Chapter 24 - Sofia
Ican’t stay here forever. I need to keep moving, and suddenly I am, crashing through underbrush until my lungs burn, branches tearing at my clothes. Hours pass in a blur of movement.
I reach a road eventually, flag down a truck heading toward Chicago, mumble something through numb lips. The driver doesn't ask questions; maybe he sees the kind of broken that's past helping.
The two-hour journey stretches into eternity.
Dusk is settling by the time we reach the city limits.
I walk the rest of the way, my feet throbbing with each step, blood seeping through my shoes from miles of pavement.
I haven't eaten, haven't stopped moving since I ran from the lakehouse, driven by one thought burning through the numbness: Marco needs to know the truth before it destroys me completely.
The guards at the gate recognize me but hesitate.
"Miss Rosetti?" Lipi's voice wavers. "Should we… should we call ahead?"
I shrug, not trusting my voice. They make the call while I stand there swaying. Eventually I remember who I am, Sofia Rosetti, and I stride up toward the manor, trying not to see it as home. I'm not here for forgiveness; I'm here for judgment, to confess the sin that's been eating me alive.
Marco's study smells of his afternoon espresso, that blend he imports from Sicily.
The familiar scent makes bile rise in my throat.
He wasn't expecting me, his face shifting from relief to concern to alarm as he takes in my appearance: clothes torn from the woods, hair tangled, something fundamentally broken in my expression.
"Sofia? Jesus, what happened? Where's—"
"I need to tell you something." My voice cracks on the words.
He rises from behind his mahogany desk, moving toward me with that protective instinct that's defined him since Papa died. "Sit down. You look like you're about to—"
"No." I back away from his outstretched hand, standing in the center of his Persian rug like a defendant awaiting sentencing. The pattern beneath my feet blurs as tears threaten. "I can't. I need to say this standing."
"Sofia, you're scaring me."
"I knew about the massacre."
The words hang between us like a blade. Marco goes completely still, that dangerous stillness that comes before violence.
"What do you mean you knew?" His voice is soft, careful, like he's afraid he misheard.
"Mikhail warned me. The night before." Each word cuts my throat. "About what his father was planning. He begged me to promise I wouldn't tell anyone."
Silence stretches between us. I watch understanding dawn across his face in stages: confusion, disbelief, realization, and then something worse. Something that looks like betrayal.
"When?" The word comes out rough. "When exactly did he tell you?"
"The night before. At the property edge. Where we used to meet."
"You used to meet." He's processing, that brilliant tactical mind putting pieces together. "How long had you been meeting with him?"
"Months. He was… teaching me Russian. We were friends. Maybe more."
Marco's hand finds the edge of his desk, gripping until his knuckles turn white. "And he told you they were going to attack the meeting."
"He said his father was planning something. A massacre. That everyone would die. Papa, the senior men, the Morettis, everyone." My voice breaks completely. "He begged me not to warn anyone. Said if I did, his father would know there was a leak, would know it was him. Would kill him slowly."
"So you chose to stay silent."
Words to defend myself leap to the edge of my tongue, but I swallow them down and simply say, "Yes."
"Dozens of our people died that night, Sofia." His voice is too quiet, too measured, and I watch his grip on the desk tighten until I think the wood might splinter. "Dozens of Rosettis."
"I know—"
"Do you?" He's standing fully now, and for the first time in my life, I'm afraid of my brother. "Uncle Enzo. Cousin Matteo. Tommy's brother Giovanni. Men with wives, children, lives. Men who trusted us to protect each other."
Tears stream down my face, but I don't wipe them away. I deserve this. Deserve worse.
"Papa kissed you goodbye that night," Marco continues, his voice gaining an edge that cuts. "You sat at dinner knowing he was driving to his death. You ate Maria's food, laughed at Alex's jokes, and said nothing."
"I thought—"
"No." His palm slams the desk hard enough to make me flinch, the sound echoing through the study. "Don't tell me what you thought. Don't give me excuses about being young or scared or in love with some Russian boy."
"Marco, please—"
"Papa is DEAD because of you." He erupts from his chair, advancing on me, and I see it now: not just anger but genuine hatred.
"I became Don at twenty-two because there was no one else LEFT.
Twenty-two years old, trying to hold together the shattered pieces of our family while carrying the weight of seventeen funerals. "
My legs shake but I remain standing, accepting every word like the lashes I deserve.
"Dante lost his voice being tortured, and you could have stopped it all," he continues, circling me now like a prosecutor.
"I know, I know—" The words come out as sobs.
"You don't know." He stops directly in front of me, and the look in his eyes makes me want to die. "You weren't just silent, Sofia. You were complicit. You weren't a victim who survived. You were the reason we were vulnerable."
The word 'complicit' knocks the air from my lungs.
"Every death, every drop of blood, every year of grief. It all traces back to your choice to protect a Volkov over your own blood."
I have no defense. He's right. Every word is truth carved into my bones.
Marco steps back, studying me like he's seeing a stranger wearing his sister's face. When he speaks again, his voice is hollow, final.
"Get out of my house."
"Marco—"
"GET OUT." The roar shakes the windows, sends me stumbling backward. "You're not my sister. My sister died that night along with everyone else. You're just the ghost who's been haunting us ever since."
I turn and walk out without another word, my legs moving mechanically through hallways lined with portraits of the dead.
Men I could have saved with a few words of warning.
My body remembers the path even as my mind fractures.
The marble floors where I took my first steps now witness my last ones in this house.
Behind me, I hear glass shatter. A decanter against the wall, the sound of Marco's grief finally exploding in solitude. The sound follows me out, a final goodbye from the brother who pulled me from nightmares, not knowing I was the nightmare all along.
I stop three blocks from the compound, pressing my palm against a cold brick wall to stay upright.
The evening air is thick and humid. My phone buzzes.
Alexei, probably, finally realizing I'm gone, but I can't answer.
Can't tell him I'm the reason Mikhail died trying to stop what I could have prevented with a warning.
My treacherous heart whispers his name, but I can't go back. How can I let him touch me knowing these hands let dozens of innocent people die?
The empty Chicago streets blur together as I walk without direction, the cold night air cutting through my thin clothes, though I'm too empty to feel it.
People are finishing their normal days. Restaurant owners lowering gates, joggers with earbuds, a mother pushing a stroller.
Normal lives with normal problems while I drift past like smoke.
I don't notice the car following me for three blocks, my survival instincts dead along with everything else, until it's too late.
The black sedan pulls alongside, doors opening to reveal Volkov soldiers stepping onto the sidewalk.
They're armed, professional, clearly expecting resistance from someone trained like me.
My hand twitches toward where my knife should be, but I don't have it. Left it under the mattress at the lakehouse like the fool I am. And even if I had it, what's the point? What's worth fighting for when Marco's right? I am complicit. Maybe Kazimir's justice is what I deserve.
They approach cautiously, confused by my stillness. One reaches for my arm and I don't resist, don't even tense. Just stand there void and waiting, some part of me thinking maybe this is how it should end. The girl who chose wrong finally facing consequences.
Kaz emerges from the backseat with that cold smile I remember from the compound hallway, taking in my broken state with obvious satisfaction. His cologne is sharp, chemical, nothing like Alexei's warmth that still clings to my skin.
"Sofia Rosetti," he says, circling me slowly. "Walking alone through Chicago after dark. How convenient."
I don't respond. Can't find words in the emptiness where my voice should be.
"My cousin has been looking for you." His tone turns mocking. "He's frantic, actually. It's embarrassing how desperate he's been, calling every contact, threatening his own men. All for you."
Still I say nothing. Stand there like I'm already dead, just waiting for my body to catch up.
Kaz studies my face, pale eyes so like Alexei's but holding none of his fire. "Something's shattered in you." He tilts his head, assessing. "Good. That makes this easier."
His men guide me toward the car and I don't resist, feet moving automatically, that same mechanical walk that carried me from Marco's study.
Some distant part of my mind, the part Nico trained, screams that I should fight, should run, should do something.
But the larger part, the part drowning in truth, thinks maybe I deserve whatever justice Kaz has planned.
The car door closes with finality. The leather seats smell new. My phone buzzes again in my pocket, insistent now, but I don't reach for it. Let him think I ran from him. Better that than knowing the truth: I'm the girl who destroyed both our families before we ever met.
Kaz settles beside me, that satisfied smile never wavering. "You know, I was prepared for a fight. Had contingencies for someone with your training. But this?" He gestures at my hollow state. "This is so much better. Sofia Rosetti, broken before I even had to try."
The car turns toward the industrial district. Through the tinted windows, Chicago slides past. The city going to sleep, normal problems like traffic and burnt dinner and meetings that don't end in blood.
"Mikhail would be fascinated," Kaz continues, watching my face for a reaction. "To know the girl he died for turned out to be such a disappointment. All that potential, wasted."
The words should hurt, but I'm past feeling. All I hear is Marco's voice echoing in my head: "Complicit. Complicit. Complicit."
"Nothing to say?" Kaz seems almost disappointed by my silence. "No begging? No bargaining? No asking what I plan to do?"
What's the point? Whatever he has planned can't be worse than living with what I know now. Rosetti names carved into my bones. My father's last smile before I let him drive to his death. Mikhail dying because I kept a promise that killed everyone anyway.
The car slows, gravel crunching under tires. Wherever we are, it's quiet. Isolated. Perfect for whatever Kaz has planned.