportunity.

“He’s not getting anywhere near her,” I say, my voice hard as steel. “We’ll deal with him.”

Franco is silent for a moment, and I can almost hear the gears turning in his mind. “And what about Sophia? Does she know about what the betrothal means?”

The question hangs in the air between us, a weight I’m not ready to lift. “No,” I admit, my jaw tightening. “Not yet.”

“Angelo,” Franco’s voice is heavy with a note of warning. “You can’t keep this from her forever. She’s going to find out.”

“I know,” I reply, turning back to the window, the city below reflecting my inner turmoil. “But telling her now won’t help. She’s already on edge, already suspicious. If I drop this on her, she’ll run.”

“Or she’ll fight,” Franco counters. “She’s stronger than you give her credit for.”

I knew that. God, I knew that better than anyone. But I also knew that Sophia was unpredictable, a wild card in a game that required precision and control. If she found out about the real terms of the betrothal now, before I had a chance to earn her trust, it could blow everything up.

“I’ll tell her when the time is right,” I say, more to convince myself than Franco. “But not yet.”

There is a pause on the other end of the call, and I can sense Franco weighing his next words carefully. “Just be careful, Angelo. You’ve got a lot riding on this. And so does she. And so do I, frankly.”

I knew that. I knew what the sting of betrayal felt like, and I knew that people like us didn't forgive it. This is no act. She will be getting married to me, whether she wants to or not. Her safety depended upon it.

But it makes me feel like shit to have to lie to her, especially when she has lived her entire life being lied to. Her father lied, her mother lied to her for twenty years, and here I was doing the exact same thing. Really living up to that reputation. My own father would be proud.

Thinking of my old man made me grimace. Sophia might hate her own father, but she has no idea how bad things could have been. It was a blessing that her father allowed her to remain in hiding, didn’t pressure her to come back to take her place as his daughter.

My own childhood was like something from a nightmare. I wouldn’t have wished such an experience on anyone else. It had made me into the perfect soldier for my father, for my family, but it had been torture at times.

“I will remember that,” I promise, ending the call before I say too much.

I slip the phone back into my pocket, my mind still racing. The betrothal is a complication, one I have been trying to navigate since the moment I found Sophia. It’s the key to everything—her safety, her place in this world, and my control over the situation. But it’s also a ticking time bomb, one that might explode if I’m not careful.

But it’s not just the betrothal that worries me. It’s Sophia herself. The way she challenges me, pushes me, makes me question everything I think I know. It’s the way she makes me want things I haven’t allowed myself to want in years.

I have to stay focused, have to keep my eye on the goal. But with Sophia, focus is becoming hard to maintain. She’s a distraction, a dangerous one, but one I can’t seem to stay away from.

I walk back to the bar in the corner of the living room, pouring myself a glass of whiskey. The amber liquid swirls in the glass, catching the light as I bring it to my lips. The burn is familiar and comforting, but it does little to quiet the turmoil inside me.

I’m a man who thrives on control, who has built his life on power and influence. But with Sophia, control is slipping through my fingers like sand. And the more I try to hold on, the faster it seems to slip away.

But I can’t let her see that. She needs to believe that I’m in control, that I have everything under control. Because if she doesn’t, if she sees through the cracks, she’ll run. And that’s something I can’t afford to let happen.

Not now. Not ever.

As I down the last of the whiskey, I hear the bedroom door creak open. I turn, catching sight of Sophia as she steps out, her hair tousled from sleep, her eyes still heavy with exhaustion.

But even in her disheveled state, she’s beautiful. Too beautiful for her own good.

“Can’t sleep?” I ask, keeping my tone casual, though the sight of her makes my pulse quicken.

She shakes her head, her eyes meeting mine with a mixture of weariness and something else—something that makes my chest tighten. “Too much on my mind.”

“Want to talk about it?” I offer, though I’m not sure if I want to hear what she has to say. Her thoughts, her feelings—they’re a minefield. One wrong step, and everything could blow up in my face.

“Getting sentimental, are we?” She rolls her eyes and perches on the coffee table beside me. It’s a piece of furniture that certainly isn’t meant to be used as a chair.

“I see places aren’t the only things you run away from.” My comment makes her bristle, and I would smile, but I think I might get castrated.

“You’re not wrong.” Her sigh is soft. “But there’s nothing to talk about. I’m just…trying to figure out how I got here. How everything got so messed up.”

I want to tell her that she isn’t alone, that I’m trying to figure it out too. But instead, I stay silent, letting her have this moment. I can see the weight of everything pressing down on her, the way her shoulders sag under the burden of it all.

She’s strong, but even the strongest people need someone to lean on from time to time.

“Whatever it is, we’ll get through it,” I say, my voice firm, hoping to offer her some semblance of reassurance. “Together.”

She glances at me, her eyes searching mine, and for a moment, I think she might say something—something real, something that will break through the barriers we’ve both built. But instead, she just nods. It’s a small, almost imperceptible movement.

“Angelo, I need to know that you’re not lying to me. I need to know that regardless of what shitstorm or fuckfest we encounter, I can depend on you to not screw me over. I also need to know that you’re not going to treat me like a toy or piece of property. I know the men in the Cosa Nostra have a reputation for how they treat their women. I want this partnership to be different.”

I’m silent for a moment. There are things she needs to know and this could be the time to tell her.

“I couldn’t treat you like a toy or piece of property even if I wanted to. You’re the heir to one of the largest syndicates in this country. You will have men bowing to you, falling to their knees to fulfill your every demand. God knows I might be one of them. You’re the power, Sophia. I’m just here to help you see that. And yes, whatever happens we will face it as partners, equal partners. Together.”

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Together.”

“Sophia,” I say. “The betrothal, it’s not what you think it is. It’s not really optional. If we don’t get married, you will essentially forfeit your rights to the family name. I know it’s antiquated and chauvinistic, but your father set things up this way to try and protect you.”

“To protect me?” she says, her expression filled with distaste. “You keep saying that. I don’t believe it.”

“Listen to me, Sophia,” I say to her, coming to sit beside her. I take her hand, willing her to understand. “The ways of Cosa Nostra are practically set in stone. No female dons, no women in charge. Women who are cast off from powerful families or daughters without fathers are up for grabs. Your father wanted to be sure that you were protected from that, that you were allowed to take power without years of bloodshed.”

“I don’t want to marry you,” she whispers, and I try to ignore the pain that her words cause me. I don’t know why they should hurt. We only just met. It’s reasonable that she wouldn’t want to get married.

I lean forward and kiss her forehead. “I know, Tesoro mio,” I say back quietly. “We will pretend for now, but we need to be convincing. I will try to make sure that you don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do. I promise you.”

“I’m angry at you for keeping this from me,” she says, her voice louder. She leans back to look at me, tears standing in her hazel eyes. They glimmer in the evening light, and I hate the small tremor in her lower lip.

“You should be,” I tell her, my voice breaking a little on the words. I feel terrible, and I have to admit that Franco was right. I should have told her right away.

“I forgive you,” she says, the tears slipping down her cheeks.

“You don’t have to,” I tell her.

“I have no choice,” she argues, blinking and swiping at her tears. “None of you have left me any choice.”

I can see the doubt in her eyes, the fear that maybe, just maybe, we won’t make it through this. And for the first time, I’m not sure if I have the answers she needs.

But I will find them. For her, I will find them.

Even if it means risking my own safety in the process.