Chapter 40 So This Is Happening?
Chapter forty
So This Is Happening?
Sophia
“Here you go. Drink this,” I say, pushing a double espresso towards my brother. I take in his stance, arms braced against the edge of the kitchen island, head hanging low to stare between them.
He looks up briefly, face etched with worry, his eyes dark and ominous. All traces of humor, which is his default setting, are gone. He looks ready to go to battle. The hard, dark shadows of worry and determination kiss his cheekbones like camouflage paint.
Arabella the girl had grip on him, but I worry Arabella the woman will be his undoing.
But I also understand better than most that you can’t choose who the heart ties itself to with an invisible string.
The pull is deep. Guttural. No matter how hard you fight to break the ties, they can never fully be severed.
So I tread lightly. It’s my best chance of him not shutting down or shutting me out.
“I didn’t realize you and Arabella were still so close.”
“We keep in touch on social media and text often,” he admits ruefully. “She knew race season was on a break, so we made loose plans to catch up.”
“I thought you both agreed maybe it was better to cut ties completely after what happened. That nearly ruined you, Luca,” I push a little further.
He slams his hands down hard on the counter, making me jump. He turns his head to face me, eyes blazing with anger and something else.
“Don’t talk about things you don’t know shit about, Soph. Remember, in our world, there is a version of the truth to benefit an agenda. Then there is the actual truth.”
“So tell me,” I say softly.
Before he can respond, Marco walks in, the focus of the assignment ahead of him intensifying the green of his eyes.
He looks every bit as tantalizing as he does menacing.
A zap of electricity zips down my spine as he walks towards me.
I can see a switch has flipped and he’s all business, and yet I don’t miss the way his eyes flare seeing me ensconced in his kitchen like I’m part of the room itself.
Becoming a piece of furniture has never been so alluring.
Closing in on me, he pulls my body flush with his, and the zap threatens to become a full-blown electrical storm.
He brackets my jaw firmly but kisses me softly, the contradiction fitting to describe the man I have no choice but to watch walk out the door when I just feel like I finally just got him in my arms.
“So this is finally happening, huh?” says Luca, motioning between me and Marco, a bemused expression on his face as he takes in the sight of me in Marco’s t-shirt and the blanket I hastily grabbed from the back of the couch wrapped like sarong around my hips.
“Well, children of mine, you have my full blessing,” he says, deepening his voice and pretending to bless us with the sign of the cross, his signature playfulness back.
“Here. Take this before it blows up,” Marco says, handing me my phone before placing one last kiss on my forehead like he can’t bear the thought of leaving either.
He motions for Luca to follow him as he strides towards the garage.
“You’re the only one who needs a hope and a prayer right now,” he warns, “because let me tell you, you’re one step closer to God after the cock-block stunt you’ve just pulled.
Now let’s go. Avery tracked her down. She’s still at La Rosa. ”
The hard, assessing look on Marco’s face tells me he doesn’t think this is a coincidence, and neither do I. But what’s the game here—and who’s playing it?
I unlock my phone, to find fifteen missed calls and far too many message notifications for only a few hours of choosing to be uncontactable.
I groan loudly and skim over the messages between Evie and Stella in our chat, varying from scolding me for not letting them know I got home safely, to Stella’s theories on my whereabouts, and completing the “research assignment.” I snicker at their madness, thanking my lucky stars for the best friends a girl could ask for.
Before I look at any of the other messages, I walk into Marco’s bedroom, remove the blanket sarong, and position myself against his headboard, legs tucked underneath me so the hem of his t-shirt hides the fact I’m panty-less, and take a selfie.
I send it to them with a two word message:
Marked safe. *devil emoji*
There’s also an essay of a message from Arty.
It outlines the agenda of our meeting and the planning decisions we made, and next steps for assigning tasks, and the proposed deadlines.
He finishes that text with confirmation he’ll have his assistant type everything up and send it over before we catch up again.
The thought of having to be anywhere near him again makes my stomach lurch, but not as much as it does when I read the follow-up message he’s sent separately.
Arty:
On a personal note, I want to let you know that I’ve taken the necessary steps to report the threatening behavior of Marco Marrone.
I hate that he spoke to you with such disrespect, and I’m sorry you had to be witness to his brutish, violent behavior.
The recording of his threat will be enough evidence; however, your full support when and if you’re asked to give a statement would be greatly appreciated.
If it comes to that, of course. Hopefully it was all a misunderstanding and we can put this all behind us, especially given the Law Gala is not too far off. Take care and talk soon.
I am shaking with rage at his veiled threats. I’m acutely aware of what he’s doing, creating evidence he can use to back his version of events. All fucking lies. Marco was right. Arty is far more dangerous than people give him credit for. I don’t respond. We need a plan that will outsmart his.
Before I attend to whatever hell awaits in my voicemail, I take a moment to appreciate Marco’s room, trying to take comfort in the fact that I’m finally in the bedroom of the boy—now man—of my dreams. Just like the man himself, the room is minimalist. I slowly rake over my reflection in the large floor-to-ceiling mirror on the wall at the end of the bed, marveling at how I may be alone in his room, but for the first time in a long time, alone is the last thing I feel.
My body seems to buzz at a new frequency.
Like having Marco’s full attention in a way I have craved for so long charged a part of me that lay dormant for years, unlocking a new level of obsession for him.
Standing, I catalogue the few bits of furniture he has in his room, coming back to the mirror.
Hmmm…I’m already fantasizing about the creative ways Marco and I might make use of that strategically placed mirror.
I flush at the thought, and my mind once again turns to the whirlwind events of this day.
Of these last few weeks, if I’m honest. The ferocity of our repressed attraction.
The desire to fill the void of years apart.
Like magnets drawn together with a force too strong to stop, regardless of logic or the logistics of what’s next.
My eye snags on a series of photo frames in the corner of the room.
I walk over and pick up the first one, and my heart sputters.
It’s a grainy picture of me and Marco. I’m probably just a little more than one, still wobbly on my feet in my frilly pink dress, ruffled socks, and patent white Mary Janes.
Marco is about four or five, holding both of my chubby little hands above my head, watching over me intently.
Protective even then. Making sure I won’t trip over my unsteady sausage legs.
Where did he get this? How did he get this?
The muted tones tell me it’s an original.
Did he raid his mom’s photo albums? I place that photo down and pick up the next one.
It’s a picture of all my brothers, Marco, and me.
We’re all between pre-teen and teens. That gangly, awkward stage where weird and wonderful things are happening to your body and hormones seem to rule the world.
The boys are in various states of laughter, and if I had to guess by the pout on my face and the bird I’m flipping them off with, it’s at my expense.
I note that Marco is laughing, but his eyes are focused directly on me.
Like he still wants to make sure I’m not too upset even if he’s part of the source of my anger.
I giggle at the image and try to recall the day it was taken, settling on it being one of our annual Fourth Of July parties, seeing as we’re all in our bathing suits and I’m holding an American flag in one hand.
I put it back its spot and pick up the last photo.
My heart almost stops altogether. It’s me at my graduation, end of college senior year, accepting my summa cum laude honors.
It’s been printed in black and white, the floor-length long-sleeved dress with a deep V peeking out from under my graduation robe.
My hair is parted down the center and tied in a low ponytail, the cap sitting perfectly on top.
Adorning my ears are the long diamond drop earrings that had been delivered to my door that morning with a simple note that said, “Congratulations. It’s your time to shine.
Sorry I can’t be there. M xx.” I was devastated he didn’t come, even though I swore for a minute that day I had caught a glimpse of him.
Got a whiff of his signature clean, crisp scent.
Deep down, I had hoped that he’d appear, tell me he made a big mistake and ask me to finish law school in New York.
But he didn’t show, and the request was never made. So I stayed.
But this picture confirms the truth. He was there, hidden in the shadows. Where it seems he remained patiently, all 2190 days marked off with a neat cross on the custom-made flip chart on the wall in his sitting area. Every day of the last six years leading to this moment accounted for.
My heart feels warm and tingly. I want to call him and demand he come home immediately to make up for every one of those days and more. But I also know he needs to focus on his task at hand right now.
Wiping a happy tear that seems to have escaped, I turn my attention to the cell in my hand. I know I’m about to burst my own bubble by facing the music that is my voicemail.
Unlike Luca, ignoring my reality is not something I’ve mastered, so I do the inevitable and listen to my messages.
The first one is from my mom asking me to call her back to when I get her message to let her know my whereabouts.
I shoot her a quick reply to let her know I am safe and with Luca and Marco.
Technically the truth. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.
Then I click over onto the next one. Unsure of what I’ll get, but expecting the worst.
It’s Dad.
“Sophia, where are you. Please come home now so I know you’re safe.
I’ve had Arty here beside himself with worry that you may be in danger.
I’ve heard the recording of Marco’s threats towards Arty.
He’s not the boy you grew up with, Sophia.
He’s wrapped up with some dangerous people.
Listen to me, Princess. He’s a threat to you and your career, and not relationship material.
You live under my roof, you live by my rules.
Cut ties with him and come home immediately. It’s not a question; it’s a command.”
Rage and angry tears war as I process the vitriol towards the only person I truly feel safe with. He didn’t even ask for my version of events, didn’t even wait to speak with Marco, just put his blind trust in an absolute fucking snake.
Well he can take his command and stick it up his ass. This is the final straw. This time I won’t make the same mistake. This time I’m putting my heart on the line for Marco and choosing us at all costs.
Even if that means disappointing the one man I’ve put on a pedestal for most of my life.
Reality bites.