Chapter 36
Dante
Sunlight streaming through the windows jerks me awake, and the first thing I register is that I'm still in the chair outside the guestroom where Sofia slept.
My neck aches from the awkward angle, my shirt is wrinkled, and there's a crick in my back that feels like someone drove a spike between my shoulder blades.
I force myself up and crack the door open to her room and that's when reality slams into me.
The bed is empty.
"Sofia?" I call out, thinking maybe she's in the bathroom. But the door is open, and I can see the space is vacant. The covers are pulled up neatly, like she made the bed before leaving, and there's no sign of the bloodstained wedding dress from yesterday.
Panic hits me like a freight train. My heart starts hammering against my ribs as I check under the bed, in the closet, behind the curtains—anywhere she might be hiding. Nothing.
"Sofia!" I shout, louder this time, not giving a damn who I wake up.
I bolt from the room, taking the stairs two at a time as my mind races through possibilities. Did she run again? Did someone take her? Are the Costellos already mobilizing for revenge? How the fuck did I fall asleep when I was supposed to be watching her?
The main living area comes into view, and I see Vito sitting at the dining table with a newspaper spread in front of him, reading like it's any other morning. Rina sits across from him with a cup of coffee, still in her silk pajamas, looking perfectly calm.
Too calm.
"She's gone," I announce, my voice cracking slightly on the words. "Sofia's gone. We need to—"
"Sit down, Dante," Vito says without looking up from his paper.
"Sit down?" I stare at him incredulously. "Did you hear what I just said? She's missing. We need to get the men together, start searching—"
"I said sit down." This time Vito's voice carries that note of authority that's made grown men piss themselves. He folds the newspaper carefully and sets it aside, finally meeting my eyes. "She's not missing. She's somewhere safe, under my protection."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means she needed some time away from all of this. Away from us. Away from you."
The last part cuts deeper than any knife Kieran could have used. "Away from me?"
Rina sets down her coffee cup, her expression sympathetic but firm. "She's been through hell, Dante. She needs space to process everything that's happened."
"Space?" I feel my voice rising, but I can't control it. "She needs space from the person who just saved her life? From the person who loves her?"
"She knows you love her," Vito says calmly. "That's not in question. But she also knows that loving you means accepting this life, this family, everything that comes with it. She needs to decide if she can do that without feeling like she has no other choice."
"Where is she?" I demand, stepping closer to the table. "Tell me where she is, and I'll go explain—"
"No."
The single word stops me cold. Vito's expression is implacable, showing no sign that he's going to budge on this.
"No?" I repeat, my voice dangerously quiet. "She's my—"
"She's what, Dante? Your property? Your prisoner?" Vito stands slowly, and even though I have a few inches on him, his presence seems to fill the room. "Because that's exactly the kind of thinking she's trying to get away from."
"That's not what I meant, and you know it."
"Do I? Because right now you sound like every other man in this business who thinks loving a woman gives him the right to control her."
The comparison stings because there's truth in it, and we both know it. But that doesn't make it easier to swallow.
"I just want to talk to her," I say, hating how desperate I sound. "Five minutes. That's all I need."
"And say what? That she belongs here? That she belongs with you? That she doesn't really have a choice anyway because the Costellos will never stop hunting her?" Vito shakes his head. "She's heard all of that already, Dante. She knows the score."
"Then what the fuck am I supposed to do? Just sit here and wait for her to decide she doesn't want this life? Wait for her to decide I'm not worth it?"
The anger that's been building in my chest suddenly collapses in on itself, leaving behind something raw and hollow.
Because that's what this is really about, isn't it?
The fear that when Sofia really thinks about it—about what being with me means, about the violence and danger and moral compromises—she'll realize I'm not worth the cost.
"Oh, Dante," Rina says softly, and before I know it, she's crossing the room to wrap her arms around me. The gesture is so unexpected, so maternal, that it breaks something loose in my chest.
"What if she doesn't come back?" I whisper against her hair, finally voicing the fear that's been eating at me since I woke up to an empty bed.
"Then she doesn't come back," Rina says simply. "And you'll respect that decision because you love her enough to want her to be happy, even if it's not with you."
"I don't know how to do that."
"Neither did Vito, once upon a time." She pulls back to look at me, her dark eyes warm with understanding. "But he learned. And if you really love her—if this isn't just about possession or pride—then you'll learn too."
I want to argue, to insist that this is different, that what Sofia and I have is different.
But looking at Rina and Vito together, seeing the way they balance each other, the way they chose each other every day rather than just accepting their circumstances.
.. maybe I'm starting to understand what Sofia needs.
"How long?" I ask, directing the question to Vito.
"As long as she needs."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have." Vito returns to his seat, picking up his coffee like we're discussing the weather instead of my entire future.
"The time will pass fast, and there's plenty for you to do in the meantime.
The Costellos aren't going to just roll over because we killed their heir. We need to prepare for retaliation."
As if summoned by the mention of work, the front door opens and Marco walks in, looking like he's barely slept. His clothes are rumpled, there are dark circles under his eyes, and he's moving with the careful precision of someone who's had too much coffee and not enough rest.
"Boss," he nods to Vito, then glances at me. "Dante."
Something in his expression—a flicker of guilt, maybe, or just exhaustion—makes me study his face more closely. And then it hits me.
"You drove her," I say, my voice flat with certainty. "You know where she is."
Marco's poker face is usually impeccable, but right now he looks like a man who's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Dante—"
"Don't even try it," Vito interrupts, his voice carrying a clear warning. "Marco was following my orders, and he'll continue to follow my orders. That includes keeping his mouth shut about Sofia's location."
"She's my—" I start to say, then catch myself. Because that's the problem, isn't it? Sofia isn't my anything. She's her own person, making her own choices, and I have to respect that even if it's killing me.
But that doesn't mean I have to like it.
"This is bullshit," I snarl, the anger rushing back in a red tide. "She should have talked to me. She should have given me a chance to—"
"To what? Convince her to stay? Guilt her into it?
Make her feel like she owes you something because you saved her?
" Vito's voice is sharp now, cutting through my protests like a blade.
"That's exactly why she left without talking to you, Dante.
Because she knew you'd try to change her mind before she had a chance to make it up. "
The truth of it hits me hard. Because he's right—I would have tried to convince her to stay. I would have used every argument, every emotional appeal, every manipulation in the book to keep her here with me. And maybe that's exactly what she was trying to avoid.
"I need some air," I mutter, heading for the door.
"Dante," Rina calls after me. "She'll call. When she's ready, she'll call."
I don't answer, because I'm not sure I believe her. And even if she does call, what if the answer is goodbye?
The morning air hits my face as I step outside, but it doesn't do anything to cool the fire burning in my chest. Somewhere out there, Sofia is alone, thinking about whether I'm worth the price of admission to this fucked-up world we call family.
And for the first time since I was thirteen years old, I'm not sure what the answer to that question is.