Chapter 27
Sofia
The safehouse is quiet except for Dante's steady breathing beside me. Dawn light filters through the dusty windows, painting everything in soft grays and golds. His arm is draped across my waist, heavy and warm, anchoring me to this moment I wish could last forever.
For the first time in my life, I don't want to run.
The irony isn't lost on me. All those months of planning escapes, of dreaming about freedom, and now that I finally have someone worth staying for, I have to leave. My chest aches with the weight of it—this terrible, necessary choice.
Dante's face is peaceful in sleep, the harsh lines of anger and violence smoothed away.
There's a small scar above his left eyebrow I never noticed before.
I want to trace it with my fingertip, memorize every detail of him, but I can't risk waking him.
Not when I'm about to do the hardest thing I've ever done.
I know what he'd say if I tried to explain.
He'd tell me his loyalty to Vito doesn't matter, that he's already chosen me over everything else.
But that's exactly the problem. Dante's given fifteen years of his life to the Rosso family.
He's bled for them, killed for them, built his entire identity around being Vito's enforcer.
And now he's ready to throw it all away because of me.
I can't let him do that. Not when I know what it really means.
Carefully, I slip out from under his arm. He stirs slightly, mumbling something I can't make out, and my heart clenches. Every instinct screams at me to crawl back into bed, to wake him up and tell him I've changed my mind about running. But this isn't about what I want anymore.
Moving silently, I gather my clothes from where they were scattered across the floor. Each piece feels heavy in my hands, weighted with the memory of how Dante removed them, how his eyes tracked every inch of skin he revealed. I dress quickly, my fingers shaking as I button my shirt.
The hardest part is writing the letter.
I find a piece of paper in one of the kitchen drawers and sit at the small table, pen hovering over the blank page. What do you say to someone you love when you're about to break both your hearts?
Dante,
By the time you read this, I'll be gone. Please don't come after me.
I know you think your loyalty to Vito doesn't matter, but it does. You've spent years building something with him, becoming someone important. I won't let you destroy that for me. You say you've already chosen, but I'm making a different choice.
What we had last night was real. What I feel for you is real. But sometimes love means protecting someone from their own sacrifice.
You gave me something I never thought I'd have—the feeling of being chosen, of being wanted for who I am instead of what I represent. That's enough. It has to be.
Don't let Vito blame you for this. Tell him I drugged you, that you couldn't have stopped me. It's not a lie—I would have found a way to leave regardless. This is my decision, not your failure.
Find someone who can love you without costing you everything.
Sofia
P.S. - I was wrong about one thing. I was never your prisoner. You were mine.
My hands shake as I fold the letter and place it on his pillow where he'll see it immediately.
For a moment, I almost lose my resolve. His dark hair is messy from sleep, and there's a softness to his features that makes him look younger.
This is the Dante only I get to see—not the enforcer, not the killer, just the man who calls me princess like it's a prayer.
I force myself to turn away.
The morning air is crisp and cold, cutting through my thin jacket as I step outside. I don't have much—some cash I'd stashed away, the clothes on my back, and a small bag with essentials. It's not enough for a new life, but it's enough to disappear.
I start walking, keeping to the tree line where the shadows will hide me from any passing cars. The forest floor is uneven, full of roots and rocks that catch at my feet. Within an hour, my sneakers are soaked through from the dew and my feet are starting to blister.
But I keep walking.
Every step takes me further from Dante, further from the life we could have had.
My chest feels hollow, like someone reached inside and scooped out everything vital.
I've never felt homesick before—the Rosso house was never home—but this aching emptiness must be what it feels like.
Except home isn't a place. It's a person I left sleeping in a safehouse, and I'll never see him again.
The miles blur together. My feet throb, sharp pains shooting up my calves with each step. Branches catch at my hair and scratch my arms, but I barely notice. The physical pain is nothing compared to the weight of what I've done.
By the time I reach the main road, the sun is high overhead and my water bottle is empty. The bus stop is a small concrete shelter with a cracked plastic bench and a faded schedule posted on the side. According to the times, I have a twenty-minute wait.
I collapse onto the bench, finally allowing myself to feel the full extent of my exhaustion. My feet are on fire, blisters forming where my wet socks have rubbed against my shoes. My stomach gnaws with hunger, but the thought of food makes me nauseous.
What if I made the wrong choice? What if Dante would rather have me than his position with Vito? The doubt creeps in like poison, making me question everything.
No. I shake my head firmly. I saw the conflict in his eyes when he chose me. I heard the pain in his voice when he talked about betraying Vito. He would have regretted it eventually, and that regret would have poisoned whatever we had together. This way, at least I can protect him from that choice.
The bus arrives with a wheeze of hydraulic brakes and diesel fumes. The driver barely glances at me as I pay my fare and find a seat in the back. Through the grimy window, I watch the forest disappear, taking the safehouse—and Dante—with it.
I'm settling into my seat when I notice him—a middle-aged man about halfway up the aisle. Ruddy complexion, thinning reddish hair, the kind of pale eyes that seem colorless in certain light. He's trying to look casual, reading a newspaper, but I catch him glancing back at me twice.
Paranoia, I tell myself. I'm jumpy because of everything that's happened.
The man gets off two stops before mine, not even looking in my direction as he passes. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Just my imagination after all.
The city comes into view slowly, familiar skylines that should feel like coming home but instead feel like walking into a trap.
Every building, every street corner holds memories of my old life, the one where I was Sofia Gallo, sister to the Don's wife, bargaining chip in a war I never chose to fight.
I'll have to be smarter now. Create a new identity, find work that pays cash, stay invisible. The skills Dante taught me about thinking strategically will serve me well, even if he'll never know it.
The bus shudders to a stop at the main terminal downtown. I gather my bag and stand on unsteady legs, my muscles stiff from the long ride. Just a few more steps and I'll disappear into the crowd, become just another face in the city.
I step off the bus and immediately know something's wrong.
There are too many men loitering around the terminal.
Not the usual commuters—these guys are trying to look casual but failing.
Jeans and leather jackets mostly, a few in flannel shirts.
Working-class Irish, if I had to guess. My stomach clenches as I spot the man from the bus standing near a newspaper stand, no longer bothering to hide the fact that he's watching me.
I take a step backward, but it's too late. They're already moving, closing in from multiple directions with practiced efficiency. My heart hammers against my ribs as I realize there's nowhere to run.
A figure emerges from behind a black sedan—this one different from the others. Expensive suit, perfectly styled blond hair, the kind of sharp, aristocratic features that scream old money. He approaches with the confident stride of someone who's never doubted his own authority.
"Going somewhere, princess?"
The endearment sounds wrong coming from his mouth, a mockery of the way Dante says it. I straighten my spine, refusing to show fear even as my pulse races.
"Who are you supposed to be?"
His smile is cold, predatory. "Don't you recognize your fiancé?" He extends his hand in a mockery of politeness. "Kieran Costello."
I think of the letter I left for Dante, telling him not to come after me. For the first time since leaving the safehouse, I hope he doesn't listen.