Chapter 37
Sofia
The drive to Long Island passes in relative silence, the city gradually giving way to suburban sprawl and then to something greener, more open.
Marco doesn't try to make conversation beyond asking if I need to stop for anything, and I'm grateful for that.
My thoughts are too tangled, too raw for small talk.
I watch the scenery change through the passenger window, noting how the houses get bigger and more spaced out the further we drive from the city.
By the time Marco turns onto a private road marked only by a discrete stone pillar, we're in a different world entirely—one of manicured lawns, old trees, and the kind of quiet money that doesn't need to announce itself.
The villa comes into view as we round a curve, and I have to catch my breath.
It's not what I expected. Instead of the imposing fortress-like structure I'd imagined, this house is elegant and understated—white stone and large windows, with climbing ivy and flower boxes that make it look more like a painting than a Mafia don's retreat.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Marco says, the first words he's spoken in over an hour.
"It's not what I pictured," I admit.
"Vito had it built about ten years ago. Wanted something that felt like a home instead of a stronghold." He parks in the circular driveway, but doesn't immediately get out. "Place has good energy. Peaceful."
We sit there for a moment, both looking at the house. I can hear birds singing, and beyond that, the distant sound of water. The contrast to the chaos I've been living in is almost overwhelming.
"I should probably get your bag," Marco says finally, but he makes no move toward the trunk.
"Marco." I turn to face him, studying his weathered features. "How long have you known Dante?"
He's quiet for a long moment, considering the question. "Going on fifteen years now. Since Vito brought him in."
"What was he like then? When he first arrived?"
Marco's expression softens slightly. "Angry.
Scared, though he'd have died before admitting it.
Lost everything that mattered to him and didn't know how to exist in the world anymore.
" He looks at me directly. "Vito gave him purpose, family, a reason to keep breathing.
But Dante... he never learned how to want things for himself.
Only how to be what other people needed. "
The words hit deeper than I expect. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I've watched him for fifteen years, and I've never seen him want something the way he wants you.
Not just want—need. Like you're air and he's been holding his breath his whole life.
" Marco runs a hand through his graying hair.
"For what it's worth, I think you're good for him.
You make him remember he's more than just Vito's weapon. "
"And if I decide I can't do this? Can't live this life?"
"Then that's your choice to make," he says simply. "But I hope you'll think about what kind of man would walk away from everything he's ever known for a chance to be with you. That's not obsession or control—that's love in its purest form."
Before I can respond, Marco gets out and retrieves my small duffle bag from the trunk. I follow him to the front door, my legs unsteady after the long drive.
He produces a key from his pocket and unlocks the door, gesturing for me to enter first. The interior is just as surprising as the exterior—warm hardwood floors, comfortable furniture that looks actually lived-in rather than just expensive, and everywhere, windows that let in natural light.
"Mrs. Chen comes by three times a week," Marco explains, setting my bag down in the foyer. "She's the caretaker—older woman, been working for Vito for years. Don't be alarmed if you see her puttering around. She'll mostly leave you alone unless you need something."
I nod, still taking in my surroundings. There are books on the shelves that look like they've actually been read, artwork that seems chosen for love rather than investment value. It feels like a real home, not a showcase.
Marco reaches into his jacket and pulls out a simple black cell phone. "There's only one number programmed into this," he says, placing it on the hall table. "When you're ready to come home, call it."
When you're ready to come home. The assumption that I will want to come back both comforts and terrifies me.
"Marco," I say as he heads toward the door. "Thank you. For driving me, for... everything."
He pauses, his hand on the doorknob. "Sofia?
I've been doing this job for a long time.
I've seen what this life can do to people, especially women.
But I've also seen what it can be when it's chosen freely, with eyes wide open.
" He looks back at me. "Whatever you decide, make sure it's really your decision.
Not fear talking, not guilt, not what you think you should want. What you actually want."
And then he's gone, leaving me alone in a stranger's house with nothing but my thoughts and a week to figure out the rest of my life.
For a few minutes, I just stand in the foyer, listening to the silence. It's not the oppressive quiet of being trapped—it's the peaceful silence of solitude. When was the last time I was truly alone? Not hiding, not running, not surrounded by people watching my every move, but simply... alone?
I can't remember.
I explore the house slowly, getting my bearings.
The kitchen is spacious and well-stocked, clearly maintained for someone who might arrive unexpectedly.
The living room has floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over perfectly manicured grounds.
Upstairs, there are several bedrooms, each decorated in soothing, neutral tones.
I choose the master bedroom, partly because it's the largest but mostly because it has French doors that open onto a small balcony. When I step outside, I can see what I've been hearing—water. The house sits on a bluff overlooking Long Island Sound, and the view is breathtaking.
I set my bag on the bed and change out of the clothes I've been wearing since yesterday, pulling on jeans and a soft sweater that feel like armor against the emotional vulnerability I'm feeling. Then I make my way back downstairs and out to the grounds.
There's a stone path that leads from the house down toward the water, winding between flower beds that are clearly tended with care. I follow it, my feet crunching softly on the gravel, until I reach a small gazebo perched at the edge of the bluff.
The view from here is even more spectacular. Water stretches to the horizon, dotted with sailboats that look like white butterflies from this distance. The sun is starting to sink lower in the sky, painting everything in shades of gold and amber.
I sit on the bench inside the gazebo and just... breathe.
For the first time in months—maybe years—I don't have to be anyone other than myself. I don't have to be Vito's problem or Dante's salvation or Rina's little sister or the Costellos' prize. I can just be Sofia, sitting by the water, watching the boats and thinking my own thoughts.
The freedom is both exhilarating and terrifying.
I think about Dante, probably pacing Vito's house right now, furious and worried and feeling abandoned.
The thought makes my chest ache. I think about Rina, caught between her loyalty to her husband and her love for her sister.
I think about Vito, offering me something I never expected—genuine choice.
But mostly, I think about myself. About who I am when I'm not reacting to crisis or trauma or other people's expectations. About what I want my life to look like, what I'm willing to sacrifice for love, what I'm not.
A breeze comes off the water, carrying the scent of salt and freedom. I close my eyes and let it wash over me, this moment of perfect solitude. Whatever I decide in the coming days, at least I'll know I had this—time to think, space to breathe, the luxury of choice.
When I open my eyes, the sun has moved lower, and the water has turned silver. Somewhere behind me, the house waits with its comfortable rooms and well-stocked kitchen and the phone that connects me back to the world I left behind.
But for now, I'm content to sit here and watch the light change on the water, alone with my thoughts for the first time in my entire life.
It's terrifying and beautiful and exactly what I need.