Chapter 20 - Sofia
The Rosetti compound smells like garlic and pesto, and for one devastating moment, I forget I’m a traitor.
The driver, Alexei's man, silent as a tomb, brought me exactly as promised and dropped me around the corner.
"Midnight," Alexei had said, his lips against my temple, his hands still possessive on my waist from the shower we'd shared.
"Not a minute later." The threat and promise in those words follow me up the familiar stone path.
My heels click against stones I've walked since childhood, past the fountain where Alessandro and I once caught fireflies, through gardens where Nico taught me to throw knives by moonlight.
Each step feels like walking through a museum of who I used to be: Sofia Rosetti, beloved sister, protected princess, secret weapon.
Now I'm someone else entirely. Someone who woke up wrapped in Russian sheets, marked by Russian hands, carrying Russian secrets I'll never tell.
The front door looms ahead, warm light spilling through windows like honey. Through the glass, I catch movement, shadows of my family living their lives, unaware that I'm about to walk in wearing designer silk that hides the bite marks of their enemy.
My hand rises to knock, but the door flies open.
"SOFIA!"
Alessandro. Of course it's Alessandro, always the first to laugh, to forgive, to make the unbearable bearable. He sweeps me into a hug that lifts me off my feet, spinning me once before setting me down. He smells like that pomade he special orders from Milan.
"Jesus Christ, Sof. When I saw you stride through the gates, I thought I was hallucinating." His green eyes scan my face, searching for damage that doesn't show. "How the hell did you get out? Marco's been planning extraction scenarios for days."
The lie comes easier than it should. "Found a weakness in their security. Third floor, service corridor. I have maybe four hours before they notice."
"And you sneaked out in heels and a gown?" he asks, eyeing me.
I shrug. "Naturally."
"That's my girl." But his eyes narrow slightly, catching something I didn't hide well enough. "You look…"
"Tired?"
"Different." But he smiles, choosing not to probe. That's Alex, he sees everything but picks his battles. "Come on. Maria's been stress-cooking since you disappeared. She'll cry when she sees you."
The warmth of the foyer envelops me: fresh flowers in crystal vases, the lingering scent of Marco's afternoon espresso, the faint sound of piano music from somewhere upstairs. Dante, probably, playing what he cannot say.
"SOFIA ROSETTI!" Maria's voice echoes from the kitchen, followed by rapid Italian that roughly translates to 'too skinny, going to fade away, men don't know how to feed anyone.'
My throat tightens. This is home. Or it was. Now it feels like standing in someone else's life, wearing a skin that no longer fits.
Marco appears in the hallway, and my breath catches.
My oldest brother moves with that stillness that made our enemies rename him 'Il Silenzio' before they learned silence could kill.
His dark eyes conduct their assessment, studying my posture, my breathing, the way I hold myself.
Looking for breaks, for damage, for evidence of what Alexei might have done.
He'll find nothing. The real damage is all internal, invisible, irreversible.
"Sofia." Just my name, but weighted with everything: relief, fury, questions he won't ask yet.
He opens his arms, and I go to him, letting him enfold me in that particular safety only big brothers can provide.
His cologne is the same, bergamot and cedar, but underneath I catch gun oil, the metallic scent of recent violence.
His hands move over my arms, subtle but thorough, checking for injuries through the silk.
"I'm okay," I murmur against his shoulder.
He pulls back, those dark eyes searching mine. "Are you?"
No. I'm so far from okay I don't remember what it looks like. But I give him the smile he needs, small, reassuring, the sister who can handle anything.
More brothers materialize like summoned spirits. Dante emerges from the music room, silent as always, but his eyes speak volumes. He pulls me into a careful hug that says more than words ever could.
I nod against his chest. He smells like cigarettes and that expensive cologne Ana buys him. When he pulls back, his dark eyes linger on my throat where makeup covers the bruising from Alexei's fingers. Dante always sees too much.
Luca sprawls against the staircase bannister, that unsettling smile playing at his lips. "Little sister. Still breathing, I see."
"Disappointed?"
"Never." He pushes off the bannister, moves to embrace me with that loose-limbed grace that hides how quickly he can go from laughing to lethal. "Who else would I torment?"
His hug is brief but his pale blue eyes, so like mine, scan me thoroughly. "You're different," he says quietly. Not an accusation. An observation, filed away in that brilliant, twisted mind of his.
"It's been a long week. You?"
"Bored. Marco won't let me storm the Volkov compound." He pouts—actually pouts. "I had a whole plan. Very dramatic. Lots of fire."
"I'm sure it was beautiful."
"It was ART." He pulls away from the hug. His eyes—bright, slightly unhinged—focus on me. "You smell different."
I freeze. "What?"
"Different soap. Different…" He sniffs the air. "Man."
Oh God.
"I've been living in his compound, Luca. Of course I smell different."
"Mm." He starts spinning a knife he had stashed somewhere on his person. "Be careful, little sister. Enemies have a way of getting under your skin. And then—" He mimes slitting a throat. "Messy."
"Is that advice or a threat?"
"Yes." He grins and saunters away.
Then Nico. My trainer, my confidant, the keeper of our sacred pact. He hangs back, watching from the doorway to the dining room with those hazel eyes that have witnessed every evolution of my character. He doesn't move to hug me, just studies me like he's reading a tactical report.
"Nico," I say, and my voice catches.
He crosses to me then, but instead of embracing me, he takes my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. The calluses on his palms are familiar: gun work, knife work, the careful violence he taught me.
"You're lying about something."
My heart stops. Of course he knows. Nine years of absolute truth between us have taught him every tell, every micro-expression.
"Nico—"
"We'll talk later." He releases me, but the promise in those hazel eyes makes my stomach clench. "Eat first. Maria will kill us all if the food gets cold."
The dining room erupts in warmth and chaos. Ana bounces baby Antonia in her lap, the child grabbing at her mother's dark hair with chubby fingers. The baby looks like Dante, serious even at four months old, those dark eyes taking in everything.
"Sofia!" Ana rises carefully, mindful of the baby, and embraces me one-armed. She smells like milk and baby powder and that light perfume she's worn since Rome. "We've been so worried."
Faith struggles to stand from her chair, her belly round with promise. Eight months now, maybe more. Luca's hand settles on her shoulder, gentle, keeping her seated. The casual tenderness in the gesture makes my chest ache; even my psychotic brother has found something soft to protect.
"Don't get up," I tell Faith, leaning down to kiss her cheek. She smells like vanilla and old books, probably from her library work she insists on continuing despite Luca's protests.
"You look well," she says, but there's something in her eyes, a recognition maybe, woman to woman, of secrets held.
Emma rises despite Alessandro's protests, moving carefully but determinedly toward me. The guilt crashes through me. She got shot and nearly died because of me, because of my weakness in believing Alexei's trap.
"I'm so glad you're okay," she whispers as she hugs me, and I want to tell her I'm not, I'm so far from okay I can't see it anymore.
"How are you healing?" I manage.
"Good. Better. Driving Alex crazy with my stubbornness." She pulls back, studies my face with those sharp eyes that survived years of servitude before Alessandro claimed her. "Sit next to me. I want to hear everything."
Everything. The word sits like lead in my stomach.
"You don't have to pretend with me." Emma's voice is soft while voices roar around us. "I know what it's like to be caught between worlds."
My hands still. "I don't know what you mean."
"I was a servant who fell for a Rosetti. Everyone told me it was impossible. Wrong. That I was betraying my class, my people. Sometimes the heart doesn't care about sides."
I pull out the seat beside her and sit. "Emma—"
"I'm not asking you to tell me anything. I'm just saying—" She meets my eyes. "Whatever's happening, you're not alone. And you're not as good a liar as you think."
My throat closes. I shouldn’t have sat next to Emma, she was always too observant.
I accept a glass of water from Alessandro, and suddenly I'm fifteen again, before the massacre, before Mikhail, before I became someone who lies to the only people who matter.
Maria bustles in with platters that smell like childhood: her famous ragù, fresh bread still steaming, the lemon-caper pasta she only makes for celebrations.
"Too skinny!" she declares, piling food on my plate. "What they feed you over there? Air? Men don't know nothing about feeding people."
If only she knew how Alexei feeds me, by hand sometimes, watching my mouth take each bite like it's foreplay, making me wet just from the attention. This afternoon he'd fed me strawberries in bed, juice running down my chin, then licked it off until I was gasping his name.
"The food is fine, Maria," I say, forcing myself to eat despite my churning stomach.
"Bah. Fine is not good enough. You need proper food. Soul food." She pinches my cheek like I'm still five. "I make you tiramisu for dessert. Your favorite."