Chapter 17 SOPHIA
Roberto is very still in the car. That kind of still that feels louder than yelling. Louder than slamming fists or shattered glass. He hasn’t said a word since we left the hospital, but I can feel the fury radiating off him like heat off pavement in the dead of summer.
Because I didn’t tell him where I was going.
Because I walked in without him.
Because I existed outside of his control for longer than sixty seconds.
The moment we pull into the driveway, he throws his door open. Before I can even unclip my seatbelt, he's already around the car, opening my door, and yanking my arm.
"Get out," he growls.
I stumble out onto the stone path, barely catching myself.
He doesn’t wait. Just grabs me by the wrist, still raw from the ties from last night, and drags me up the stairs and through the front door, like I’m a misbehaving child he’s tired of pretending to care for.
The house is quiet when we enter. The moment we hit the living room, he lets go, just long enough to slap me.
The sound echoes.
My head whips to the side, my cheek stings from the blow, and my hair falls loose around my face. I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I just stare at the floor like I always do.
Like I’ve been taught to.
The maids scatter, Louisa among them. None of them looks at me. The guards step back, pretending to be busy, suddenly very interested in the hallway, the floor, the air. They all know what’s coming.
"So, this is what we’re doing now?" Roberto’s voice is low, mocking. "You’re keeping secrets?"
"I wasn’t—"
Slap.
Harder this time.
"Don’t lie to me, Sophia. You went in without me. You knew exactly what that would look like. What that would say about me."
I taste blood in the corner of my mouth.
He steps closer, crowding me back until my spine hits the wall.
"I think," he says, tilting his head with that fake, thoughtful expression I’ve learned to fear, "I need to remind you of your place."
His fingers dig into my chin, forcing my gaze up to his.
"You’ve gotten a bit uppity lately, haven’t you?" he sneers. "And today? Today was the fucking high point."
I don’t move.
I don’t speak.
Because there’s no right answer, there never is. And right now, I can already feel it, the coming storm. The punishment. The lesson he thinks I need.
But suddenly, the sharp trill of his phone shatters the moment, making him freeze.
His grip loosens just enough for me to drag in a ragged gasp.
His indecision about whether he should ignore the call or finish me off has him sneering, but then he looks at the screen, and I see the name before he turns it away.
Edoardo.
The one call he can't ignore. Relief floods me; it seems my punishment has been stayed, at least for now. My knees are turning to Jello and barely keep me up. I hold on to the ledge of the fireplace, not daring to make a move or sink to the ground lest I recapture my husband's attention.
"What?" he sounds breathless; he doesn’t dare bark into the phone the way I know he wants to. Not with our Don. Furiously, he paces a few steps away and turns his back to me.
"Since when?" he snaps. A pause. "No, I’ll come myself. Tell them I’m already on my way. And make sure they understand—this gets fixed."
He ends the call and turns back to me, his fury is still simmering, but it’s buried now under something more urgent.
"Pack a bag," he orders. "Looks like I still need you."
I straighten slowly and warily. "Where are we going?"
"Venezuela." His mouth twists like the word tastes sour. "Edoardo’s got a situation, and I’m not trusting anyone else to handle it. You’re coming with me."
My stomach drops. "Why?"
His eyes narrow. "Because I said so. And because I’m not leaving you here unsupervised so you can pull another stunt like today."
I want to tell him I don’t care where he goes, that I’d rather rot in this house than follow him to another country. But I’ve learned not to waste words on battles I can’t win.
Instead, I go upstairs to pack like a good wife. His clothes and mine. God knows I'll pay the price if I forget something he thinks he might need.
The sound of drawers sliding open and hangers scraping along the rod feels too loud in the silence of the bedroom. My hands shake as I fold shirts he doesn’t care about and jeans he’ll probably never wear and stuff them into his suitcase. I don't even know how long we'll be gone.
Every movement hurts. My wrists sting when the fabric brushes against the skin. I keep my eyes down, focusing on the neatness of the folds, because if I let myself think too hard, I’ll break.
But Marcello slips in anyway.
His voice. His smile. The way he looked before he was hooked up to machines in a sterile hospital room, and now I’m getting on a plane with the man who would rather see him dead than sitting across from me at a table.
A tear escapes before I can stop it.
I swipe it away quickly, but more follow, hot and silent, slipping down my cheeks to the rhythm of my hands packing sweaters and socks.
When I finish, I hear Roberto’s voice in the hallway.
He's speaking in Spanish to someone in a low voice with clipped words. It’s not smooth like a native speaker, but sharp and fast; the words tumble over one another like stones in a current.
I catch only fragments—carga—shipment, perdido—lost, muerto—dead, deuda—debt.
The tone is enough to make the hair on my arms stand on end.
The door swings open without warning. He grabs his suitcase from the bed and jerks his head for me to follow, never once stopping his phone conversation.
Within minutes, we're in the car, pulling away from the house, the tires humming over the pavement. He’s speaking the same rapid Spanish, his free hand gesturing like the other person can see him on the seat next to me.
I turn my face to the window, allowing my chin to rest in my hand, and try to disappear into the motion of the passing streets.
He might die, and I’ll never see him again.
The thought is a cold, heavy stone in my stomach. It sinks deeper with every mile we put between me and Marcello’s hospital room, and I pray for my brother.
Even though I don't want to, I still catch pieces of Roberto's conversation.
I perk up when I hear Orsi, unsure if he's talking about Marcello or my father.
Then something about entregar—deliver and próxima vez—next time.
I'm keeping my ears peeled, while my fingers tighten in my lap, desperately trying to figure out what the hell is going on. We're not just going to Venezuela to fix Edoardo’s situation. There’s more, a whole lot more.
And if I can figure out what it is, maybe I can use it.