Chapter 28 RAFFAEL
"Keep them locked up, separately. I'll be back," I promise between clenched teeth as I pick up the only woman who has ever mattered to me.
I wasn't sure what I expected when I exposed myself to her, but not her fainting. Not the fear I saw reflected in her eyes.
"You've got it, boss," Gray promises, as stoic as ever. I wonder if my men suspect that I have feelings for Sophia. Hell, at this point, it would be hard to keep it even from Yosh. After the shitstorm in Caracas, I owe them all an explanation. Later, I tell myself. Now it's only about her. Sophia.
Several SUVs are parked outside. I left the bike at the computer shop, making Yosh work overtime, not that I give a shit about that.
I didn't expect Sophia to be in such bad shape, but at least I had the forethought to realize that taking her home on the Ducati probably wouldn't be a wise move. Not yet.
I cradle her in my arms, and she feels like she's always belonged there. I give the driver the address in the Catskills. Nobody has been there before, besides Igor. But I have a feeling that the time of living as a king in the shadows is over. It's time I take my rightful place in La Famiglia.
Once we're inside the SUV, Sophia still cradled in my arms, one of my men slams the door shut behind us, and the engine hums to life. We pull away fast, the tires chew up the road, and the estate shrinks in the rearview. But I don’t look back.
I can’t.
Because all I can do is stare at the unconscious woman in my arms. At the bruises. All over her face. Her throat. Her arms and wrists. The low flickering cabin light does nothing to hide them. If anything, it makes them appear more sinister.
Some are dark and raw, their color muted by concealer, artfully applied, but there’s a new one, blooming like poisoned flowers around her throat.
The sight makes my entire body freeze. My grip tightens, not on her, but on the rage that surges through me.
I came too late. Too fucking late. I fucked up in Caracas.
I should’ve moved sooner, planned faster.
I thought I was being smart, strategic—what a fucking joke—I blundered the moment of surprise.
While I was counting bullets and bodies and alliances, he was putting his hands on her.
Her! The woman I love more than anything on this earth, and she’s even more broken than she was hours earlier because I wasn’t there to stop it.
There’s no comfort in her being safe now.
Not when she had to suffer to get here. Not when every second of that agony is written across her skin in purples and reds.
She stirs in my arms. I'm mesmerized as her eyes flutter open. They're bleary, dazed, and unfocused one moment, and then they're sharp. Focusing straight on me.
She blinks once. Twice.
Realization crashes in.
She pushes against me, not hard, she's too weak for that, but enough to get the message across that she doesn't want to be in my arms. So I let her go.
But it fucking hurts. Even more when I watch her scoot away instantly, like I'm going to hurt her.
The way he did. More rage against Roberto churns in my guts.
What he did to her, to make her this afraid, is unforgivable, and I'll make him pay for a long time. He's going to die in utter agony.
She scoots all the way to the far end of the bench seat, where she wedges her body into the corner and pulls her knees to her chest, her arms wrapping around herself like a lifeline.
She looks like a lost child. My heart cramps.
Her gaze is downcast and her voice low, "Why am I here? What do you want from me?”
The words hit harder than a bullet because I don’t know how to answer her. Not really. I wasn't prepared for her fear. For her to recoil from me. This is not how it was when I rescued her before. Not even close.
Do I say: I came for you?
Do I say: I’m sorry?
Do I say: I still love you so much it hurts to breathe?
None of it feels right. Especially since I never told her in the first place.
None of it feels like enough because I came too late. Years too late.
So I just sit there, staring at the woman I’d kill a thousand men for, and say the only thing that comes close, "To make sure he never touches you again."
She takes a ragged breath. It takes a moment before she looks up, but her eyes still won't meet mine. "Where are you taking me?"
That one is easy. "I have a house in the Catskills. You'll be safe there."
Her gaze turns down again. She doesn’t ask why or press for details.
She doesn't speak at all. She just sits there like she's resigned to whatever fate will put her through next. She turns her face to the window, keeping her body curled into itself like she’s trying to disappear.
The silence between us stretches, becoming thick and painful.
I sit there, letting my hands rest on my knees, afraid that even breathing too loudly might set her off again. I’ve killed men of all races and ages. I’ve stared down enemies twice my size and walked away the last one standing. But right now, in this SUV, I’ve never felt more powerless in my life.
The drive feels endless. Every second she spends pressed into that corner like she wants to crawl out of her own skin adds another stone to the weight already crushing my chest.
I stole her back from hell. And now I don’t even know if she wants to be saved.
By the time we pull up to the cabin, dusk has turned to full dark. The house rises from the trees like a ghost. All modern angles and quiet strength, tucked deep in the Catskills. I built it with glass and stone, but all I ever imagined inside it was warmth. Her laughter. Her light.
I can’t tell her that now. I can’t tell her I built this place for her.
She doesn’t ask whose house it is or how I can afford something like this. She just climbs out slowly after me, her steps dragging, her arms still wrapped around herself. Always a step behind. Always just out of reach.
It kills me.
I want to carry her inside. I want to wrap her in blankets and make the world go away. I want to rewind time and stop every bruise from ever happening.
But I can’t touch her.
Not now.
I lead the way up the stone steps, punching in the code at the side panel. The door unlocks with a soft click.
I turn to her. "Come in."
She hesitates, just for a second. Then follows.
Inside, the house is warm. Clean. Quiet. Exposed beams, open space, and soft lighting. I had it designed to be a refuge from the noise of our world. Somewhere safe.
I don’t know if she even sees it.
She’s still hugging herself like she’ll fall apart if she lets go.
I gesture toward the long couch in the living room. "You can sit."
She doesn’t move right away. Warily, she takes in me and her surroundings before she lowers herself slowly onto the edge of the cushions, like she’s waiting for the couch to bite her. I have no idea what to say or do. I watch her stare at the floor. "Do you want some water?"
She shakes her head.
"Food?"
Nothing.
I drag a hand through my hair and take a seat across from her, keeping my distance. "Should I call a doctor?"
She shakes her head again.
"Do you want some Tylenol?"
Another shake.
"I’m not going to hurt you, Sophia," I say quietly.
Her arms tighten around herself.
"I know that doesn’t mean anything right now," I add. "But it’s the truth."
A beat passes.
Then her voice, a whisper, "Why now?"
Fuck, that single question obliterates my heart. Shatters it, the pieces piercing my soul with an agony that's beyond words. I swallow hard. Why now indeed?
Because I saw what he did to her. Because I saw what I let happen by walking away. Because I couldn’t live with it for one more fucking day.
But all I can say is, "Because I should’ve done it a long time ago."
And because I still love you. But I can’t say that part either.
Not when she can’t even look me in the eyes.
I show her to the guest room. It’s the nicest one in the house besides the master.
Everything was built with her in mind, I just never once, for one second, considered she might be sleeping in here and not with me.
This room seems inviting enough with its soft ivory walls, floor-to-ceiling windows that look out into the woods, and a bed that’s never been slept in. I never brought anyone here.
Not even once.
She walks in slowly, still keeping her arms wrapped tight around her ribcage, like she’s afraid it might all vanish if she breathes too loud.
"I’ll leave the door open while I’m in here," I tell her, my voice low. Measured. "You can lock it from the inside."
She doesn’t respond. Just sits down on the edge of the bed, knees together, fingers clenched in the fabric of her skirt.
I don’t push. Even though I want to. I want to hear her tell me the hell she went through.
I need to hear it before I can beg her forgiveness.
I need to hear it, so I can plan what I'm going to do to Roberto.
After a moment, I step out and run into the kitchen.
I need something to do. Her silence is driving me mad.
I return with a small tray. Just something warm, bread, sliced fruit, a cup of fucking chamomile tea.
I also bring a bottle of water and a small white pill.
When I set the tray down on the dresser, she doesn’t even glance at it.
"I brought you something to help you sleep," I say gently, holding out the pill in my palm. "It’s just a Xanax. You won’t feel it hit, but you’ll sleep through the night."
Her eyes flick to mine for the first time since we got here. There’s a long pause. Then, without a word, she takes it. No water. No questions. Deep inside me, I suspect she would have taken it even if I’d told her it was poison. Just to escape. That thought hurts like hell.
I sit down in the chair across the room. Not close. Not far. And I wait. She lies down slowly, curls onto her side facing away from me, and after a few minutes, her breathing evens out. The pill did its job.