26. Sofia
26
SOFIA
I blink against the soft morning light filtering through gauzy curtains. My head throbs with a dull ache as I try to piece together how I got here.
The last thing I remember is being at the gallery cataloging new acquisitions. Then... nothing. It was a black hole where memories should be.
I push myself up slowly, fighting a wave of dizziness. The room is massive, decorated in cream and gold tones with ornate moldings along the ceiling. A crystal chandelier hangs above, catching prismatic light. It’s beautiful but completely unfamiliar.
“Hello?” My voice comes out raspy. No answer.
Testing my limbs, I find I’m still in my gallery clothes—a black pencil skirt and silk blouse, though they’re wrinkled now. My shoes are neatly placed by an antique armchair.
The bedside table holds a crystal water carafe and glass. Despite my parched throat, I don’t dare drink it. Not until I know where I am and how I got here.
Moving to the window, I peer through the curtains. We’re high up, maybe fifteen floors, with a view of manicured gardens below. The architecture looks Mediterranean—terra cotta roof tiles and white stucco walls. Palm trees sway in a gentle breeze.
This isn’t Boston. This isn’t anywhere near Boston.
My pulse quickens as panic starts to set in. I check my pockets, but my phone is gone. The door is heavy wood with ornate brass hardware. I rush over to it and try the handle, only to find it locked.
A wave of nausea hits, and I collapse onto the bed, pressing my fingers to my temples. Think, Sofia. What happened at the gallery? There were voices, unfamiliar men... then nothing.
I’ve been taken. Kidnapped. But by whom? And why?
The lock clicks and I freeze as the door begins to open.
The door swings open, and an elderly man enters. His silver hair and expensive suit speak of wealth, but his eyes catch my attention because they’re a green-gold shade that mirrors mine.
“Who are you? Where am I?” I take backward steps away until my legs hit the bed.
He raises his hands in a placating gesture. “I'm Mario Castellano.”
My cultivated poise fractures as the familiar name pierces my defenses. Castellano. The family Nikolai warned me about. The ones who killed my foster parents. My birth family.
“Stay back.” I grab the water carafe, ready to use it as a weapon. My hands shake, but my grip remains firm.
“Please, Sofia. I mean, you no harm. I’m your grandfather.” Mario’s accent carries a gentle Italian lilt, but I remember what Nikolai told me about them—their violence, their ruthlessness.
“You murdered them.” My voice cracks. “My foster parents. They were innocent.”
Mario’s face falls, genuine pain crossing his features. “That was not my order. Your father’s wife...” He shakes his head. “I would never have harmed them. You were safe with them, protected.”
“Protected?” I bark out a harsh laugh. “They died in a staged car accident. Because of me. Because of who I am.”
“Sofia, piccolina ...” He takes a step forward.
“Don’t!” I raise the carafe higher. “Don’t call me that. You lost any right to family terms when your organization killed the only parents I’ve known.”
His shoulders slump, but his eyes, which are so eerily like my own, remain fixed on me. “I understand your anger. But there are things you need to know about your heritage, about who you really are.”
“I know who I am.” The words come out stronger than I feel. “Nikolai told me everything.”
Mario’s expression hardens at Nikolai’s name. “Ah yes, the Russian. He’s filled your head with his version of truth despite not knowing it. But there are many truths, Sofia. Many sides to this story.”
“My father...” The words feel strange on my tongue. “Does he want me dead too?”
Mario’s face softens, and he takes a careful step forward. When I don’t raise the carafe higher, he continues. “No, piccolina . Your father doesn’t even know about his wife’s attempts on your life. He believes the story she told him years ago—that your mother took you and vanished.”
I lower the carafe slightly, my arms trembling from holding it up. “Then why?”
“His wife, Lucia...” Mario’s jaw tightens. “She couldn’t give him children. For years, they tried. Then she discovered the truth about your mother, about you. About how your father had hidden you away right under her nose, giving you a life of privilege while she suffered through miscarriage after miscarriage.”
The carafe slips from my grip, but Mario catches it before it can shatter. He sets it gently on the bedside table.
“She was furious,” he continues. “To learn that not only had her husband been unfaithful, but that his illegitimate child lived a charmed life while she...” He shakes his head. “Her bitterness consumed her.”
“So she tried to kill me?” My voice comes out small, childlike. “Because she couldn’t have children of her own?”
Mario’s words come slowly, each one weighted with grief. “Your father and mother discovered Lucia’s plans to harm you. They knew she would never stop until...” He pauses, collecting himself. “Antonio and Maria made arrangements in secret. Found you a safe home far from Florence, far from the family politics and danger.”
My legs give out, and I sink onto the bed. “I was six?”
“Yes. Old enough to adapt to a new family, young enough to forget the old one.” Mario’s eyes glisten. “Your mother, Maria... she was remarkable. She orchestrated everything, ensuring you would have a normal life away from all this.”
“What happened to her?” Though Nikolai told me, I want to hear it from him.
“Two months after getting you safely to Boston...” Mario’s voice catches. “Her car went off a mountain road outside Florence. The brake lines had been cut.”
Just like my foster parents. The same signature. The same killer.
“Lucia.” The name tastes like poison on my tongue.
Mario nods. “We could never prove it, but...” He spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. “The timing was too perfect. And she had done her research well and made it look like an accident, just as she would years later with your foster parents.”
The room spins as memories flash through my mind—fragments of a woman’s warm smile, the scent of jasmine, a lullaby sung in Italian—my mother, the one who gave up everything to save me.
“Did she...” I have to swallow hard before continuing. “Did she suffer?”
“No, piccolina .” Mario’s voice is gentle. “The investigators said it was instant. She didn’t feel any pain.”
I press my hands to my face as tears slip through my fingers. All these years, I’d wondered about my birth parents and imagined scenarios of why they gave me up. I never imagined this—a mother’s ultimate sacrifice to keep her child safe.
Mario settles into the antique armchair, his expression shifting to something more serious. “Sofia, there’s another reason I brought you here. The family needs you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your father, Antonio... he’s sick. Terminal cancer.” Mario’s voice roughens. “The doctors give him months, at best.”
The news is like being struck by lightning. A father I never knew, dying before I ever got the chance to meet him.
“I retired years ago,” Mario continues. “I’m too old to lead effectively. The family needs new blood, fresh leadership.” His eyes fix on mine. “You’re the heir, Sofia. It’s time for you to step up, marry a suitable Italian man, and take your rightful place.”
“No.” The word emerges forcefully. “I won’t be forced into some arranged marriage.”
“You don’t understand. This is your duty, your birthright?—”
“I’m in love with Nikolai.”
Mario’s face darkens. “The Russian? Impossible. He may not be our direct enemy since he operates in Boston while we’re based in Florence, but...” He shakes his head. “A Russian cannot lead an Italian family. The old guard would never accept it.”
“I don’t care about the old guard. Or about leading the family.” I stand, squaring my shoulders. “I appreciate you telling me the truth about my past, about my mother. But I won’t give up my life, give up Nikolai, to fulfill some dynastic obligation.”
“You’re being naive?—”
“No, I’m being honest. I love him. And if that means walking away from this inheritance and family, then that’s what I’ll do.”
Mario’s kind demeanor shifts, his eyes turning cold as winter frost. The transformation sends a chill down my spine.
“You think this is a choice?” His voice carries an edge I hadn’t heard before. “The family needs an heir. Your father is dying. This isn’t about what you want anymore.”
My chin rises as I refuse to cower. “And how did forcing my father into an arranged marriage work out? Look where we are now—his wife tried to kill his child, killed my mother, and murdered my foster parents. All because of some outdated notion of duty and arranged marriages.”
“You don’t understand our ways?—”
“No, I understand perfectly. History is repeating itself.” I take a step toward him. “You forced my father to marry Lucia instead of my mother. How many lives were destroyed because of that decision? And now you want to do the same to me?”
Mario’s jaw tightens. “The family comes first. Always.”
“The family?” I laugh bitterly. “The same family that drove my mother to hide me away and got her killed?”
“Enough!” Mario slams his hand on the armrest. “You will do as you’re told. You will marry who we choose. And you will lead this family as is your duty.”
“Or what? You’ll kill me, too?” The words hang in the air between us. “Add me to the list of family casualties?”
His silence speaks volumes.
“You’re no better than Lucia,” I spit out. “At least she was honest about her intentions to destroy lives. You hide behind tradition and duty while doing the exact same thing.”
Mario’s rigid posture softens slightly, and he releases a heavy sigh. “Sofia, I understand this is overwhelming. Finding out about your true heritage, your father’s condition, all of it... it’s a lot to process.”
“Then why force this on me now? Why not give me time?”
“Because time is the one luxury we don’t have.” He rubs his temples. “Your father’s condition is deteriorating rapidly.”
I pace the ornate room. “There must be other options. Surely there are cousins, other family members who actually want this role?”
“It’s not that simple?—”
“Why isn’t it?” I turn to face him. “The world has changed. Maybe it’s time for the family traditions to change, too. Why does it have to be a direct bloodline? Why not choose someone based on merit, someone who understands the business and wants to lead?”
Mario leans forward in his chair. “You speak of change, yet you don’t understand what’s at stake. The other families would see it as a weakness. They would move against us.”
“Or maybe they’d respect a choice that puts the family’s future above outdated traditions.” I sit on the edge of the bed, facing him. “There must be someone else who could take this on. Someone who’s been raised in this world, who understands all the complexities. I’m an art gallery owner from Boston. I know nothing about running a...” I hesitate, searching for the right words. “A family organization.”
“You have more natural talent than you realize,” Mario says softly. “The way you’ve built your gallery, your instincts for business, your ability to read people. These aren’t accidents.”
“That’s different. This is...” I gesture vaguely. “This is so much bigger.”
Mario rises from his chair, straightening his impeccable suit. “Just think about it, piccolina . That’s all I ask. Take some time to process everything.”
His use of the Italian endearment stirs something deep inside me—a half-remembered feeling of belonging that I quickly push away. I can’t let sentiment cloud my judgment, not with so much at stake.
“And if I refuse?”
“Let’s not discuss that now.” He moves toward the door with the fluid grace of someone used to power. “You’ll find fresh clothes in the wardrobe. The bathroom is through that door.” He gestures to a panel I hadn’t noticed before. “Feel free to explore this floor of the villa. My staff will attend to anything you need.”
I notice he doesn’t mention phones or outside contact. “Am I still a prisoner?”
“No, Sofia. You’re family.” His hand rests on the doorknob. “But I would advise against trying to leave. The grounds are heavily guarded, and we’re quite remote. It would be... unwise... to attempt anything foolish.”
The threat wrapped in concern isn’t lost on me. I remain silent as he opens the door.
He pauses in the doorway, looking back with those eyes so similar to mine. “Whatever you decide, know I truly want what’s best for you and our family.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click. No lock turning this time, but it doesn’t matter. I’m just as trapped as before. Only I’m in a larger gilded cage.
I sink back onto the bed, my head spinning with revelations about my past, my father’s illness, and the weight of expectations being thrust upon me. Somewhere in Boston, Nikolai must be looking for me. The thought both comforts and terrifies me. What will happen when the unstoppable force of his will meets the immovable object of my newfound family’s demands?