30. Sofia
30
SOFIA
I pace the marble floors of my gilded prison. As I scroll through news articles on the tablet Emma left me, my breath catches. There it is, splashed across every major art publication and society page: “Lost Castellano Heiress Found - Sofia Henley Revealed as Granddaughter of Italian Art Dynasty.”
My throat tightens. Photos from this afternoon’s press conference fill the screen of Mario standing at the podium, his silver hair gleaming under the lights as he announced who I really am to the world. While my father was getting chemo treatments, he was unable to stop this circus.
“Fuck.” I hurl the tablet onto a nearby chair.
This revelation now taints my carefully constructed life, independence, and gallery. I’ll never just be Sofia Henley again. I’m Sofia Castellano, a lost princess of an Italian crime family masquerading as art world royalty.
The weight of it crushes my chest. I sink to the floor, pressing my forehead against my knees as I try to breathe. The marble is cool against my bare legs, grounding me somewhat.
“You had no right,” I whisper to the empty room, thinking of Mario’s satisfied smile as he dropped this bomb on my life. “No fucking right.”
My phone buzzes again, probably with another reporter trying to get a statement. I’ve already received dozens of calls from art world contacts, each more probing than the last. Even Tash has been bombarded with questions about me.
The only person who hasn’t tried to contact me is Nikolai. He must have seen the news by now.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars, trying to hold back tears. Everything I thought I knew about myself, about my life, has been twisted into something unrecognizable. And I don’t know how to get it back.
I’m still pacing when I hear a soft scrape against the stone that shouldn’t be there. My steps falter as every nerve ending comes alive. The guards changed rotation five minutes ago. No one should be moving outside my window.
Another sound, barely perceptible.
I don’t think. I just move.
As I dive behind the massive oak dresser, the window explodes inward in a glass shower. Two figures in black tactical gear roll through the opening, weapons drawn. My heart pounds, but my mind is eerily calm, crystal-clearly processing details. Their movements are too precise, too practiced. These aren’t common thugs.
“Clear left,” one whispers in Italian.
I grab the heavy crystal vase from the dresser top and hurl it at the closer attacker’s head. He drops with a grunt, and the glass shatters. The second man swings toward the sound, but I’m already moving.
My leg sweeps out, catching his knee. As he stumbles, I drive my elbow up into his throat. His gun clatters to the floor. I kick it away, following up with a palm strike to his nose. Blood sprays.
The first man is recovering, reaching for his sidearm. I snatch the letter opener from the writing desk and drive it through his hand into the wooden floor. His scream is cut short as I slam his head against the baseboard.
Shouts and gunfire erupt from the hallway. The villa’s security team storms in, weapons raised.
“Miss Castellano!” The head of security rushes to my side. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head, staring at the unconscious men at my feet. My hands aren’t even trembling.
“They’re Lucia’s,” one guard says, noticing a logo on their gear.
My father’s wife. The one who doesn’t want me found alive.
“Get Miss Castellano somewhere secure,” the security chief barks. “Now!”
I’m hustled through dark corridors, the security team surrounding me in a tight formation. My bare feet slip against the marble floors as we descend a hidden stairwell I didn’t even know existed. The chief punches a code into a keypad, and steel doors slide open to reveal a panic room.
“Stay here, Miss Castellano. We’ll secure the perimeter.”
Before I can protest, the doors seal shut. I sink into one of the leather chairs, my adrenaline finally crashing. The room is well-appointed despite its purpose—mahogany panels, surveillance monitors, and what appears to be a fully stocked bar.
I’ve barely had time to process what happened when the doors slide open again. My father stumbles in, his face ashen.
“Sofia.” He crosses the room in three strides and pulls me into his arms. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”
I stiffen at first, then slowly relax into his embrace.
“Lucia...” His voice breaks. “I’ve been such a fool. For years, I convinced myself she wasn’t behind the attempts on your life, but she’s been trying to eliminate you since you were a child.”
“That’s why I was given up for adoption?”
He nods against my hair. “To protect you. And I’m sorry about my father too. Mario had no right to announce your identity to the world. His obsession with preserving the Castellano legacy has put you in danger.”
Drawing back, I lift my face. “Mario didn’t give me a choice.”
“No, he didn’t.” Antonio’s jaw tightens. “But I’m done letting others control our lives. It’s time I face what Lucia has done. No more hiding behind excuses or illness.”
The heavy doors slide open again, and Mario strides in, his expensive Italian loafers clicking against the floor. “Is everyone alright?”
“No, thanks to you,” my father snaps, his arm tightening around my shoulders. “What were you thinking, announcing her identity to the world without any preparation?”
“It was necessary. We needed to establish her position before?—”
“Before what?” Antonio’s voice rises. “Before Lucia could kill her? Well, congratulations, she just tried!”
“Enough!” I slam my hand against the mahogany table, making them both jump. “I’m right here, and I’m sick of everyone talking about me like I’m some chess piece to be moved around.”
Mario’s eyebrows lift. Antonio stares at me.
“You want me to step up? Fine. But we do this my way.” I straighten my spine, channeling every ounce of steel I’ve developed running my gallery. “First, we deal with Lucia. I won’t live my life looking over my shoulder. Second, no more press conferences or public announcements without my explicit approval.”
“Sofia—” Mario starts.
“I’m not finished.” I meet his gaze steadily. “You want a Castellano heir? Then treat me like one. I run my own business. I make my own decisions. I’m not some lost little girl you can mold into whatever you want.”
A slow smile spreads across Mario’s face. “There she is. That’s the Castellano fire I was hoping to see.”
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” I snap. “Your stunt nearly got me killed tonight.”
“And yet here you stand, having taken down two trained assassins without breaking a sweat.” He spreads his hands. “Perhaps I know my granddaughter better than you think.”
“Sofia,” my father says softly. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do.” I square my shoulders. “But I’m doing it for me, not for either of you.”
“And another thing,” I say, cutting off Mario’s self-satisfied smile. “I won’t be part of any arranged marriage schemes you might be cooking up. That’s non-negotiable.”
Mario’s expression darkens. “Sofia, certain alliances are expected?—”
“No.” I plant my hands on the mahogany table. “I choose who I want to be with, regardless of their nationality.
The word hangs in the air like a thunderclap. Antonio’s face pales while Mario’s reddens.
“Ivanov.” Mario spits the name like poison. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am.” My voice doesn’t waver. “And if you try to force this issue, you’ll lose me before you ever really had me.”
My thoughts drift to Nikolai. Will he even want me anymore, now that I’m not just the gallery owner he became obsessed with but the heir to a foreign criminal empire?
“The Ivanovs are Russian,” Mario says, his accent thickening with anger.
“And what exactly is your point?” I cross my arms, meeting Mario’s thunderous gaze. “The Ivanovs operate primarily in America. You’re based in Italy. You’re not even direct competitors.”
“That’s not the point,” Mario growls, his accent growing thicker with each word. “The Russians?—”
“Are businessmen, just like you.” I cut him off. “Unless there’s some ancient blood feud I should know about?”
Antonio shifts uncomfortably beside me. “Sofia, it’s more complicated than that.”
“Then explain it to me.” I spread my hands on the table, leaning forward. “Because from where I’m standing, this sounds like outdated prejudice rather than business concerns.”
Mario’s nostrils flare. “You don’t understand our world yet.”
“No, I understand perfectly well. You want alliances through marriage, preferably with some nice Italian family that will keep everything neat and tidy within your preferred circle.” I straighten up, squaring my shoulders. “But I’m not a bargaining chip. I’m not some asset to be traded for better shipping routes or art connections.”
“The Ivanovs are dangerous,” Mario insists.
A laugh escapes me. “And we’re not? Two trained killers just tried to take me out on your watch. Glass houses, Grandfather.”
The title makes him flinch. Good.
“The Russians have different methods,” he tries again.
“Different from sending assassins after family members?” I raise an eyebrow at him. “Because I’ve got to say, that seems pretty extreme to me.”
Antonio coughs to hide what sounds suspiciously like a laugh. Mario shoots him a glare.
“Look,” I say, softening my tone slightly. “I’m not asking for your blessing. I’m telling you how things are going to be. You want me to take my place in this family? Fine. But I come as I am—gallery, relationships, and all.”
I catch my father’s expression from the corner of my eye. His face glows with pride, and something in my chest tightens. Despite the chemo making him look frail, his eyes shine with strength as he watches me stand my ground.
Mario’s shoulders slump, the fight draining from his stance. “You are more Castellano than I expected,” he admits, his accent still thick with emotion. “Perhaps we can discuss this further when things have settled.”
It’s as close to backing down as I’ll get from him, and I accept it with a slight nod.
But doubt gnaws at my stomach even as I savor this small victory. Nikolai’s face flashes through my mind—recalling his steel-gray eyes and how his jaw clenches when he’s holding back emotion. Will he still want me now that I come with all this complicated family baggage and criminal empire politics?
I follow the smooth line of the mahogany table beneath my fingertips. No matter how strategic the alliance might be, I won’t let anyone push me into a marriage of convenience. The thought of being with someone I don’t love, of giving up what Nikolai and I have...
No. I’ve fought too hard for my independence to give it up now. If Nikolai doesn’t want me anymore, I’ll deal with that pain when it comes. But I won’t let anyone else decide my future for me.