Chapter 36 Sophia
For a moment, I let myself slip into the dream I used to cling to in the worst of nights. My wedding day, the church heavy with flowers and false smiles, and then—Raffael. Storming in, gun in hand, killing every last man who dared stand between us. Kidnapping me. Saving me.
A sigh slips from me, half longing, half sorrow. As bloodthirsty as the vision is, I know one thing with a terrible certainty: I wouldn’t have hated him for it. I wouldn’t have stopped him. I would have run into his arms without hesitation.
But now I understand what that would have meant.
La Famiglia would have hunted us to the ends of the earth.
They would have put a bullet through Raffael’s skull, and when the blood dried, they’d have bound me to someone else just as cruel, just as demonic as Roberto.
My prison would have only changed faces without anybody left to rescue me.
I turn my head and catch our reflection in the storm-darkened window.
Raffael’s silhouette is a fortress beside mine, both of us framed in the glass like ghosts in someone else’s story.
Outside, the storm churns. Branches thrash in the wind, shadows bending and snapping against the night.
Rain spatters the glass so hard it rattles in the frame, chaotic, violent, relentless.
It feels like my life. Like my mind. Torn and twisted, lashed by forces I can’t control. Yet, there’s power in it. Power in the storm, power in the chaos. It owns the day, bends the world to its fury. I stare into the dark. God, if only I had some of that in me.
The storm beats against the windows like it wants in, every gust of wind rattles the glass until it hums. I’m curled against Raffael on the couch, feeling his chest rise and fall under my cheek, when his body shifts—tense, restless.
"Sophia," he says, my name rough in his throat. "There’s something else I need to tell you. Something no one else knows."
A shiver slips down my spine. His voice carries a weight that presses into the room, heavier than everything he’s already laid bare.
Whatever he’s about to say feels bigger—darker—than anything before.
I tuck my knees in, like I can shield myself from the impact, and my fingers curl tight against the fabric of my sweater.
When I finally manage to speak, my voice is softer than I mean it to be, cautious but unflinching. "What is it, Raffael?"
He doesn’t answer right away. His hand drags through his dark hair, and his jaw is set like he’s fighting himself. Then he stands, paces once, like a caged lion, before turning back toward me. "Do you know the name Ledyanoy Prizrak?"
I shake my head slowly. "No."
"The Icy Ghost," he clarifies, and the sound of the name sends a chill across my skin. "A ghost the underworld whispers about. A man who kills so clean that no one survives to tell the story. If you feel a cold wind before death, it’s him."
Lightning splits the sky outside, flooding the room for a heartbeat. His face in that light looks harder, older, scarred with truths I don’t understand.
My throat works as I force myself to ask, "What does he have to do with you?"
"Everything, apparently," he says in a low voice that almost sounds guttural. He's rattled. Like he hasn't quite come to terms with whatever he’s about to say. He comes back to me then and crouches in front of me, so close I can see the storm mirrored in his eyes. I cup his face.
"Whatever it is, we can figure it out together."
A smile curves his lips as he takes my hands and kisses them. "You have no idea what a gift you are to me."
Warmth spreads through me. I don’t think he has any idea what his words mean to me.
Nobody has said anything like this to me in…
a very long time. I roll my shoulders, trying to look braver than I feel, because I can’t shake the sense that what he’s revealed so far is only the beginning.
There’s more, something deeper, waiting just beneath the surface.
My throat works as I force myself to ask, "What does he have to do with you? "
His eyes don’t move from mine. "He told me that I’m the son of Leonardo Zanello."
The words hang there, heavy, impossible. For a second, I think I misheard him.
"What?"
He nods once. "Yeah. That was my reaction too."
I shake my head, trying to piece it together. "No. Leonardo Zanello was—"
"Don Edoardo’s father," he finishes for me. "And mine."
The air between us goes still. My hands fall from his face as I stare at him, shocked. My fingers curl into his shirt again to ground myself, because I don’t know what else to do. It’s too much. My father. Roberto. Edoardo. Now this. It’s like all the lines I thought I knew are blurring together.
Finally, I manage, "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you deserve to know who I am," he replies honestly. "All of me. Even the parts I haven’t figured out yet."
The storm reflects in his eyes, a dark mirror of everything he carries inside. He looks torn, like he wants to tell me more but isn’t sure how.
I'm still clinging to his shirt. "Whatever it is," I repeat in a whisper, my voice sounding steadier than I expected, "we can figure it out together."
"What if I want more?" He asks.
"More what?"
A determined look crosses his features, "I was told I was an orphan, a burden, a nobody, for as long as I can remember."
My heart clenches at the thought of him being a little boy and thinking he was a burden. I look into his eyes, ready to comfort him, but I don't find the despondence I expected, only a deep-set desire.
"But I always knew," he brings his fist to his heart to emphasize his words, "that I was born for more. That one day I would be more than them." By them, he means men like my father and Roberto. "And now I know."
His eyes won't let go of mine, and the desire that burns in his intensifies. "What if I want to be the Don?"
I swallow. My heart jumps into my throat as I consider the consequences; scenarios run and play out through my head. If he wants to be the Don, he needs to fight Edoardo. And possibly the other capos as well. It would mean a war. An ugly, brutal war.
I think of all the things he's done for me. Of how much he means to me. There is only one answer I can give him, "If that is what you want, then I will support you any way I can."
Something in him cracks then, not in weakness but release, like the weight of holding it alone is finally too much. His mouth curves, a smile that doesn’t quite hide the strain but is real all the same. He nods, more to himself.
"Is that what you want?" I ask.
"I want the option. I want to think about it." He answers honestly.
For a long moment, it’s just us, his forehead resting against my hands, the storm rolling outside, and the fragile, terrifying thought that maybe, just maybe, we’re strong enough to face what’s coming.
But then the silence shifts. Not away from the storm, but deeper into it.
His eyes search mine, raw and unguarded, and I realize this isn’t just about secrets or scars anymore.
It’s about us. About what’s been building for years between us, buried and now clawing its way out.
My breath catches because I can feel it, the want simmering beneath his restraint, the hunger in the way his hands still cradle mine like I’m something precious.
Out of nowhere, images of last night and the things he did to my body assault me.
The way his mouth worshipped me, the way his touch asked and never took, the way he gave me the kind of pleasure I didn’t know existed.
How my body had felt loose, unknotted, truly mine again afterward.
It was more than release, it was an exorcism, a healing.
It was proof that I could feel good without fear.
The memory sends warmth spiraling low in my belly, chasing back the shadows for just a moment.
Maybe we both need this now. Him, with his darkness pressing in from every side.
Me, with my ghosts clawing at my ribs. Maybe the only thing that makes sense in all this chaos is the way we fit together.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I lean forward and kiss him.
Soft at first, almost testing, but the sound he makes against my lips is pure devastation.
His grip tightens, his mouth answers mine with a desperation that undoes me.
The storm pounds outside, thunder rattles the windows as if the world itself is breaking open, and I don’t care. All I care about is the man beneath me, the man who has always been both my danger and my salvation.
I shift on the cushions, the storm rattling the windows as if it knows what’s breaking loose inside me. He’s still crouched there, below me, his face in my hands, like he’s ready to carry every weight I can’t bear. But I don’t want him beneath me, not like this.
"Raffael," I whisper, nudging him upward, pulling until he rises, until we’re level, face to face. My legs part, making space for him, and in a heartbeat, he’s between my knees, braced over me on the sofa, every line of him tense, holding back.
His hands hover, suspended, trembling like he’s terrified of breaking me.
So I take them, place them firmly on my waist, and hold them there, anchoring him where I need him most.
"Sophia," he groans, my name thick in his throat, half-prayer, half-curse.
I shake my head. The storm is still hammering against the glass behind me, urging me forward. "No," I murmur, sliding my palms down his chest, over the hard ridges of muscle, feeling the strength he always tries to cage. "Not like this."
I press gently on his shoulders, guiding him back.
He resists for a heartbeat, confusion flickers in his eyes, but I don’t let go.
I push again, firmer this time, and with a rough exhale, he lets me move him.
I turn him, urging him down until he sits, his broad frame sinks into the cushions, his breath is ragged as he stares up at me like I’ve just undone him.