28. Sofia
28
SOFIA
I wander through the villa’s winding corridors, admiring the ornate paintings lining the walls. Renaissance masterpieces that would make my gallery’s collection look modest. The morning sun streams through tall windows, casting long shadows across antique Persian rugs.
“Signorina, would you like some breakfast?” A petite woman in a black dress approaches. Her silver hair is pulled back in a neat bun.
“Yes, thank you.” My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since yesterday. “I’m Sofia.”
“Emma.” She gives a small bow. “The dining room is this way.”
I follow her down a sweeping staircase into a grand room with a long mahogany table. Only one place is set.
“Where is everyone else?” I ask, settling into the chair as Emma pours coffee into a delicate tea cup.
“The Signor has business in town. The staff are at your disposal.” She places a plate of fresh pastries before me.
I sip the rich espresso, studying the room’s details, such as the crystal chandelier, the carved ceiling, and the views of Florence beyond the terrace. This is old money, generations of wealth and power.
“Has my father visited recently?” I ask.
Emma’s expression tightens. “I cannot discuss family matters, Signorina. My apologies.”
I nod, picking at a flaky cornetto. The silence in this massive villa is deafening. Where are all these relatives Mario mentioned? Do they know I exist? Do they want me here?
Through the terrace doors, I spot gardeners tending immaculate topiaries. Two men in dark suits patrol the grounds, earpieces visible. Not just staff, then, but security. I’m being watched.
“Would you like a tour of the gardens?” Emma asks. “They’re lovely this time of year.”
“Maybe later.” I stand, needing to move. “I’d like to explore inside first if that’s allowed?”
“Of course. The library is just down that hall.” She gestures to double doors of rich mahogany. “Please let me know if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” I reply, walking down the hall toward the library.
I push open the heavy mahogany doors, and my breath catches. Floor-to-ceiling shelves stretch two stories high, filled with leather-bound volumes in various languages. The scent of old paper and wood polish fills my nose. A spiral staircase winds up to a wraparound balcony, and plush reading chairs are scattered throughout.
My fingers trail along the spines as I walk deeper into the room. First editions of Dante, Petrarch, and other Italian classics catch my eye. In another section, I find art history texts that would make my academic colleagues weep with envy.
Settling into a leather armchair by the window, I pull a worn copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray . The pages fall open naturally, suggesting others have read it before me. I try to lose myself in Wilde’s prose, but my thoughts drift to Nikolai.
Is he tearing Boston apart looking for me? I picture him in his office, barking orders into his phone while his brothers coordinate search efforts. He must be furious, worried... maybe even scared. The thought of Nikolai being afraid seems wrong, somehow.
The sun shifts, casting shadows across the page. I haven’t turned it in minutes, too caught up imagining Nikolai’s steel-gray eyes darkened with concern. Would he understand this family connection or see it as a threat to our relationship?
I close the book, unable to focus. Through the window, I watch guards patrol the grounds below. Their movements are precise and professional, just like Nikolai’s security team. Everything about this place speaks of power, but I feel lost in this world without him.
I look up from my book as the library door creaks open. A man steps in, his expensive Italian suit perfectly tailored to his tall frame. My breath catches as I meet his eyes—the same green-gold shade as mine. His gray hair is styled neatly, but deep lines around his mouth and eyes show recent strain.
He stands frozen in the doorway, staring at me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken words. His hands tremble slightly as they grip the doorframe, and I notice a gold signet ring on his right hand.
Something in his haunted expression tugs at my heart. Rising from my chair, I smooth my skirt and take a tentative step forward.
“Hello,” I say softly, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m Sofia.”
A muscle twitches in his jaw as he studies my face, like memorizing every detail or searching for something—or someone—in my features.
I wait, my heart pounding against my ribs. Is this him? My father? The man whose condition Mario said was deteriorating? Questions crowd my throat, but I hold them back, giving him time to find his voice.
The man takes another step into the library, his hands dropping to his sides. “Antonio,” he says softly, his accent thick. “ Mi dispiace ... I’m sorry.” He switches to rapid Italian, words flowing like music I can’t understand.
My brow furrows. “I don’t speak Italian.”
Another tear slips down his weathered cheek as he crosses the space between us. His arms open, hesitant, like he’s afraid, I’ll vanish if he moves too quickly. His scent—rich coffee and tobacco—envelops me as his arms lock me against his chest.
I stiffen at first, unsure how to respond to this stranger, my father. His shoulders shake as he holds me, and I feel his tears dampen my hair. Something deep inside me shifts, a piece clicking into place that I never knew was missing.
My eyes burn as I slowly lift my arms to return his hug. He’s muttering in Italian again, pressing kisses to the top of my head between words I don’t understand. His grip tightens, desperate like he’s trying to make up for twenty years of missed embraces in this single moment.
Tears stream down my cheeks as Antonio holds me. The dam inside me breaks, releasing years of loneliness and loss. Since losing my adoptive parents, I’ve carried the weight of being completely alone in the world. No family left to call my own, no one to turn to in need.
His arms—unfamiliar yet somehow known—tighten around me as years of loss and confusion finally break free in wracking sobs. The expensive fabric of his suit grows damp beneath my cheek, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“It’s okay, piccola ,” he whispers, switching to English. “I’m here now. As long as I’m alive, you’ll never be alone again.”
My chest squeezes at his words. I pull away, wiping my eyes to glance at him. “That won’t be long, will it?”
The pain that flashes across his face confirms my fears. His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing away fresh tears. His green-gold eyes—my eyes—shine with unshed tears of his own.
“I should have found you sooner,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “All these years, I kept away from fear of what Lucia would do to you... I’m so sorry, Sofia.”
I lean into his touch, allowing myself to feel the connection I’ve craved for so long. The hole in my heart that even Nikolai couldn’t fill begins to heal, even as it breaks anew, knowing our time together will be short.
I take a steadying breath, pulling back from Antonio’s embrace. “Mario told me about the plan. About finding me a ‘suitable’ Italian husband to secure the family’s future.”
Antonio’s expression shifts, a shadow crossing his features.
“Is that what you want for me? An arranged marriage, like you had with Lucia?” My voice cracks. “The same woman who—from what I understand—is why we were separated in the first place?”
He steps back, running a hand through his silver hair. “Sofia...”
“You loved my mother—Maria—didn’t you? But they made you marry Lucia instead.” I watch pain flash across his face at my birth mother’s name. “And look how that turned out. My mother dead, me hidden away in America, and you trapped in a loveless marriage.”
“It wasn’t that simple,” he says softly, but I can see the truth in his eyes.
“Wasn’t it? They’re trying to do the same thing to me now. Continue this cycle of control and manipulation.” I wrap my arms around myself. “I won’t do it. I won’t let them force me to marry someone I don’t love.”
Antonio sinks into a nearby chair, looking suddenly older and more fragile. “I lost everything because I didn’t fight hard enough for your mother. For you.” His fingers trace the signet ring on his hand. “I let them convince me it was for the best, for the family. But they were wrong.”
“Then help me,” I plead. “Don’t let them do to me what they did to you.”
Antonio’s shoulders slump as he leans forward in the chair. “Mario is... traditional. Set in his old ways. He believes bloodlines are everything.”
“But surely there are others who could take over? Cousins?” I pace in front of the window.
“Yes, there are cousins.” He rubs his temple. “The Castellano line would continue through them. But Mario...” Antonio’s voice drops. “He wants to prove something. To show everyone that the issue wasn’t with me.”
I stop pacing, turning to face him. “What do you mean?”
“For years, Lucia spread rumors that I was... unable to father children.” His jaw clenches. “That’s why we had no heirs. But you...” His eyes meet mine, filled with pride. “You’re living proof that she was the one who couldn’t conceive.”
The weight of his words settles over me. All these years of secrets and lies, power plays and reputation. And now I’m caught in the middle of it.
“I won’t let them force you into anything,” Antonio says firmly, standing up. “I made that mistake once, letting them control my life, my choices. I lost your mother because of it.” He crosses to me, taking my hands in his. “I won’t lose you too.”
His grip tightens, and I see determination replace the earlier weakness in his stance. “You’re my daughter. My blood. But more importantly, you’re your own person. If Mario can’t accept that...” He straightens his shoulders. “Then he’ll have to find another way to preserve his precious legacy.”
I wrap my arms around Antonio, breathing in his expensive cologne. “Thank you for understanding. For standing up to Mario.” My voice catches. “For choosing me over tradition.”
He strokes my hair, the gesture so paternal makes my chest ache. “I should have done it years ago, piccola .”
Drawing back, I smooth my skirt. “So I can go home? Back to Boston?”
Antonio’s face falls, lines deepening around his mouth. “I had hoped...” He clears his throat. “The treatments keep me here in Florence. The specialists, they say...” His hands tremble slightly as he adjusts his cuffs. “I don’t have much time left, Sofia. Months, maybe.”
I’ve just found him, and already, time is slipping away.
“Stay,” he says softly. “Not forever. Just let me know you, my daughter. Let me share what’s left of my life with you.”
I lower into the sleek leather chair, processing his words. The gallery can run without me for a while. My assistant is more than capable. And Nikolai...
“How long?” I ask.
“A few weeks? A month?” His green-gold eyes shine with hope. “My villa has an excellent art collection. And Florence...” He gestures to the window. “The birthplace of the Renaissance. Your expertise would be welcome here.”
My throat tightens. How can I say no? This man gave up everything to protect me as a child. Now he’s choosing me again, defying his father to support my freedom.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll stay. For a little while.”
The smile that lights up his face makes my decision worth it. He pulls me into another embrace, and I don’t hesitate to hug him back.