Chapter 11
Sofia
Through the glass doors, I can see chaos erupting in the penthouse. Men in dark clothing with familiar green knots on their jackets—Costello soldiers—are moving through the living room. How did they get up here? How did they get past security?
"Behind the table," Dante orders, pulling his gun from his waistband. "Now."
I scramble behind the heavy outdoor table, my hands shaking as I press myself against it. My movements feel disconnected, like I'm watching someone else's body respond to commands my brain can barely process. The sound of gunfire explodes around us—sharp, deafening pops that make my ears ring.
I raise my hands to cover my ears, but it doesn't help. The sounds penetrate everything, reverberating through my skull. My entire body trembles as I stare blindly into the distance, trying to make sense of what's happening.
Through the chaos, I can see Rafa, Vito, Marco, and Dario locked in some version of a standoff with equally pissed Costello soldiers. There's a body on the living room floor—Sal, I think—collapsed in front of the balcony doors with a dark pool spreading beneath him.
My stomach lurches.
Dante peers around the table, gun raised, his face a mask of lethal concentration. A blond soldier steps over Sal's body, heading for the balcony doors. Heading for us.
The sound of Dante's gun firing so close to me makes me gasp and jump. I let a tear roll down my cheek as I remove my hands from my ears and press my fist against my lips to keep from screaming.
Dante's bullet finds its mark. The soldier drops.
But two more rush through the doors to replace him, and suddenly the balcony becomes a war zone. Dante fires several more shots before crouching back behind the table with me.
A bullet chips the top of the table, sending debris flying.
I flinch and clamp my hand harder across my mouth to stay quiet, more tears falling when I squeeze my eyes shut.
I haven't felt this terrified since the night Vito killed Papà at our weekly family dinner.
Cowering here, I'm no longer the defiant girl who's been testing boundaries and playing games.
I'm just scared—terrified for my life and completely dependent on the man beside me.
Another round hits the table, chipping the corner and sending debris into Dante's shoulder. He winces but raises his arm and empties the magazine. The gun clicks empty.
That's when I notice the blood.
"You're bleeding," I say, staring at my hand where I've touched him. Red smears across my palm, and I look at it numbly before meeting his eyes.
"What did I tell you?" he hisses, checking his weapon and tossing it aside when he confirms it's empty. "Shut up, princess. And especially, do not move."
He waits for the telltale click of an empty chamber from our attacker, then bolts from behind the table. With the advantage of knowing the space, he takes the soldier by surprise. His boot lands squarely on the man's leg, causing him to cry out and fall. The gun flies from his hands mid-reload.
"Kieran Costello—" the soldier starts.
"Save it." Dante grabs a fistful of his hair, ready to slam his head into the concrete. "Nobody here wants to hear from Costello."
And then, as suddenly as it started, everything goes quiet.
Eerie silence accompanies the ringing in my ears. I don't know how long I've been sitting behind the table—tears undoubtedly streaking my eyeliner, Dante's blood smeared on my cheek—when eventually a shadow looms over me.
Unable to distinguish friend from foe, my fight-or-flight response kicks in. I shriek and put up as much of a fight as I can manage.
"No! Let me go!"
"Princess, it's me—it's Dante. I'm not going to hurt you." The nickname I've come to loathe pulls me back to the present. The scream in my chest turns into a strangled sob and I fall back to my knees, gasping for air.
I can't do this. This can't be my future.
Dante kneels next to me, reaching out with a wince from his injury. For the first time since I've known him, his touch is purely gentle—no authority, no control, just comfort.
"Sofia?" Vito's voice barks from inside. Despite his hard, demanding tone, there's an element of worry that surprises me.
"We're out here," Dante calls back. "She's okay, a bit shaken, but okay. We'll be inside shortly."
My head spins. The balcony is quiet now, but the gunfire and shouting still reverberate inside my skull. I move to press my palms against my ears to silence the noise, but pause when I see the drying blood on my hand again.
"You're bleeding," I state, the words feeling familiar but emotionless as they fall from my lips.
"I am," Dante concurs quietly. His touch is gentle when his fingers wrap around my arm, guiding me to my feet. "Come on, let's get you inside."
Glass crunches under our feet as he leads us from behind the table. Bodies are strewn across the balcony, and even more are scattered throughout the penthouse. Dante moves a hand to the small of my back, pushing me toward Vito's office, and I realize something has fundamentally changed between us.
He just risked his life to protect me. And despite everything, despite all my anger and resentment and desperate need for freedom, I know that if the situation were reversed, I would have done the same for him.
The thought terrifies me almost as much as the gunfire did.
"You said she was okay." Vito's eyes light up with fury when they land on me.
It's not my blood. I try to speak, but the words die on my lips.
"And like I said," irritation colors Dante's voice when he replies, "she is okay. It's not her blood. It's mine. I'm fine, by the way. Thanks for asking."
Vito stares at Dante expressionlessly before pointing down the hall.
"Clean her up and then take her to my office.
Rina, Elena, and Gianna are in there, bring Luca when you come back.
" He doesn't wait for Dante's affirming nod; he turns on his heel and angrily begins righting all the furniture that was moved or knocked around during the fight.
My eyes are still jumping around the penthouse, taking in everything from the bullet hole polka dots adorning the walls to the broken chair leg impaling one of the assailants to the glass and shell casings littering the floor around the other bodies.
Gentle pressure returns to my back; Dante directs me to the bathroom and props the door open. Pointing to the closed toilet lid, he grunts. "Sit."
No energy to argue, I comply. Dante pulls a rag from a cabinet drawer and dampens it in the sink. Tenderly, he cups my chin with one hand and works at cleaning the blood off my face with the other. "Are you okay?"
The genuine concern in his voice throws me off. "I'm not the one that was shot."
He chuckles, giving extra attention to the blood dried into my hairline. "I wasn't shot, just got nicked by part of the table. If anything, the table was the one shot tonight, so if you're giving out sympathy cards, the table should be the next one on your list."
The corner of my lip pulls in a smile. "I'll make sure to say goodbye to the table on my way out. I have to thank it for saving my life."
"Hey, what about me?" He jokingly tosses the rag to the counter and winces, forgetting about his injury. "I'm fairly certain I remember flipping the table over."
"You've made my life a living hell for a week, and you want me to thank you?"
"You're welcome."
"No—that's not—" I cut myself off as a smirk stretches across his face. "You're infuriating."
"Says the one who's been trying to sneak out all week." His voice drops in exasperation as he pulls his shirt over his head to examine the damage to his shoulder. "You're not exactly a ray of sunshine either, Sofia."
I can't afford to be a ray of sunshine, I think, unable to tear my eyes from his bare chest. Tattoos contour and curl around his natural, toned muscles.
Forcing my eyes away from the lines leading down his abdomen, I reach for the washcloth and splash some clean water on it.
He looks at me quizzically as I stand and point to the closed toilet. "Sit."
"You don't have to do that. Rafa can patch me up. I'm sure they're waiting for you in Vito's study."
"You saved my life, let me help. Sit." That smirk of his must be a permanent feature, because his crooked smile is back when he trades places with me. "Is there a first aid kit in here?"
"Far left under the sink."
For such a lavish home, there's something comforting about the obnoxious, telltale red of the first aid kit when I pull it out and lay it on the counter.
His gash is deep, but thankfully not deep enough to need stitches.
After cleaning around the wound itself, I pour some antiseptic on a gauze pad and hold it against the open skin.
He sucks in a sharp breath and his eyebrows pull together, and I can't help but laugh.
"Aww, the big, tough Rosso Enforcer—brought down by some simple antiseptic. "
"Next time, I'll let the table fragment hit you."
I don't answer. We both know that no matter how serious his tone is, he won't let anything hurt me—not another man, and certainly not an inanimate airborne piece of wood.
All the adrenaline and chaos cut our conversation on the balcony short, but the memory of it hangs between us.
He didn't like the attention Marco and I were giving each other; the jealousy lit a fire in his eyes when he leaned over me on the balcony.
By the time we're done cleaning up, Vito and his group are in the living room whispering in heated conversation. As instructed, Dante shows me into Vito's study and nods for Luca to join the rest of the capos. Dante gives me one last look, seeming to study my face before closing the door.
"Oh, thank god," Rina throws her arms around me, dried tear stains on her cheeks. "Vito told us not to come out, but you were nowhere to be seen. Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine." Gianna gives a small, bored wave from Vito's desk chair. Elena lounges on a loveseat that looks like it had been pushed to block the door. "Where's Mamma?"
"I saw Dario close her in a different room. I'm sure she's fine." Elena looks over, squinting at me. "What happened to your eyeliner?"
"Long story." Gunshots echo in my mind again.
Glass shatters and Dante pulls me behind a table.
How many people died here tonight? My chest tightens again, freezing me in my own body as if I were back on the balcony.
If the Costellos are willing to make a direct attack on the Don's penthouse, what's next?
The only other path of escalation is to just take what they want themselves.
The blood drains from my face, and every breath comes in short gasps.
"Sofia..." Gianna tries to catch my attention, but the room spins around me as I struggle to catch my breath.
"I have to get out of here," my voice is barely above a whisper. "I have to go."
"Sofia, wait—" Rina tries to catch me by the arm, but I slip out of her grasp and yank open the study doors.
Tears blur my vision, and I stumble over more displaced furniture. Yelling breaks out throughout the penthouse as I race to the elevator. The doors open, and I pound on the buttons, willing them to close faster. The doors start to move, and for a brief second I think I might actually pull this off.
But much like every other escape attempt, Dante is one step ahead of me, throwing himself through the doors just before they close.
Hitting the emergency lock on the elevator and nodding to Vito, Dante picks me up and throws me over his uninjured shoulder.
Kicking, screaming, and doing everything I can to get out of his grasp, I fight, begging him to let me go.
"No," I plead, shaking my head as tears fall freely while he walks deeper into the penthouse, taking the stairs to the upper level where the bedrooms are.
"Dante, please, you have to let me go. I need to get out of here. "
Sighing, he sets me on my feet. "Princess, you could have gotten killed tonight.
Do you understand that? Killed. Dead. Deceased.
We all understand that this isn't what you want, but you need to consider that we aren't trying to hold you here to torture you.
We're trying to keep you safe—keep you alive—so something like tonight doesn't happen when you're alone. "
Dante's arms wrap around me tightly, but rather than feeling restraining, his embrace is comforting as the sobs relentlessly shake my body.
Looking up at him, his eyes never leave my tear-streaked face as I beg.
"Please. I can't do this. I can't be this mafia princess everyone expects me to be. Let me go—I need to go."
His gaze softens as he silently readjusts his hold to stroke my cheek, carefully wiping the tears before they have the chance to reach my chin.
I can't decipher the newfound gentleness in his expression when his eyes reach mine again.
Dante has only ever been irritated or stone-faced in my presence, but right now he looks almost.. . sad.
He's seeing me, just as much as I'm seeing him tonight.
He's not Dante, Vito's Enforcer.
I'm not Sofia, the by-proxy Rosso Princess.
We're just two fucked up humans in an even more fucked up situation.