Chapter 26 Vin
Vin
The couch spring doesn’t jab me in the ass anymore.
I fixed it three days ago, along with the wobbly chair that leaned to the left like a drunk, then refinished the coffee table and side tables Sophie probably rescued from a dumpster.
I assembled her new bed, the one I ordered after breaking hers, and spent two hours refacing every scarred cabinet and drawer front in this cramped shithole.
Why? Fuck if I know.
Sophie hasn’t spoken to me since the cannoli cream incident.
She leaves for work before I wake up, comes home after I’ve already eaten whatever I order in.
If we’re here at the same time, she disappears into her room and shuts the door.
I was sleeping in her bed, but the past couple nights I’ve been sleeping on the couch.
No food. No conversation. No teasing me with that big ass of hers. No sparkling eyes lighting up when I walk into a room. I fucking hate it.
I shouldn’t. I should be thrilled she’s giving me space, staying out of my way while I work this clusterfuck with my father.
But instead, I’m standing in her kitchen at two in the afternoon, phone pressed to my ear, sanding down a cabinet door that doesn’t need sanding while Matti drones on about safe houses.
“You could stay at Dragovari Tower,” Matti suggests for the third time this week. “We’ve got security, space, and Siena wouldn’t mind—”
“Your wife wants me gone from Sophie’s, not living under her roof,” I cut him off, running my thumb over the smooth wood grain. Perfect now. “Besides, this is a good safe house. Aurelio knows nothing about it. Dragovari Tower’s too visible, and no offense, but your wife is—”
“Are you fucking her?”
The question lands like a brick. I remember Sophie’s voice when she said, You don’t have to lie to them.
“No,” I say.
It’s technically true. We haven’t fucked in days, haven’t even touched. What I don’t say is that not fucking her is making me edgy and restless, that I catch myself listening for her key in the lock, watching the door, wondering what she’ll cook tonight or if she’ll cook at all.
Which is fucking ridiculous because she’s the fucking enemy, working with Salvatore against me, playing me like Valentina did.
Except Sophie carved a scar into my father’s face when she was 12 to save her mother, while Valentina sucked his cock for status. They are not the same.
I shake off the thought and shift the phone as I grab my pack of cigarettes, tapping one out as I head for the door. “Look, I’m good here. You ready to pull Ronan in or what?”
We’re supposed to have a conference call with Ronan MacCuinn, a long time friend of mine in the Irish mafia.
He and I have always bonded over having similar situations: he too is the oldest son and the heir apparent in his family, and his father is a fucking dick who can’t rule for shit, like mine.
It surprises no one that our fathers are intermittently friends, and Ronan and I have long conspired to overthrow them and take over.
Matti pauses. I can practically hear him deciding whether to push the Sophie issue. He doesn’t. “Yeah. Give me two minutes.”
I step outside into the weak afternoon light, the crumbling concrete steps rough under my feet as I light up and inhale.
The phone clicks as Matti patches Ronan MacCuinn into the call.
“There he is,” Ronan’s Irish lilt fills my ear, warm and familiar. He’s one of the few people in this world outside of my brothers I actually trust. “Vincenzo fucking Demonio. Thought you dropped off the face of the earth, mate.”
“Been laying low,” I say, exhaling smoke into the gray Brooklyn sky. “War’s keeping me busy.”
“War.” Ronan snorts. “So it’s true: your old man’s still breathing, then?”
“For now.”
“Well, when you finally put him in the ground and take your seat, we’ve got business to discuss.” His tone shifts, immediately sharp. “Tommy’s been working the port contracts for years. You ready to close?”
“More than ready.” I flick ash onto the cracked pavement. “Soon as I’m official, we move. Global access, clean routes, no more bullshit middlemen.”
“Good man.” Ronan pauses. “So where’ve you been hiding? Heard rumors you’ve got yourself a woman.”
Matti coughs on the other end of the line.
“Not a woman,” I snap too quickly. “A safe house.”
“Right.” Ronan’s grin is audible. “A safe house that cooks for you, I’m betting. The only thing you like more than pussy is food.”
“Ronan—”
“Just saying, mate. Get it out of your system before your responsibilities kick in. Once you’re boss, you’ll need to be sharp, focused. Can’t have some piece of ass distracting you.”
Piece of ass.
Sophie’s not— I stop myself. She is. That’s all she is: a distraction. Something to keep me entertained until I can turn the Demonio Brotherhood into a reality.
“Not a problem,” I say flatly.
“Good. Because once those ports open up, you’re going to need every brain cell firing, brother.” Ronan’s voice turns serious. “This is what we’ve been building toward, the Demonio Brotherhood on the global stage. Don’t fuck it up over some—”
The sound of a car door slamming cuts Ronan off. I turn, cigarette halfway to my mouth. Sophie.
She’s climbing out of her beat-up sedan, arms loaded with grocery bags, hair escaping from her messy bun in soft waves. She’s wearing her stained work apron still, and when she looks up and sees me, her expression flattens.
No smile, no light in those big brown eyes, just wary distance. I don’t like it.
“Vin? You there?” Ronan’s voice crackles in my ear.
I drop the cigarette and grind it under my heel, eyes locked on Sophie as she struggles with the bags. She doesn’t acknowledge me, much less ask for help.
“Yeah,” I rasp. “I’m here. Listen, I’ve got to go. We’ll pick this up later.”
“Right. Get your priorities straight, mate. Talk soon.”
Sophie’s already at the door, fumbling with the doorknob, bags threatening to spill from her arms. I cross to her in three strides and reach for the bags.
She jerks back. “I’ve got it.”
“Sophia—”
“I said I’ve got it.”
She gets the door open and disappears inside, leaving me standing on the broken steps like a fucking idiot, wondering why the hell I’m still here. Why I can’t stop fixing shit around her house. Why I care that she won’t even look at me.
I should leave, pack my shit and go to Dragovari Tower or find another safe house or just handle this war head-on instead of spending my time in Brooklyn waiting for a woman who hates me to make me dinner.
But I don’t. I follow her inside, closing the door behind me with a quiet click, and watch her unpack groceries like I’m not even there. And for the first time in days, I let myself admit the truth I’ve been avoiding: I don’t want to leave. Not yet.