Chapter 32 RAFFAEL
The next day…
The next morning, she still moves through the house like smoke, thin, untouchable, impossible to hold on to.
I watch her at breakfast, eyes down, eating like it’s a chore she’s forcing herself to get through. She answers me when I speak, but it’s always clipped and distracted, like half her mind is still trapped somewhere I can’t follow.
I hate it.
I hate seeing her like this, wrapped in that haze.
I hate that I don’t know how to pull her out of it without breaking something fragile in the process.
I talked to Lexy about it yesterday; she's been with me long enough that I trust her word. She used to work for MI5, specifically their trafficking unit. She saved abused kids and teenagers for a living. Now she runs a shelter when she’s not working for me.
She knows this kind of damage, knows what it looks like, what it takes to heal.
She told me it will take time; for some victims, it takes years.
Fuck that. I don’t like it. Not at all. I’m willing to give Sophia all the time in the world if that’s what it takes, but hasn’t she suffered enough?
Lexy just shrugged and said, Sorry, there’s no crash course.
We’ll see about that.
Because I don’t want Sophia to hurt one more second.
Lexy mentioned a therapist she knows who specializes in intimate-partner violence. I offered the woman two million dollars to come stay at the house and take care of Sophia for as long as necessary. Gray picked her up early this morning, blindfolded her, and brought her to our place.
I was there to greet her when they arrived.
"This is highly unusual," Esther Bonnet said.
"Lexy vouched for you. Said you'll be discreet," I verified.
"Everything I do is confidential, even the… not so savory information." She inclined her head.
The woman was in her fifties; her eyes said she'd seen and heard a lot of ugly stuff, but there was a kindness to her that wrapped around even me like a mantle. And I don't get wrapped, ever.
"Good," I showed her to her suite, located on the east side of the house. It has its own entrance, kitchen, washer and dryer, and office, whatever she needs. Also, there’s a guard to ensure that she won't leave the premises, and a laptop provided for her that is hooked up to my surveillance team, just in case she has any funny ideas.
"Where is my patient?"
"I'll bring her by in a little bit; make yourself comfortable." I excused myself, wanting to get coffee going before Sophia got up.
Now I watch Sophia over the rim of my mug, mentally mapping out my day.
In a little while, I'll go visit with Roberto some more. He's slowly learning what it means to be at the mercy of someone else. I go by for a few hours each day, just enough to make him wish I’d kill him quickly. I make him tell me every detail of what he’s ever done to her—every slap, every bruise, every twisted thing—and then I pay him back in spades.
But even that satisfaction is poisoned. Hearing it makes me sick.
After the plates are cleared, I ask if she’d like to go for a walk.
She blinks at me, like she’s not sure if it’s a suggestion or an order, but when I grab my jacket and step toward the back door, she follows.
I watch her move right past the rack of jackets and sigh.
I grab one and put it on her, like I would with a child.
The air outside is crisp, the kind that wakes you up whether you want it to or not. The yard stretches behind the house, and dew still clings to the grass. The forest beyond stands tall and shadowed, its canopy breaking the morning light into gold and green shards.
We step under the trees, and for the first time in days, I see something shift in her. Her shoulders loosen. Her eyes lift from the ground. She breathes deeper, slower.
By the time we’ve gone a few hundred yards in, she’s touching the rough bark of an oak with her fingertips, looking up through the branches like she’s taking in something she forgot existed.
It’s not much, but it’s more than I’ve seen from her since I brought her here.
And I’ll take it.
I slow my pace so she can walk ahead of me, letting her set the route and the speed. When she glances back, there’s the faintest ghost of color in her cheeks.
For the first time since she set foot in my house, she doesn’t look like she’s bracing for impact.
"It’s so pretty," she says, almost to herself. "I forgot how good the forest smells."
The corner of my mouth lifts. "We can do this as often as you like," I promise her.
We walk a little farther, and the trees part to reveal a ribbon of sunlight dancing off moving water.
A stream cuts through the forest here, the water clear enough to see the pebbles on the bottom.
Her face lights up in a way I haven’t seen before—wide-eyed, almost childlike—and for a moment, I just watch her instead of the water.
Then I catch movement on the far bank. I lift a hand, pressing a finger to my lips, and she stills instantly. I point toward the source, and her gaze follows.
A buck—tall, antlers wide like a crown—stands at the water’s edge. He lowers his head, drinking slowly; every muscle in his body is alert. His ears flick, constantly scanning for danger, and his eyes move up between sips to survey the trees.
We stay there, side by side, the only sound the whisper of the stream and the quiet rhythm of his drinking. The air feels different in moments like this, heavy with stillness, but alive with the awareness that something wild is sharing the space with you.
I glance at Sophia, and the sight of her—eyes bright, lips slightly parted in awe—does something to me I can’t name. We watch the buck until he finally lifts his head, ears twitching toward some sound only he can hear, and disappears into the trees with a quiet grace.
Sophia’s eyes follow him until he’s gone, and then… the light in them dims.
"Am I like him?" she asks softly.
I frown. "What do you mean?"
"Always alert. Always scared. Always ready to be pounced on?"
I don’t even think. I can’t stop myself—I step forward and pull her into my arms. She stiffens immediately, her muscles tight under my hands, but I hold her like something precious I refuse to drop.
"Oh, bella mia," I murmur against her hair. "Don’t confuse alertness with fear."
She tilts her head slightly, like she’s not sure if she believes me.
"The buck isn’t a coward; he’s alive because he’s ready. Ready to fight, ready to run, ready to survive. And so are you." I lean back just enough to see her face, my hands still warm on her arms. "You’ve already survived the worst. That takes more courage than you know."
Her gaze drops, and I can see the words fighting to get past her lips.
"You think I’m strong?" she whispers, almost like she’s afraid to hear the answer.
"I know you are," I say without hesitation. "You just need… a little more time. A little more strength. And someone who will stand between you and anything that even thinks about hurting you again."
I let that hang there, making sure she understands I mean every word.
"You don’t have to do this alone anymore, bella mia." My voice softens further. "Not as long as I’m breathing."
Now is the time to tell her. "I hired someone, her name is Esther, she specializes in intimate-partner violence recovery."
She stares at me. Her lips part, but no sound comes out. For a long moment, we stand there, the trees swaying around us, the stream whispering over the stone.
For the first time, she looks like she might be starting to believe me. I feel her stiffen against me, and as much as I don’t want to let her go, I loosen my hold. The last thing I want is for her to think she’s trapped again.
"I can't talk to a therapist," she whispers.
"You can talk to her," I reassure her. "Lexy knows and trusts her. You can tell her anything."
"Anything?" Her brows wrinkle, and I know what she means. Mafia business is not something you talk about with outsiders.
"Anything," I nod. I’m not concerned she's going to reveal where the weapons are stashed or how we move drugs—if she even knows that information—she's too seasoned for that.
She laughs then, sharp, a little wild. “Oh yeah, that would be great,” she says in a voice that is thick with something like bile and humor mashed together.
“I’ll stroll into a therapist’s office and casually tell some stranger that my father would’ve killed me if I hadn’t married the mafia boss, that my husband thinks I’m property, that I watched the man who saved me run through my guards like they were paper, sporting an AR and a grin, angel of death and all.
I’ll tell her about trafficking, about the men with the van, about the things done in basements and listed in ledgers.
And while I’m at it, why don’t I add that my brother would probably disown me, that my father would slit my throat for the shame, and that everyone who hears it will want a piece of whatever I say?
Brilliant idea. Super casual. Perfect for Tuesday. ”
She’s grinning at the end of it, but her hands are shaking. She's wearing the sarcasm as a shield. I can see the panic perched like a bird on the edge of her ribs.
“You can’t just… spill that,” she adds quietly, the humor cracking. “What if she goes and tells people? What if she—” She bites off the sentence and swallows like it’s poison.
I watch the storm run across her face. I know the list, what she’d have to say, and who it would touch.
I know the way the world folds when a name gets loose.
So I keep my voice low, measured. “Esther’s not that kind of woman.
She’s done this work for years. Intimate-partner violence, trafficked women, people caught in family nets.
She knows the side-stepping, the names not spoken.
She understands families that move pieces for favors.
She’s careful because she’s seen the damage when people aren’t. ”
She laughs once more, small and brittle. “So she, what? Signs a contract with an NDA?”