32. Sofia
32
SOFIA
I sit at the ornate conference table in Mario’s study, my fingers white-knuckled around my coffee cup. Morning’s brilliance pours through the panoramic windows, failing to thaw the lethal chill pervading this space.
“Show her.” Antonio’s voice breaks the silence. His face is drawn, pain etched in every line, but his eyes burn with determination.
Mario slides a thick folder across the polished wood. Inside, photographs and documents tell a dark story. Surveillance photos of my foster parents’ car crash. Bank transfers. Coded messages.
“Your mother didn’t die in an accident.” Antonio’s voice cracks. “And neither did the Henleys.”
I flip through paper after damning paper, my hands trembling. “Lucia orchestrated all of it?”
“Yes.” Mario’s face hardens. “We’ve uncovered evidence of her working with a team of professionals. The same team for both hits.”
A knock at the door makes us all turn. Through the glass panels, I catch a glimpse of steel-gray eyes. Nikolai. Mario’s jaw tightens.
“The Russian has no place here,” he growls.
“He stays.” I surprise myself with the steel in my voice. “He’s the one who helped piece this together, right?”
Antonio reaches across the table, covering my hand with his. “Sofia, mi figlia ... I should have protected you both. I was blind for so long.”
“Where is she now?” I ask, though I already suspect the answer.
“Gone.” Mario’s voice is cold. “She fled when she realized we were closing in. But we’ll find her.”
I feel Nikolai’s presence behind me, solid and reassuring. His hand rests on my shoulder, and I don’t miss how Mario’s eyes track the movement.
“You really thought you could keep me away from her?” Nikolai’s accent is thicker than usual, and his words are directed at Mario.
The tension in the room spikes, but I can’t focus on their power play. All I can see are the photos of my mother, of the Henleys, of all the lives Lucia destroyed.
I listen as the men around me debate Lucia’s fate. Each suggestion is more violent than the last.
“A quick death would be too merciful,” Nikolai’s voice cuts through the air like ice. “She needs to suffer for touching what’s mine.”
Mario slams his hand on the table. “This isn’t about your claim on Sofia. She targeted our family first. The Castellanos will handle this.”
“Both of you are wrong,” Antonio interrupts. “As her husband, this is my responsibility. I’ll put the bullet in her head myself.”
I stand up, my chair scraping against the marble floor. Three pairs of eyes turn to me.
“None of you will touch her.” My voice is steady despite the rage burning in my chest. “She’s mine to deal with.”
“ Malishka ...” Nikolai starts, but I cut him off with a sharp look.
“No. You want her dead? That’s too easy. I want her stripped of everything she values. Her money, her status, her connections.” I trace my finger along the edge of a photograph. “I need her to experience what it feels like to lose everything she loves, piece by piece. To watch it all crumble while being powerless to stop it.”
Mario’s eyebrows lift. “And how do you propose to accomplish this?”
“I’m an art authenticator. I know every major player in the European art world. One whisper from me about fraudulent pieces in her collection...” I let the implication hang in the air. “Her reputation will be destroyed. Her social circles will abandon her. And then, when she’s lost it all, she’ll know it was me.”
The silence that follows is heavy with surprise and something else—respect.
“You truly are a Castellano,” Mario murmurs.
Nikolai’s hand finds my shoulder, and I feel his approval in the gentle squeeze.
Antonio nods slowly. “A fate worse than death for someone like Lucia. Living in shame, watching everything she built collapse around her.”
I lean forward, my palms flat against the cool wood of Mario’s desk. “She’ll have nowhere to turn. Every contact, every friend, every associate will slam their doors in her face. I’ve spent years building relationships in art—they trust my judgment implicitly. When I expose her collection as fraudulent, it won’t just be about the art.”
I touch a photograph showing Lucia at some glamorous event. “She’s built her entire identity on being a sophisticated collector, a tastemaker. When that crumbles, so will her carefully crafted social status.”
“The whispers will start small,” I continue, watching understanding dawn in Antonio’s eyes. “Questions about authentication, then about her judgment, her credibility. Soon, every piece she’s ever vouched for will be scrutinized. The doubt will spread like poison through her world.”
Nikolai’s grip tightens on my shoulder. “And the financial implications?”
“Catastrophic.” I allow myself a small, cold smile. “Her collection is leveraged as collateral for loans and business deals. When the authenticity comes into question, those loans will be called in. Her assets will be frozen pending investigation.”
Mario leans back, studying me with eyes so like my own. “You’ve thought this through.”
“Every detail.” I straighten up, meeting his gaze. “She’ll run, of course. But with no money, friends, or reputation, she’ll be looking over her shoulder forever. Living in fear, just like she forced me to live. Death would be a mercy she doesn’t deserve.”
I barely have time to process the gravity of my revenge plans when Nikolai pulls me into an alcove off the main hall. His lips crash against mine, hungry and demanding.
“You’re brilliant, malishka .” His fingers thread through my hair. “Absolutely brilliant.”
I melt into his touch, the tension from the meeting dissolving under his praise, when Mario’s sharp voice cuts through our moment.
“This is inappropriate.” He stands in the doorway, his face thunderous. “I won’t have a Russian bratva boss pawing at my granddaughter in my home.”
Nikolai’s body tenses against mine. He turns slowly, keeping me behind him. “Your opinion of our relationship is irrelevant.”
“The hell it is.” Mario steps forward. “She’s a Castellano. She belongs with her family, not with?—”
“Choose your next words carefully.” Nikolai’s voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “Anyone who tries to stand between Sofia and me won’t live long enough to regret it.”
The air crackles with tension as both men square off. I place my hand on Nikolai’s arm, feeling his muscles coiled tight beneath his suit jacket.
“Both of you, stop.” I step between them. “Grandfather, I understand your concerns, but my relationship with Nikolai isn’t up for debate. And Nikolai—” I turn to him, softening my voice. “Threatening my family won’t help.”
“Sofia—” Mario starts.
“No.” I hold up my hand. “I’ve spent my entire life not knowing who I am or where I came from. Now that I finally have both my family and someone I love, I won’t let either of you ruin it with testosterone-fueled posturing.”
The following silence is heavy, but the murderous gleam in both their eyes dims slightly.
“We need to work together,” I continue. “Especially now. Can you both at least try? For me?”
I lead Nikolai away from the tension-filled hallway, my heart pounding. We slip into an empty sitting room, sunlight streaming through tall windows. The door clicks shut behind us.
“What you said back there...” His voice is rough as he turns to face me. “About someone you love.”
My breath catches. I hadn’t planned to say those words, hadn’t meant to reveal so much in the heat of the moment. But now that they’re out there...
“I meant it.” I meet his gaze. “I love you, Nikolai. Even when I shouldn’t. Even when you drive me crazy. Even knowing everything about who you are and what you do.”
He stands perfectly still, the muscle in his jaw twitching. For a moment, I think I’ve made a terrible mistake. Then his hands frame my face, so gentle it makes my heart ache.
“I never thought...” He swallows hard. “Love wasn’t meant for men like me. I accepted that long ago. Then I walked into your gallery that night, and everything changed.”
I press my palm against his chest, feeling his heart race beneath expensive wool.
“I love you, malishka .” The words fall from his lips like a confession. “Lord help me. I love you more than I thought possible.”
His thumbs brush my cheeks, and I realize I’m crying. He kisses away each tear, his touch reverent.
“I tried not to,” he murmurs against my skin. “Told myself it was just desire, just possession. But you broke through every wall I built.”
“Good.” I curl my fingers into his lapels. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
I melt into Nikolai’s kiss, feeling the last of my walls crumble. His hands slide into my hair, cradling my head like I’m something precious. Something cherished. The gentleness in his touch makes my heart ache.
When we break apart, I rest my forehead against his chest and breathe him in—that custom-blended cologne mingling with something essentially Nikolai.
“I don’t know how this works,” I whisper. “Being a Castellano, being with you, balancing all of it...”
His chest rumbles with a soft laugh. “Neither do I, malishka . For the first time, I’m not three steps ahead with a carefully crafted plan.”
I lean back to look up at him, surprised by this admission. Nikolai Ivanov, the man who controls everything, admitting uncertainty?
“We’ll figure it out together,” he says, brushing his thumb across my bottom lip. “Day by day. No protocols, no expectations. Just us finding our way.”
“That’s very un-Nikolai of you.” I can’t help but tease him, even as my heart swells with love.
He captures my lips again, this kiss deeper, hungrier. “You make me want to break all my rules.”
“Good.” I wind my arms around his neck. “Because I’m pretty sure we’ll have to write our own rulebook for this.”
His hands settle on my hips, pulling me closer. “As long as the first rule is that you’re mine, we can write whatever rules you want.”
I smile against his lips. “I think we can work with that.”
Wrapped in Nikolai’s arms, I breathe deeply for the first time in days. The world outside this room is chaos—family revelations, murder plots, revenge schemes—but in this moment, everything makes sense.
My fingers trace the lapel of his suit, smoothing invisible wrinkles. It’s strange how natural this feels now. Being with a man who orders executions as easily as he orders coffee. A man who watched me through cameras before he truly knew me. A man who kidnapped me “for my own protection.” I should be running far and fast.
Instead, I’m home.
The thought should frighten me, but it doesn’t. Maybe I’ve always had this darkness inside me. The careful, controlled gallery owner was just a mask I wore, like the masks my birth family wears in their world of art and crime.