8. Chapter Eight #2
“Well,” I say with a practiced smile, brushing the unease off, “I’m here now. And I brought your favorite—ice cream cake.”
She gasps, delighted, and kisses my cheek again before taking the box from me. “You’re a darling. Come in. Enzo’s holed up in his office, but I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”
“I doubt it,” I mutter, more to myself than to her.
As I walk down the short hallway toward his office, old memories creep through the walls like shadows, faint but permanent. I spent hours in that room, hunched under his gaze, reciting lessons until I bled perfection. I knew his expectations better than I knew myself.
I raise my hand to knock.
“Come in.”
I freeze.
Of course, he knows I’m here. He probably knew the second I left my apartment. I learned—after that trip with Dom—that Enzo Bellini had never stopped keeping tabs on me. Not for a second.
The room is darker than I remember. Dim, like it used to be when I was a child, drowning in grief and commands. He’s by the bookshelf, flipping through spines, his back a wall I’m not allowed to breach.
“I’m assuming you’re here because this couldn’t be handled in an email?”
His tone is mild. Dismissive. Cutting.
“Yes,” I reply, tightly.
“Okay?”
I grit my teeth. Of course, he won’t make this easy.
“One Construction. Mark Ross.” I say. “Domenico Moretti wants to purchase it. I know you’ve had history with them, so I didn’t want to move forward without your sign-off.”
Silence.
Only the thud of books fills the space. Leather spines meeting wood. Over and over.
My lips part—then close again. I wait. He taught me that. Patience and control.
Eventually, he turns to face me. “I had intentions to make an offer, too.”
Of course he did.
And he wasn’t going to tell me. I wouldn’t have known if Dom hadn’t mentioned it. Frustration needles beneath my skin, crawling up my spine until my jaw clenches.
“What do you want me to do then?”
“Find a way around it,” he says. “Tell him it’s not viable.”
My eyes narrow. “What if he finds out I lied?”
He shrugs. “Make sure he doesn’t. That’s what we trained you for, Sophie. You’re meant to take down the enemy, not enable him.”
A bitter laugh slips out before I can stop it. His eyes cut to me, sharp, disapproving.
“Do you have a problem with that?”
“No,” I say, though my voice rises despite myself. “But what if I hadn’t come to you? What if I’d already made an offer to the company? You told me to do whatever it took to stay close to Dom.”
His gaze sharpens, voice dropping an octave. “Dom? That’s what you’re calling him now?”
Shit. That wasn’t supposed to slip out.
“I said what you wanted,” I push through, meeting his stare. “You asked me to gain his trust. Now you want me to sabotage a deal he’s invested in—for your gain. So tell me, Uncle, how many sides should I play before I lose myself?”
His silence is heavier now. No longer calculated, just cold. Then he leans back in his chair, folds his arms, and stares at me like I’m a stranger he’s trying to decide whether to trust.
“Maybe I made a mistake sending you in.”
My chest tightens, and my jaw drops. “What?”
“You were supposed to dismantle him. Not get comfortable,” he says, voice like a knife dressed in velvet. “But here you are defending him. Calling him Dom like he’s your fucking savior.”
“That’s not—”
“I don’t think you’re cut out for this,” he interrupts, and it’s a slap I wasn’t expecting. “Maybe I need to pull you out before you embarrass yourself or worse, forget who you are.”
“I haven’t forgotten anything,” I snap. And I’m not defending Dom. I would never.
“No?” He leans forward, eyes gleaming now. “Then let me remind you.”
The room chills as he pauses, letting the weight of his silence crush me.
“The Moretti family took everything from us. Your father trusted them. And they repaid him by gutting his business and leaving him to rot. He died broke, disgraced, and alone. And you—” his voice hardens, “—you were too young to understand then, but I damn well expect you to understand now.”
His words punch through the air like gunfire. Every syllable is calibrated to cut. “So tell me again, Sophie. What exactly are you doing getting sentimental over Domenico Moretti?”
My throat feels like sandpaper, but I don’t flinch. He’s instilled too much that I resort to muscle memory. “I’m not sentimental,” I say quietly. “I’m strategic.”
He scoffs, standing now, pacing like the predator I grew up watching from behind glass.
“You’re compromised,” he says. “And you’re sloppy. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s gotten into your head.”
He stops just inches from me. “Or maybe into your bed.”
My blood goes ice cold, and air snaps between us, brittle and thick, dangling the truth between us. “I might’ve been young, but I haven’t forgotten,” I grit my teeth. “You made sure I couldn’t.”
I’m not sure if I’m angry at Dom or bitter at my uncle.
Or maybe I’m angry at myself for being sidelined. Not once or twice… letting Dom get into my head when I should’ve been focused.
“You’re right,” I say solemnly. “I made a mistake. But it won’t happen again.”
He sighs, and I feel his hand on my shoulder for a brief moment. It’s not comfort so much as it is a reminder of what I have to do. “Now go,” he says. “Your aunt made more than enough. You can spend the night and leave in the morning.”
With one last glance into the dim room, I leave him standing by his bookshelf. The first time I left my uncle’s house, it was with determination. I was going to bring down the Moretti family, no matter what it took.
Now, I’m not sure where the determination has gone.