Chapter Eight #2
Sofia turned to find her uncle Matteo approaching from the opposite hallway. Relief crossed his weathered face when he saw her. He pulled her into a brief hug before she could object.
“I’m glad you’re all right.” The genuine concern in his voice caught her off guard.
“I’m fine.”
He looked her over, as though searching for injuries. Satisfied, he finally stepped back.
“Your father is waiting,” Matteo said.
Sofia thanked her uncle and headed toward the east wing of the house, and to her father’s office. The familiar corridor stretched before her, lined with expensive artwork and polished hardwood floors. As a child, she had hated this hallway.
Being summoned to Emilio Marino’s office rarely meant anything good. The memory surfaced unexpectedly. She was eight years old and standing outside the office door with trembling hands.
Sofia saw herself at twelve years old, and being informed she’d embarrassed the family by losing her temper during a negotiation lesson. Then she pictured herself at fourteen, and being told she needed to work harder, learn more, and be better.
Her father had never gotten physical with her. That had somehow made it worse. Disappointment from Emilio Marino carried more weight than anger ever could. For years, she’d dreaded hearing those words.
Your father wants to see you.
The summons alone had been enough to knot her stomach, but eventually she’d adapted. She learned every lesson the first time. Sofia studied harder and made fewer mistakes. She controlled her emotions and herself.
By the time she was eighteen, there had been very little left for her father to criticize. The reprimands became rarer, then disappeared almost entirely.
He certainly didn’t become easier to please—Sofia had merely learned exactly what was expected of her. Perfection, or as close to it as possible. Sofia stopped outside the office door. For a moment, she stared at it. The old anxiety was gone now. Well, not exactly, but it was diminished.
She wasn’t a frightened little girl anymore. She was Sofia Marino Volkov. Wife to one of the most dangerous men in the city. Survivor of an assassination attempt. A woman who had shot a man to save her husband. Funny how perspective changed things.
Squaring her shoulders, Sofia knocked once before opening the door.
Her father was already waiting inside. Emilio Marino had just finished a phone call. He stood, then stepped forward and examined her carefully, checking for injuries as Matteo did. She imagined him checking for damage, for weakness. Exactly as Sofia expected.
“You look well,” her father finally said, sitting down again.
“I am well,” she told him.
His shoulders relaxed slightly. Perhaps he had worried after all. Sofia quickly dismissed the thought.
“Sit,” he said.
Sofia obeyed. The conversation quickly shifted toward business, the attack, the Volkov response, and the political implications. She explained everything they knew, including Orlov’s involvement.
Her father’s expression darkened immediately.
“Sergei Orlov,” Emilio said darkly.
“Yes.”
“He finally lost what little sense he had,” her father grumbled.
Sofia couldn’t disagree. Her father leaned back.
“If the Volkovs need support, they have it,” he said.
She blinked. “Support?”
“Men. Resources. Intelligence.”
His gaze sharpened. “This alliance benefits both families.”
It was a practical and predictable answer, and yet some small part of her still wondered. Was that all? Or had he genuinely been concerned? The thought lingered longer than she expected.
Eventually the meeting ended. Her father walked her toward the entrance himself. A rare gesture. As she prepared to leave, he paused.
“Sofia.”
She turned. Emilio Marino looked older than usual. For the first time in her life, he seemed more tired and human, then it vanished.
“Be careful.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Only a few hours earlier, Dimitri had said exactly the same thing. The memory followed her all the way back to the car.
The drive home began normally. Rain tapped softly against the windows. Traffic remained light. The security escort followed behind them. Sofia checked her phone and considered calling Dimitri. Then decided she’d do it once she was closer.
The driver turned onto a quieter stretch of road. A mistake. She realized it one second before the shot. A crack sounded. The rear window exploded. Glass erupted through the cabin. The sound was deafening, and the driver cursed violently.
“What the hell?” the driver cried out.
A second shot rang out. Sofia heard a loud bang, then the front tire detonated. The entire car lurched sideways. Sofia’s stomach dropped. Fear clawed at her insides. The driver fought the steering wheel.
The sedan fishtailed across wet pavement. There was another shot, then impact. Someone was trying to kill her. The realization struck with brutal clarity.
“I need backup!” the driver was shouting into his cellphone.
Gunfire erupted somewhere behind them. Sofia couldn’t see the shooter or identify the angle. There was only chaos. The sedan skidded violently. Her shoulder slammed against the door, and pain exploded through her arm.
The driver fought to regain control, but he was losing. Sofia reached for her phone. Her hands were shaking. Sofia pushed the immediate fear away, training keeping panic at bay, but barely.
She found Dimitri’s contact, and pressed CALL. The line connected instantly. He answered before the first ring finished.
“Sofia?” Relief hit her so hard it almost hurt.
“Dimitri...”
A third shot shattered the windshield. The driver swore. The sedan jumped the curb, and everything tilted. Time seemed to slow.
“Sofia!” Dimitri was yelling now, cursing in Russian on the other end.
The car spun, metal screamed. Something enormous appeared directly ahead. A utility pole. It was too close. The driver’s horrified shout vanished beneath the impact. The world exploded, and darkness swallowed everything.