Chapter 19
Xavier
Soft sunlight sketches the curtain patterns onto Sophie’s body, exposed from the waist up, her long legs intertwined in a cream-colored sheet.
My eyes remain wide open. I triumphed whenever exhaustion tried to close them, refusing to allow the darkness to blot out her presence. My wife .
I want to touch her, but I can’t. Years of dreaming have led me to this moment, yet I can do nothing but stop myself, not wanting to hurt her more than she already has been.
My eyes do what my hands cannot, admiring her shape. A woman I'm not entirely sure isn’t a dream I’ve conjured up.
She’s too perfect to be real.
No one could be this damn perfect.
Her hair is unruly, exquisitely unrestrained, spilling over the pillow like tousled waves. A few stragglers partially cover her eyes, accentuating the gentle outline of her face.
A redness surrounds her lashes, remnants of recent tears.
The muted scar underneath her eye, on the highest point of her cheekbone, makes me want to lash out, execute those men all over again, and take my time doing it.
To even look at her lips—naturally rosy, as soft and round as these pillows—stirs a raging desire I must suppress, making me focus somewhere else. Anywhere else.
I’ve spent most of the morning memorizing the differences in her. As if destined to lead the same life, her body, like mine, is a constellation map of the people who have wronged us. A testament to our endurance to never let them win.
Long ago, my father ensured I could handle pain and that it wouldn’t break me.
But her… she wasn’t made for this kind of suffering.
When I married her, I vowed to prevent it from happening. I swore to protect her from our enemies, to keep her close so she’d never have to fear a world where I’m not beside her. My failings alone inflict more damage than any weapon could, making it impossible to remain in bed.
As I step into the bathroom, positioning myself at the mirror, I see exactly what I expected.
A man struggling to come to terms with his life.
The skin around my eyes is almost entirely dark. Sophie remains unaware of my sleepless nights, how, more often than not, I close my eyes, bombed out of my fucking mind.
That’s what her absence was… her death.
She’s here with me now, but I'm still waiting for her to disappear. For my world to go dark again.
I wasn’t surprised in the least when I received a text from Bo before the sun had even risen, letting me know that a parcel had been delivered outside the gate with items we might need for a short beach stay. The guy is meticulous as ever.
After brushing my teeth and splashing water on my face, I cross the bedroom quietly, grabbing my phone on the way out. There are three missed calls from Dario and a few from Willie, a capo in Miami. Pulling up Bo’s text from this morning, I dial his number, closing the door to the bedroom.
Dante is the one who answers, shouting animated expletives before someone snatches the phone from him. After an exhausting night of rehashing old and new wounds, I can’t help but smile at his excitement, allowing myself to feel the significance. Sophie is alive.
My wife—my best friend—is alive .
“Dante hasn’t stopped smiling. Or screaming.” Bo chuckles. “He just told Mimi, and she’s desperate to see her.”
When I make it to the kitchen, it hits me that there’s no food and nothing to drink. While they continue to ramble, I place a grocery delivery order. By the time I finish, Dante is still yelling into the phone, and Mimi matches his volume behind him. “How does she look? How is she?”
Bo’s voice is much more cautious, the only one aware of the fears I laid into him last night before Sophie joined me on the beach. “How was it?”
“She’s been through more than I realized,” I say, struggling to find an answer that wouldn’t betray her trust. I take a deep breath, prepared to hold it all in. “Listen, I should go. I think we’ll be here a few days.”
“We’ll keep Dario calm. Don’t worry about anything here. Focus on her.”
“Thanks.”
Mimi yells once more, “If she gives you any trouble about coming back, tell her I’ll treat her to a spa day. That’ll change her mind!”
The brothers groan at her just before the call drops. Their chaos is more than I can handle this early in the morning. I'm gathering the groceries at the gate when my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s Bo, this time without the background noise.
“Should I tell Courtney? What about Camilla?”
Sophie’s mother is the last person to tell.
Within months following the takeover, Camilla left the life she knew, a husband who’d just lost everything and moved to California. Vito’s phone taps show they are still in contact… or at least they were before he went offline. Not a single call or concern for her daughter has reached my ears.
It was the woman who actually raised her who deserves to know the truth.
As I unpack the bags and gather what I need to prepare a meal, I tell him, “Courtney deserves to know. Sophie would want that. Tell her we’ll visit soon.”
Even if Sophie chooses not to stay—fuck, I can’t even imagine it— even if she doesn’t, she won’t leave without seeing Courtney. I know that much.
“Okay, I’ll call now.”
“Hey, thanks for sending our things.”
“Don’t mention it.” He blows out a sigh. “I'm so fucking happy for you, man.”
Dicing vegetables as Courtney once instructed, I toss them into the whisked eggs sizzling in the pan, poking the spatula to keep them from burning.
While take-out might taste better, I want to cook for her.
I want to keep moving because my thoughts will darken if I stop.
I’ll remember how she thrashed against me in bed, how her eyes glazed over with the worst kind of fear when my hand slid between her legs.
She screamed as if she were somewhere else.
She didn’t hear my voice, couldn’t register my touch, as if she’d lost all five senses. An attack of complete panic.
I don’t know how to navigate this, how to ease this shame.
So I consume my morning with something to distract me.
Work. I ventilate the cottage, opening the doors to invite some sunlight.
I remove the sheets from the furnishings.
I prepare a tray with her breakfast, placing one of the gardenias from the garden between the coffee and a glass of ice water.
She remains undisturbed as I set the tray on the bed, her arms resting above her head.
I find myself at the beach, ripping off my worn shirt and walking into the water.
The waves crash against me, calming once I've dived deep enough.
Everything becomes silent in this part of the world.
The closest thing to peace, I swim through the rough current, allowing the exercise to soothe the storm within my chest.
It’s not your fault.
It’s not your fault.
As often as I say it to myself, there’s no belief in those words.
The damning narrative I’ve seared into my brain is always there. That it’s selfish to want her to stay. That she’ll despise who I am if she returns with me. That Sophie has always been better off running from me than drawing me close.
They told you she was dead.
You believed it because you couldn’t be sure.
Could you go through that again?
My head shakes under the weight of the Atlantic, a silent answer.
You can love her harder.
You can protect…
My father’s ominous laughter echoes around me.
Nauseous, I push myself up from the depths, heaving with rage. Shoving my hair back, I shift my gaze from the dreary sky to the secluded beach. For miles, there are no houses in this remote part of the island. Nevertheless, as I wade through the waves, I remain vigilant, anticipating trouble.
Sitting on the damp sand, I lean back while gazing at the choppy sea. I’ve lost track of time when I hear a gentle, appreciative voice approaching. “You made me breakfast.”
Before I turn, I wipe any trace of concern off my face.
I steady my heart, soften my eyes, and unclench my jaw—determined to be a solid place for her to land on. Sophie’s dressed in a mesh cover-up, the strings of her bikini wrapped around her neck. Her eyes fall to my soaked slacks as she drops onto the sand beside me .
The inside of my mouth is like cotton, my lips merged shut. Speak, man . “Well, it’s no Michelin star meal, but I did my best.”
“Did you eat?”
I nod, lying. It’s a relief to see the warmth returning to her cheeks, the deep shadows around her eyes fading after a restful morning. She notices my observing and moves closer.
The wind picks up as she slips beneath my arm and settles onto my lap. It’s so routine that I feel unsettled, watching her hair dance, her hands resting on my chest.
“Did you sleep?” she asks. This time, she sees through the lie, peering up at me accusingly. “Your eyes are bloodshot. And the bed was cold.”
Her worries—I want to expel them. I want to conceal anything I'm going through, but it’s not as easy as it once was.
The smile I flash her eases the scowl that was quickly forming, and when I swoop her back, bending to claim her mouth, she’s teeming with contentment.
Any hesitance from last night is gone. The lightness dispels the overwhelming shadows that lingered only moments ago.
“Swim with me,” she says.
I nod, just eager to be where she is.
After showering, we order an early dinner to spare her from having to stomach anything else I could cook.
As I hoped, she brightens at the average sight of burgers and beer—something she regularly craved in our daily life, away from her mother’s overbearing rules.
Her eyes linger on the gun I’ve placed on the patio table before she pops a fry into her mouth.
It doesn’t seem to concern her as it once did.
“I have questions I'm not sure you’re open to answering,” she says .
“About?”
“Your daughter.”
Placing the double-stacked burger onto her plate, I give her an understanding glance. “Ask me anything.”
She adjusts her covering. “You said her name is Isabella?”
“Yes. I call her Izzy.”