Chapter 21
Sophie
He’s sleeping .
I hadn’t realized how anxious his insomnia was making me until I saw his eyes finally lull closed, lying flat on his stomach, his inked biceps swelling as he hugged the quilted pillow.
A lamp on the desk casts a warm glow across the bedroom, granting me a fleeting opportunity to observe him without his masterful facade slipping into place. That frustrating mask he expertly erects whenever he wants to conceal his true self.
The man who’s just over thirty may look boyish while he sleeps, but the lines etched into the corners of his eyes no longer vanish as they once did. The delicate skin around his lashes bears a hue reminiscent of welts, a darkness that could only stem from deprivation. All forms of it.
Over the past hour, the squall that battered this secluded corner of the island has subsided. Through the window, the violent, turbulent waves I immersed myself in for release have pacified—just like my heart.
After coming at me with no holds barred for most of the night, not leaving this bed for food or even water, deciding this hunger was far more satiating, Xavier’s eyes only closed because they had to.
I lose track of time, watching the plane of his back, wide enough to gorge half of this full-size mattress, ebbing and flowing in peaceful slumber.
His phone vibrates on the night table beside a loaded gun. Both are always present, a familiar fixture in our lives. He’ll always have those who seek him out at all hours, expecting him to drop everything to answer the call of duty.
With that incessant ringing, pushing off the thoughts any longer is impossible.
Being with Xavier Marcello means confronting everything I once tried to escape.
Years ago, the worst fate I could imagine was marrying a crime lord, having his children, and attending functions by his side like my mother did for my thankless father.
I couldn’t envision anything worse—and then Arturo Marcello happened.
Suddenly, existing in Xavier’s world isn’t so terrifying as long as I never have to be apart from him again. To run again… to be alone again… that would destroy me.
As soon as I'm sure my mind is made up, gazing upon a sleeping predator of the underground, fragments of the past remind me of my mother’s boredom, her sense of uselessness.
The galas she was expected to organize, the jewelry trunk shows, and estate sales that consumed her time, ensuring she and the house were presentable for the constant influx of strangers filling our halls.
The revolving martinis she always made sure were available to her, perhaps to ease the sting of pointless days and unpredictable nights with Vito Marin.
My thoughts race to those I haven’t seen. Bo, Dante, Zeke, Mimi, Delli… Courtney . I could cry just thinking of her name—any of their names.
In New York, I'm not invisible, blending into crowds, forced to watch others receive love. Here, I don’t need to numb myself with training because nothing else gives me purpose .
In New York, I'm a wife. A friend. I'm someone .
My gaze shifts to the Phantom who has more than earned his underground alias, the radical head of the Marcello Family. His tattoos and scars would instill fear in anyone—justifiably so—because no one could possibly envision the life he’s lived to bear such a body.
For my own sanity, I do my best to lock away Thomas Ritchey in the recesses of my mind, yet he remains with me now, a ghost I’ll always regret.
I spent my youth consumed by him, by the idea of an everyday life, free from private dealings, stubbed cigars, and men stationed with guns. That dream bled into my womanhood, into my marriage to a man I spent so much of my life hating.
You can’t escape the Mafia, Sophie.
As I gaze at the man I love, pondering a return to the place of my nightmares, Xavier’s words have never rung truer.
“How the hell could you miss this?”
My eyes wince against the glare of light that streaks across my pillow, awakened by a hoarse rasp.
Xavier’s voice has dropped octaves straight out of sleep.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, still mouthwateringly nude, he holds his phone to his ear as he rubs his face drowsily.
The alarm clock on the shelf displays the time in red digits. I feel like cursing whoever disturbed him before dawn until a name slips from Xavier’s lips that sends chills down my spine. “Strata is a means to an end. It’s Vito I want.”
The muffled voice on the other end doesn’t belong to Bo, nor is this Xavier talking. It’s the Don, the magnate behind numerous successful enterprises. It’s the elusive overlord shepherding a legion of merciless men riding a power trip of influence, drugs, and women.
“There’s not going to be a meeting. He misspent the little time I was willing to give him.”
None of the caller’s ramblings are coherent from where I'm sitting. Xavier stands silently, his feet rooted to the carpet, his staggering frame suddenly blocking the ray of sunlight streaming onto the bed.
“ William .”
The line falls silent instantly—when Xavier’s indifference becomes absolute. The reproach intertwines with the unnatural huskiness of Xavier’s baritone until there is no air left in the room. I’m not surprised the man drops any confidence he had, clamming up.
“You think I give a shit about excuses? You were assigned to him. What I want to understand, Willie,” he says, enunciating every word, “is how the fuck you could take your eyes off of him for a second? What was it that took precedence over my very clear instructions?”
Oh, he’s livid . He’s livid enough to stalk from the room without a glance back to see if I was listening.
Behind the door he closes, I half expect an uproar, but he never raises his voice past a shrill threat, and that’s worse than shouting.
This is the side of him I’ve rarely seen… and clearly need to get used to.
My father never let my mother anywhere near his affairs.
I'm not sure if Xavier intends to follow his predecessor’s lead on that ridiculous custom. While I’d hate knowing the dark deals he forges in the shadows, it would bother me more if he shut me out, leaving me to become merely a decoration like Camilla Marin.
He would never do that.
“I’ve been lenient with you, William. I have given you too much freedom. All these women… the late nights at the club… Do you think I didn’t know?”
My eyes close as I abandon the bed for the bathroom.
Hearing him speak like a Capo dei Capi, effortlessly delivering manipulations and threats—just like our fathers did—makes my mouth go dry. My hands become clammy as I twist the dial, letting a downpour flow from the shower nozzle.
This is who he is now… who he had to become when he saved you from hell.
The least you could do is understand him.
After grooming and dressing, I finally gather the courage to step outside. Xavier’s phone lies silently on the coffee table.
I discover him in the kitchen, hands positioned on either side of the stove, watching an espresso percolator bubble away. He’s wearing only jeans, his sculpted back highlighted by the light filtering through the floral drapes.
He must sense my feet pattering on the tiles, but he only acknowledges I’m there when my arms wrap around him from behind, my lips kissing the curve of his back.
The tremor that runs through him, his fingers gripping mine on his stomach, brings back memories of the barriers we shattered throughout the night—how often he drew me to him to ensure my mind wouldn’t lapse.
It hasn’t. The heat that simmers between my thighs as he reaches back to claim my hips is proof enough. “Did I wake you?”
I move my chin back and forth against him in response. “Trouble?”
My eyes follow him as he removes the percolator off the heat and pours the coffee into two mugs. He’ll drink his straight. A slow smile spreads across my face when he opens the fridge, pulls out the milk, and pours some into the other mug before adding a spoonful of raw honey.
It’s the little things.
He hasn’t responded yet .
I gather this is the moment he decides how much he wants me in this aspect of his life. He hands me the steaming mug, nodding in acknowledgment when I thank him, while his own cup tilts precariously. When he looks at me, I don’t think he notices that I'm barely breathing.
“A capo in South Beach left his post last night,” he says, gripping the edge of the counter. “The fuck-up resulted in your father slipping out of Strata’s villa undetected. It’s a fixable mistake, but it’ll take more effort on our part to locate him again.”
He demonstrates once more that I’m an absolute fool for doubting him. “Maybe this movement will create a window of opportunity for you.”
“Maybe.”
He takes a deep breath and gives me a serious look, indicating that we’re about to have a conversation neither of us might be ready for.
The mug bearing Giulia’s name engraved in gold is warm in my hands.
I haven’t even had the chance to ask him about her…
or anyone else, and here we are, diving into this conversation.
“You need to go back,” I state, setting down the mug.
I'm not asking. I'm letting him know I’ve already pieced that together. Silence is his response. It does the job, offering me a glimpse into his mind space.
The cottage around us is a far cry from the Marcello estate, although both are extravagant. We knew when we came here that this seclusion wouldn’t last.
Still, it hasn’t been enough time.
There’s so much I could ask. What will our lives be like? How will Rosa cope with my return? Will it affect Isabella? Will we remain in the manor? How will we justify my disappearance?
Teeming with questions and frightened by the unknown, I stare into his eyes, neither of us speaking for a moment .
He opens his mouth only to close it swiftly.