Chapter 17
Sofia
He ends the call before I can even say goodbye.
Another evening, another three-minute emotional video call that leaves everyone in my family unsatisfied.
My mother’s concerned expression stays plastered in my mind’s eye as Alessandro moves the tablet into his locked drawer of electronics.
Believe me, I’ve tried to get into this drawer in the bedroom. It’s impossible.
I’ve lost track of the days that have passed since I tried to escape, and then the unspeakable happened in Alessandro’s office. Every day is the same old blur of a quick phone call with my family, watching TV, and attempting—and probably failing—to flirt with Alessandro.
I avoid snapping at him in anger over not bothering to spare an extra couple of minutes of his precious time so that I can talk to them longer. But I can’t get myself to act cute and giggly, so I just sit on the couch.
I’m sure it looks like I’m fuming.
And I am. Although it was much worse in childhood, my temper has always been an issue for me. It’s like when that boiling, pent-up feeling in my chest crosses a certain threshold, I lose control.
I was so close the morning after my legs got hurt trying to run away, and Alessandro acted as if that hadn’t happened. But I managed to scurry off to the bedroom so that I could rage in solitude… then that anger made me fly over to Elena’s balcony.
“Sofia, do you know how many times in my life I would have traded places with you in a heartbeat?”
What he says makes my teeth clench together.
Why didn’t he just leave?
Fuck it. I don’t care if this kills any flirting progress I made. I’m losing control.
I burst off of the couch. “Oh, really? And what exactly have you gone through, Alessandro? The way I see it, any misery you feel in your life is self-inflicted. And I’m sure you would love to trade places with me.
You hate people. I bet sitting here in silence, not needing to talk to anyone, would be heaven for you. ”
I expect him to give me another empty, over-the-top threat and stalk out the door. Or maybe insult me. Or simply ignore me and leave. Instead, he flies around to face me, and I’ve never seen this much emotion in his usually icy exterior before.
“And maybe I hate people for a reason! Have you considered that?”
“And what reason is that? The fact you don’t act human half the time? That basic social cues confuse you? News flash, asshole, if everyone treats you like shit—it’s probably your fault!”
I can see genuine hurt register on his face before he looks away, rubbing his jaw. I force my breathing to slow and count in my head.
He takes a few steps forward towards me.
“You’ve met Marco, so you’re aware that he’s the man who raised me, no?”
I grit my teeth and nod. I’m sure that wasn’t easy, but plenty of people grow up in abusive households and still function in society.
“I didn’t have a childhood like you had,” he continues.
“I didn’t go to school and get involved with clubs and sports.
Before my mother died, I was too concerned with learning how to pickpocket to make sure we had enough food because she would waste any money she got her hands on immediately. And then she died…”
He pauses, looking towards the door as if he wants to retreat.
“Then you moved in with Marco.” My arms are crossed against my chest. I feel myself cooling down somewhat. “How did that happen? He’s only Elena’s biological father, right?”
He nods. “He got annoyed at how sad she was that I wasn’t here with her.
So, he took me in too. But he didn’t want me and made that abundantly clear.
I was left isolated with only brief visits from Elena for a few years until he thought I was old enough to be useful.
I kept myself busy by trying to learn as much as I could—to escape in books because there was nothing else.
If the staff hadn’t looked out for me so much, always grabbing me books and toys I could play with independently…
I don’t know what would have happened to me. ”
My throat is dry as he scratches his head, and I assume that he’s done. But he continues, “When I was old enough to work, I wasn’t asked to manage anything specific or to help strategize. Instead, he had me focusing on killing and torturing until I had a brief moment of fame—”
“The Lo Spettro stuff?”
He nods.
I open my mouth to ask how old he was when all of that started and think twice about it.
“I don’t know who the fuck I even am, Sofia.”
I feel my brows knit together as I decipher what that even means.
“My mother was French. I have no idea when or why she ended up in Sicily, but she did. I could have been born there; I could have been born here. I never thought of asking when I was that young. It’s possible that I don’t have any Italian blood in me.
That’s why Marco renamed us; he viewed that as a weakness.
I was Sylvain and she was Marion. Those names sound foreign on my lips now.
I suppose Elena and I have enough agency over our lives to try to revert back.
But I guess we just don’t care anymore.”
I open my mouth to speak, dumbfounded at all of this, but he continues on.
“I don’t know my birthday. Elena does since I was old enough to remember the date. But…”
“You don’t know your own birthday?” I cut him off. “And he renamed both of you!?”
He startles as if he forgot I was in the room with him. His green eyes look tortured, and I wonder if he’s ever unburdened himself by telling anyone this before. He scratches the back of his head again, looking unsure of himself, and I can tell opening up like this is taking a lot out of him.
“I know I was born in the spring of ‘86, but I can’t remember the exact date. Maybe I was never told.” His voice is flat. He gathers his coat in a hurry. “Sorry for the rant. I’ll leave you alone. I’m sure you found that funny…”
“Am I laughing?” I snap. “That was…” I don’t have words to continue that thought. My head is spinning with the amount of information he gave me to process.
“Do not give me that look!” He startles me with a shout. “That pitying look—I cannot stand it.”
“I… I… I’m sorry. Seriously, for what I said earlier and for…”
What I just learned.
A heavy silence fills the room.
He’s never had a formal education, yet I would never have guessed. He lacks certain social skills, but I’ve seen how his subordinates act around him—he’s earned their respect. A lot of people would have wilted away with that upbringing.
He gathers his things in a hurry, and barely casts me a glance before leaving, slamming the door behind him before I can say anything else.
His constant need for control, trust issues, and not understanding other’s emotions makes much more sense now.
I flop back on the couch, muting the TV to give myself some space to think.
He must have felt so trapped and suffocated.
There would have been absolutely no way out of this lifestyle.
For one, he doesn’t know anything about himself.
I suppose he would have been born under Sylvain whatever-his-mother’s-last-name-is.
But what about his middle name? I didn’t ask, but I doubt he knows that since he doesn’t know his birthday or where he was even born.
So, no hope of escaping and finding a normal life.
Forced to kill. To torture. I don’t want to know how young he was—I don’t think I’ll ever ask that.
I know that my father and grandfather gave Jack and Max as normal a childhood as possible.
Max didn’t start working for the family until he was twenty-two, and Jack never had the chance because he ended up behind bars too quickly.
He hit a pedestrian on a crosswalk when he was eighteen in a drunk driving incident, killing him.
Then soon after going to jail, he stabbed a prison guard to death.
I don’t know why. My family never told me, but I’m sure there was a reason.
Either way, that extended his sentence to life without parole.
I feel a twinge of sadness when I think about Jack.
I tried to visit him as often as I could, but now with the situation I’m in, who knows if I’ll ever see him again.
We didn’t say a special goodbye or anything the last time I visited him because I thought I could still call him or even fly over to visit him whenever I wanted to.
All of these things: the adrenaline crash from almost losing my temper entirely, to learning about Alessandro and then wondering if I will ever see my brother’s face again forces a sob to escape me.
I hug a pillow to my chest to self-soothe, but it doesn’t help.
I feel like I’ve had no control over my emotions lately.
The door opens, and Alessandro appears, looking shocked at my emotional state. “I forgot something,” he mutters, and I can tell he has the impulse to retrieve whatever that is and hurry away. But he pauses. “Did I say something to upset you?”
“There are a lot of things upsetting me. I’m sad about what you told me about yourself. But then I thought about my brother and how I’ll never see him again.”
He cocks his head. “You FaceTimed him a moment ago.”
I shake my head. “Jack.”
“Oh.” He walks towards the couch and sits next to me. “The one in prison.”
I nod.
He leans forward, his hands clasped together. “I’ll find a way for the two of you to talk.”
“Really?”
He nods.
We sit in silence for what feels like an eternity. Neither of us will say it—but something shifted between us just now. His opening up made me look at him in a different light, and I’m sure that was cathartic for him.
I move to sit closer, not sure why he’s back, not sure if he actually forgot something or if he didn’t want our conversation to end that way. But strangely, I’m comforted by his presence.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Hmm? For what?” I wipe a tear away from my face.
“I shouldn’t have burdened you with all of that. You have enough going on, and well… the entire history of my sad existence I’m sure isn’t helping.”
I shake my head. “I’m grateful. Before I thought you were a psychopath? Or maybe had some type of personality disorder? But now it’s making sense.”
He chuckles. “Maybe I am a psychopath with a personality disorder.”
“No, you’re not. I can tell you’re a softie deep down. You don’t take any of your own rules seriously. Even when I tried to escape—”
I feel his strong hands grip my shoulders, and then my back is pressed to the couch. I can feel his body lying over me, and I realize that I’m instinctively squeezing my eyes shut. Before I open them, I expect him to be angry with me, but there’s a smirk on his face after I look.
“Take it back,” he says.
I try to shove him off, but he only pins me down harder—just what I was hoping for.
“No.”
He leans in closer, and I close my eyes, expecting him to kiss me. I want him to kiss me.
I can sense him moving closer to my lips, but he’s taking forever to actually do it. Or maybe my sense of time is warped.
A violent knock sounds at the door. My eyes snap open to see him equally annoyed as I am.
“What is it?” he growls.
“Marco is calling a meeting.” I don’t recognize the voice on the other side of the door.
“Is it urgent?”
“It’s Marco.”
Alessandro swears under his breath and gets off of me. He runs his hands through his hair, looking down at me, looking unsure.
I feel the same way; that couldn’t have happened at a worse time.
“Hopefully, I won’t be gone long,” he says before leaving.
When the door closes, I lean back against the couch, angry. What was that? I wasn’t even trying to flirt with him right there. I legitimately wanted him to kiss me.
I unmute the TV to distract myself. My mind going in a million different directions.
I had a plan to seduce him, hoping it would help me escape. But now? After telling me all of that? That seems borderline psychopathic, and I don’t know if I can go through with being that fake or not.
But I can’t deny that there is a genuine part of me that wants to get closer to him. To connect on a deeper level.
A sexual level.
And yet I still want to desperately get out of this place.
I let out a groan and fall so that I’m lying down—desperately wishing I had Bianca or someone to talk to about this.