Chapter 29 - Sofia #2
"Luca—" Nico steps between us in one smooth motion, his body a wall between me and that trembling blade. The movement displaces air, his warmth suddenly blocking the chill from the air conditioning.
"Get out of my way, Nico."
"No."
The word hangs in the air like a challenge. Two brothers, both lethal, both trained to kill, facing off over me. The tension makes the air feel electric, like the moment before lightning strikes.
"She's a TRAITOR."
"She's our SISTER."
"She stopped being our sister when she chose a Volkov over our blood."
Alessandro finally speaks, his voice cracked. "Luca. Put the knife down."
"Don't tell me what to do, Alex." Luca's eyes never leave mine over Nico's shoulder. "You weren't there. You didn't see Papa's body. Didn't see what they did to him."
Nico doesn't move, solid as stone between us. "You want to hurt her, you go through me first."
Luca falters, just slightly. The knife drops an inch.
"You're protecting a traitor."
"I'm protecting our sister. The girl I trained. The girl who's had nightmares for eleven years about something she couldn't even remember. The girl who's been punishing herself every single day since Papa died."
"It's not ENOUGH."
"Then how much is enough, Luca?" Nico's voice drops, deadly quiet.
"You want her dead? You want to be the one to do it?
You want to look her in the eyes and put that knife in her chest?
Because I'll tell you right now, you put that knife in her, you better put one in me too.
I'm not living in a family that murders its own. "
The standoff stretches, everything balanced on a knife's edge.
Luca's hand shakes harder now, the blade catching light as it trembles.
His face is wet, actual tears streaming down, and I realize I've never seen Luca cry.
Not at Papa's funeral. Not when Dante couldn't speak.
Not after his first kill–Mikhail. Never.
The silence feels physical, pressing against my eardrums.
Then, with a sound like breaking, he spins and throws the knife. It flies across the room and embeds in the wall with a solid thunk, vibrating from the force. Plaster dust drifts down like snow. The silence after is deafening.
Luca storms out, slamming the door so hard a picture falls off the wall, glass shattering against marble.
Alessandro still won't look at me directly, but when he speaks, his voice is steady. "I don't… I can't understand. Not yet." He finally meets my eyes, and the hurt there makes my chest cave in. "But I don't want you dead."
It's not forgiveness. But it's not nothing either.
A commotion erupts outside. Shouting. Guards mobilizing. The sound of running feet on gravel, orders barked in English and Italian. The rapid-fire commands overlap, creating chaos.
Dante moves to the window first, that deadly grace making him seem to glide across the floor. He goes completely still.
"You need to see this," he signs, not looking away from whatever's outside.
We crowd to the window, even Alessandro drawn by the urgency in Dante's stillness. Through the bulletproof glass, I see our front gate, the guards with weapons raised, all aimed at something.
My heart stops.
A figure walks up our driveway. Alone. Hands raised above his head. And he's in nothing but boxer shorts. Pale skin exposed to the afternoon sun, every inch of him vulnerable, showing everyone he has no weapons, no backup, no plan except this insane gesture.
Alexei.
My body betrays me instantly. Nipples tightening beneath my wrinkled shirt, that familiar ache between my thighs.
Even now, even surrounded by guns and family fury, my body responds to him like he's already touching me.
The memory of his hands on me at the lakehouse floods back, making my skin burn.
He keeps walking despite the guards screaming at him to stop, to get on his knees, to identify himself. His pace never changes. Steady. Determined. His hands stay up, but his head is high, those pale eyes scanning, searching.
Looking for me.
"Is that—" Luca reappears in the doorway, drawn by the noise.
"Volkov," Dante signs, and there's something in his expression I can't read.
"He's insane," Alessandro breathes.
"He's in love," Nico says quietly.
Everyone turns to look at him.
"Only reason a man walks into enemy territory like that. No weapons. No backup. No leverage except hope." Nico's eyes find mine. "He's banking everything on you."
My feet are moving before I decide to move.
The Weapon in me screams that this is a trap, that no one is this stupid, this vulnerable.
But the woman knows better. Knows what it costs him to walk nearly naked into the heart of Rosetti territory where every man has orders to shoot Russians on sight.
His exposed chest makes my mouth go dry.
The vulnerable plane of his stomach, the definition of muscles I've traced with my tongue, now offered up to my family's bullets.
Nico catches my arm at the door. "Sofia—"
"He came for me," I say, my voice stronger than it's been in days. "Unarmed. Alone."
"It could be a trap."
"It's not." I know it in my bones, in the place where I knew Mikhail loved me even when I couldn't remember his face. "It's not."
Dante crosses to us, signs quickly. "Let her go."
"Dante—"
"If he wanted to hurt us, he wouldn't announce himself in his underwear. He's either brave or stupid or desperate. Maybe all three. But he's not here to attack." Dante's eyes meet mine. "Let her go."
I tear away from Nico's grip and run. Through the house I've known my whole life, past portraits of dead family members, past the dining room where Papa held court, past memories that blur with speed.
My bare feet slap against marble, then rough stone as I burst through the front door into the afternoon sun.
The light blinds me for a moment, hot against my face.
When my vision clears, I see him properly.
The gravel bites into my bare feet, sharp and real.
Alexei stands in the middle of our circular drive, surrounded by at least a dozen guards with guns trained on him.
His boxer shorts are dark blue, leaving everything else exposed.
The guards are screaming at him to get down, to comply, to stop moving. He ignores them all, head turning slowly, searching.
Then he sees me.
Everything stops. The guards' shouting fades to white noise. The sun seems to pause in the sky. Even the wind holds its breath. My pulse pounds so hard I feel it in my fingertips.
He stops walking. Just stands there, hands still raised, surrounded by men who'd love nothing more than an excuse to shoot him. And he smiles.
Not the cold smile I remember from those first days. Not the predator smile from when he had me trapped. This is something broken and hopeful and terrified all at once. A smile that says he knows exactly how stupid this is and he's doing it anyway.
"Sofia," he says, and my name carries across the space between us like a prayer.
I stand on the front steps of the home where I learned to be a weapon, where I learned to lie, where I learned that love can cost everything.
Behind me, I feel my brothers watching. Dante's stillness.
Nico's protective concern. Alessandro's confusion.
Even Luca has appeared, drawn by the insanity of a Volkov making himself this vulnerable.
Alexei waits in the crosshairs of a dozen guns, nearly naked in the afternoon sun, everything exposed and defenseless. The sunlight makes his skin glow, highlights every place I've kissed, every place I've marked. No cards to play except the truth he's about to offer.
For me.
The man who owned me, who collared me, who made me kneel, now stands stripped of everything that made him powerful. Just flesh and bone and whatever words he's brought to save us both.