Chapter 25 SOPHIA
A couple of days later…
Gigi’s text is still glowing on my screen.
Gigi:
Marcello’s out of the hospital.
Relief swells in my chest, warm and sharp, and almost painful.
I’ve been in L.A. for days now, and for once, Roberto has left me alone; he's too busy expending his rage on some poor man named Matías. I’ve been free to wander Rodeo Drive and play the part of the pampered wife, all while wondering if my brother is still lying in a bed hooked up to machines. But now I know he's home. Home!
I shouldn’t text him.
If Roberto sees…
But my thumb hovers anyway. I type fast, before I can talk myself out of it:
Me:
Glad to hear you’re out. I’m out of the city for a few days.
I’ve barely hit send when my phone vibrates again, this time with an incoming call. Marcello. I swipe to answer, keeping my voice lighter than I feel. "What are you doing up so early?"
"Where are you?" he asks immediately, that protective edge in his voice making my throat tighten.
"Los Angeles. Roberto has some business here, so I decided to go shopping." I glance toward the suite’s door, praying he’s still out.
And then the lock clicks. The door opens. Of course it does.
"Who the fuck are you talking to?" His voice slices through the air like a whip, and the relief I felt seconds ago curdles into ice.
"It’s just Marcello," I say quickly, my tone too soft, too controlled. I don’t know how he heard about it—Marcello—but I can feel it in the pit of my stomach: he knows.
"Let me talk to him," Marcello orders, in a sharp voice, one he's never used with me before.
"He wants to talk to you," I whisper, holding the phone out to Roberto.
Roberto's irritation is already simmering. "Christ, it’s ten at night. Tell him I’ll call him tomorrow."
"Now!" Marcello’s bark is so loud, Roberto nearly pulls the phone from my hand, his eyes flashing with surprise. Nobody talks to him like that.
"You do know there’s a time diff—"
Marcello doesn't let him finish. Even from across the room, Marcello’s voice spikes—sharp and commanding—though I can’t make out every word. Just pieces. "My blood… hurt her… bare hands…" The tone alone makes me press my lips together to hide the tremor.
Roberto’s brows lift, then drop. "You’ve got it twisted, Marcello. I take care of your sister. You think I’d be stupid enough to lay a hand on her?"
Another burst of Marcello’s voice cuts through, low but lethal, a string of words I can’t quite catch except for get away with it.
Roberto’s jaw tightens. "Don’t threaten me over nothing. She’s emotional. She exaggerates." His voice rises as if sheer volume will make the lie sound true.
A pause. His expression changes—something between irritation and unease—before he answers again. "We’re on vacation. She’s fine."
Whatever Marcello says next makes him exhale sharply through his nose before holding the phone toward me. "Here. Your brother."
I take it, trying not to look as rattled as I feel. "What did you say to him?"
"Just made it clear that hurting you won’t be good for his health, Soph."
"He doesn’t—" I start, but he cuts me off.
"We’ll talk when you come back. When are you coming back?"
"Just a few days."
"If he touches you, you call me."
A nervous laugh slips out—God, I wish I could believe it would be that simple.
"He doesn’t hurt me, Marcello," I lie, because the truth will only bring more danger crashing down on us both.
"We’ll talk about it when I see you," he says before hanging up, leaving me staring at my phone like it’s a lifeline I’m not allowed to hold onto.
When I glance up, Roberto is still watching me, smiling in that way that isn’t a smile at all. It’s the kind of smile that promises a storm is coming.
The fake smile vanishes, replaced by something far more honest. "What the fuck did you tell him?"
My throat tightens. "He doesn’t—"
"Don’t." His voice is low, quiet in the way that’s somehow worse than when he shouts. He steps closer, forcing me back until the backs of my knees hit the bed. "Don’t you fucking lie to me, Sophia."
I grip my phone tighter, wishing I could hide it, throw it, anything to keep this from turning into what I know it will. "He called me, Roberto. I didn’t tell him anything."
He tilts his head, studying my face like a man looking for cracks in stone. "You think I don’t know when you’re lying?"
"I’m not," I whisper.
He doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the way his jaw works, in the slight flare of his nostrils.
But he’s not going to hit me. Not here. Not now.
Not with his business unfinished. Instead, he leans down, his mouth brushing my ear.
"When we get home," he murmurs, and I can feel the smile in his words, "you and I are going to have a very long conversation about boundaries. "
He straightens, pocketing his own phone, and moves toward the minibar like we’re just another married couple winding down for the night. I stay frozen where I am, my phone still warm in my hand, Marcello’s voice echoes in my head. If he touches you, you call me.
If it were only that simple.
Because the man pouring himself a drink is already deciding how I’ll pay for this, and I know exactly how much that bill will hurt.