17. Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
D om
“We’re meeting with the winery managers this morning,” I say, skipping preambles and small talk when I walk into the kitchen the next morning.
Sophie turns to me, a half toast between her teeth, and for a half breath, the image of her standing with a wine glass last night slips into my head.
I blink and it vanishes. “You’re coming along with me… unless there’s something keeping you from behind there.”
Like yesterday.
I kept the details of the trip a secret because I wanted to see her raw, unmasked reaction when we pulled up at the winery. What I didn’t expect was what happened.
The tears in her eyes, the way she dug her fingers into the dirt as if trying to keep from crumbling. It wasn’t Sophie guarding her secret from me… it was her at the most vulnerable moment.
And for a moment—an hour, the entire night until I walked into the kitchen and found her—I wondered if I’d pushed too far.
“Like I said,” she gives a brief shoulder shrug, “it’s what you hired me to do.”
The same thing she said yesterday when she apologized for what happened, even though I could see the smudged marks of her mascara and the path her tears took when they ran down her face.
Does it mean that much to her, the winery? I realize I never bothered to find out why the Bellinis went under after what happened between our families.
I just assumed they were taking the cowardly way out to avoid the consequences of their actions.
And her reaction yesterday wasn’t that of someone who wanted to protect something precious. It was grief—like she had lost it already.
Knowing Sophie’s history of manipulating things to go her way, I’d assumed she’d pretend to play along while pulling the strings behind the scenes.
I thought I knew almost everything, but yesterday was different.
Slipping my hand into my pocket, I watch her hurriedly chew the rest of her breakfast, with no sign that anything went wrong.
If I hadn’t been there… if I hadn’t kissed her and watched her say my name with muffled sobs and broken whimpers, I wouldn’t believe the past twenty-four hours had happened.
What is she hiding from me?
Sophie brushes the crumbs off her hands with the kitchen towel and rubs them together. “We should get going, then.”
She walks past me when I don’t move immediately, and I see her shoulders stiffen and the effort she puts into keeping her pace.
The hired driver is waiting for us outside the villa, and Sophie slips into the passenger seat, leaving me in the backseat.
My gaze strays to the vanity mirror more than once in the short drive to the winery, wanting a glimpse of her. Maybe I’ll find the answer to my question in her eyes… or elsewhere.
But she keeps her eyes fixed straight ahead, giving me silence.
“Let’s take a tour first,” I say as she jumps out of the car, stopping her cold.
She glances over her shoulder, and panic flashes through her eyes for just a second.
A piece of the puzzle clicks into place.
She’s running.
That’s why she was up early. Why she bolted the moment the car stopped. It’s not just avoidance—it’s defense. A flight response. Which means… I’m closer to the truth than she’s comfortable with.
But what truth?
It can’t be something simple like her family still owning the place. She handled the party exit cleanly and ran One Construction on her own.
This feels deeper. Like she’s willing to gnaw her foot off to get free.
“I’ve spoken with an administrator,” I say smoothly, slipping the lie between us like a blade. “We’ll take a tour on our own. Get a feel for the place before deciding next steps.”
“Well,” she starts, chewing at her lip, then stops when my gaze drops there. “You don’t need me for that, do you? It’s your decision at the end of the day. I think I should work on the staff instead. You’ll need them on your side.”
Running. Still.
I curl a finger in silent command.
She shifts her weight, eyes scanning the space like she’s weighing every exit. Then, with a sigh, she steps closer.
“Okay.”
We walk silently through the vineyard, the rich soil crunching beneath our feet. The rows stretch wide and endless on either side of us, vines thick with grapes, their scent warm and heavy in the late morning sun.
But it isn’t the grapes I smell. It’s Sophie.
It’s not caramel this time. It’s something more subtle, as if she wore it out of habit, but needed to be invisible. Yet, it curls like smoke, soaking into my thoughts, threading through the air between us.
Just like she’s in my head.
I inhale quietly, and vivid memories slip in.
Not memories. They feel too real, like I can still touch her.
I can still feel the warmth of her thighs locked around my neck, the way she gasped when I buried my face between her legs, slipping my tongue into wet, desperate places that tasted like red wine.
And lust.
I’m staring straight ahead, pretending not to feel it. But in my mind, I can still see her head thrown back, eyes glazed over, her lids too heavy to hold open while my tongue traced the notes of last night across her skin.
And then she stumbles.
Just a slight misstep on a tangled branch, but her hand reaches out on instinct and catches my arm. Her fingers tighten around me to steady herself, but the contact burns through my skin.
“I’m sorry,” Sophie hurriedly apologizes before turning away.
“It’s fine,” I say, clearing my throat when I hear how rough my voice sounds.
She nods.
We continue, with more distance between us this time, but I can’t help stealing glances at her, with questions hanging at the tip of my tongue.
Don’t ask, Domenico. I don’t want to feel anything for her, much like sympathy. If she were someone blameless, I might’ve considered it.
But she’s a spy with intentions that should leave me writhing with anger.
“My parents,” she starts as I pause in my steps, about to stop the tour. I hold back my words. Sophie spares me a look. “They had a vineyard. That’s why I reacted the way I did.”
She exhales, running a hand through her hair. “But they died when I was young. I had to leave home because I couldn’t take care of myself, and the only family I had was far away.”
Her parents’ death is a story I know all too well. But who bought the place if she had to leave?
Enzo Bellini? Seeing as the crest remains on the gate, it’s the likely answer. It would explain things , like why she reacted like she’d lost the home she had.
Now that I know the truth, I should back off.
“How did they die?” I ask gently, holding up a hand when she looks at me warily. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
I want to hear how she knows it. How she’ll explain away her father’s action.
“They were killed,” she whispers, her voice cracking with tears. “They trusted the wrong person, and they died for it.”
Wait. What?
My brows shoot up, but I manage to hide my surprise. They trusted the wrong person?
That’s not how the story goes.
Her father set fire to my house when I was fifteen. He wanted us dead—my parents and me.
My father managed to drag me out, but he couldn’t save my mother. I heard her scream as the flames swallowed the walls.
When he discovered it was his best friend who’d planned it all, he went after him.
But instead of facing justice, Sophie’s father made a different choice—he ended his own life. And took his wife with him.
My father couldn’t recover.
Losing her broke something in him. A few months later, I found him slumped on the floor, the gun still in his hand.
Even though he pulled the trigger, it was Sophie’s father who killed him.
“Killed?” I echo, scoffing under my breath. “Are you sure?”
She tilts her head, a flicker of confusion crossing her face.
“You think anyone wants their parents to be murdered?” she asks softly. “Why would I lie about how they died… and to you of all people?”
I can’t trust myself to speak, because if I do, I’ll bring everything crumbling down. And there’s still much to uncover regarding Sophie Bellini.
So I turn and walk away, my hands shoved deep into my pockets and my jaw clenched hard enough to ache. I can’t look at her another second—can’t trust what might slip through if I do.
But her voice chases after me, slipping through the cracks. “They took everything from me.”
My feet stop at the heavy grief in her voice and the way it rings through the distance, like she’s done carrying it. “Everything.” There’s a beat, then with quiet resignation, she adds, “but they should’ve killed me too.”
I stop and turn. She’s standing where I left her, with shoulders rigid and lips trembling, but her eyes hit me hardest.
She believes it.
Every last word. Sophie thinks someone murdered her parents and that dying with them would’ve been a better fate.
Something beneath me shifts. My truth. The version of history I thought I knew and stood by. She believes someone killed her parents—probably my father. I grew up knowing that her father turned me into an orphan.
How did we end up with two versions of events?
Was it—?
I shake my head, refusing to entertain my thoughts. There was proof that her father was behind it. And even if my father avenged, it was in retaliation.
Enzo Bellini must’ve fed her a lie and twisted the story. He took a grieving, vulnerable child and turned her into a weapon. To take me down.
The thought makes my stomach churn.
Sophie exhales hard, squaring her chin as she wipes her tears away with the back of her hand, furious and composed, as if pretending she’s not still shaking.
“I think I should talk to the administrators,” she says, her voice strained but steady. “Get a feel for what we’re dealing with, although I’m not sure we’ll leave Italy with a signed contract.”
She’s running again, just like before.
“Don’t bother,” I say, tight and clipped. “I’m no longer interested.”
She blinks.
“We’ll leave first thing tomorrow,” I continue. “So if you’ve got places to be, take the rest of today to do it.”
I don’t wait for her response before walking down the rows of vines.
Because if I stay another second, I might say something I can’t take back. Something I feel instead of something I know .