Chapter 27
SOFIA
Iknow I’ve made a mistake before the car even pulls away from the curb. The driver doesn’t say a word. He just waits until I close the door, then hits the lock.
It’s a small sound, and it turns my whole body cold. I grab the handle. It doesn’t budge.
“Where are we going?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
The driver doesn’t answer. There’s a man in the front passenger seat. I didn’t notice him when I got in, but now he turns slightly toward me.
“Relax, Sofia,” he says. “We’re taking you to your father.”
My stomach drops. So they know all about me. I shove my hand into my purse for my phone, but the man in the passenger seat is faster. He reaches back, grabs my wrist, and twists just enough to make me gasp.
“Don’t,” he says calmly.
“Let go of me.”
He takes my purse from my lap and passes it to the driver. The driver tucks it somewhere I can’t reach.
“I need my phone,” I protest, in a voice much braver than I feel.
“No, you don’t,” he says coldly.
There’s really no rebuttal to that, is there? So I just sit back and cross my arms, furious with myself for getting in this car to begin with. What the hell was I thinking?
I stare out the window, wondering exactly how screwed I am. Are they going to kill me? Did they even take my father, or is this all some kind of elaborate ruse just to get me? I came to them willingly.
No one speaks for a long time, then I hear a phone buzz. I wonder if it’s mine until the man in front answers.
“Yes, the package is secured. We have the Vieri heir.”
My stomach turns. They know I’m pregnant. Worse, they’re already using my baby as a bargaining chip. The Vieri heir. The phrase sounds disgusting. My baby is a precious life, not a pawn in this endless game of chess.
More disturbing is how they could have found out.
The circle of those who know is small. My father only found out days ago.
Maya knows. Chiara knows. Dominic knows.
Rafe probably knows because Dominic tells Rafe everything.
Dr. Greco knows, but I doubt my very glamorous OB-GYN is moonlighting for the Calderones between prenatal appointments.
There really is a mole in Dominic’s organization. It’s how my father was taken. It’s why there was no one waiting at the bottom of the service elevator. This is all purposeful.
I try to track the turns as we drive, but panic makes the city useless.
We go over a bridge, or under one. I can’t tell.
I hear traffic, tires hissing over wet pavement, the low murmur of the men in front speaking too quietly for me to catch.
I press my palm to my stomach and try to breathe the way Dr. Greco told me to, slow and steady, as if breathing will do anything when I’m locked in the back of a car with men who know too much about my body.
A sob rises in my throat, but I swallow it. Not here.
The car finally slows in front of a brick building with blacked-out windows and a faded gold sign above the door. It looks like it used to be expensive in a very specific way. Men smoking cigars. Women pretending not to hear things. Deals made in back rooms over old, expensive whiskey.
The passenger door opens, and the man up front gets out first. Then he opens my door and offers me a hand. I stare at it.
He sighs. “You can take my hand, or Paulie can carry you. Mr. Calderone told us to be gentle, but he didn’t say we had to be patient.”
“Lucky me.”
I take his hand, because I don’t want Paulie, whoever the hell that is, touching me. He helps me out carefully, one hand staying lightly on my elbow as he walks me to the door.
Inside, the building smells like old smoke and leather. The entryway is dark, with heavy wood paneling and framed photos on the walls. Men in suits. Ribbon cuttings. Charity dinners that were likely fronts for money laundering.
We pass a bar with green lamps and shelves of liquor that look untouched. Then a narrow hallway. Then another door. The man opens it. For a second, my brain refuses to understand what I’m seeing.
Dad is tied to a chair in the middle of a room that probably used to host poker games or private meetings.
His face is swollen, one eye nearly shut.
There’s blood dried at the corner of his mouth and on the collar of his shirt.
His hands are bound behind the chair, and his head is hanging forward like he’s too tired to hold it up.
“Papa,” I choke.
His head lifts.
The second he sees me, something breaks in his face.
“No,” he whispers. “No, no, no.”
I lunge toward him, but the man beside me catches me around the waist and drags me back. Not roughly. He holds me firmly, careful not to put pressure on my stomach, like my baby is precious cargo and I’m the inconvenient container.
“Let me go,” I scream. “Let me go!”
“Sofia,” Dad says, his voice cracking. “Carina, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
That undoes me more than the blood. He’s apologizing to me. Tied to a chair, beaten half to hell, and he’s apologizing to me.
“No,” I sob. “No, don’t. Papa, don’t. This isn’t your fault.”
“Sofia Bellini,” a man says behind me. I turn toward his voice. “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you.”
I know without anyone saying so that this is Enzo Calderone. He’s wearing a charcoal suit and a smile that makes me want to rip the nearest lamp from the table and hit him with it. He’s older than Dominic by at least a decade, maybe more, with silver hair and deep lines on his face.
“You kidnapped my father,” I spit. “This isn’t a social call.”
“And yet you came willingly,” he says warmly. “I, for one, am glad you accepted my invitation.”
“Let him go,” I say between clenched teeth. “He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
Calderone’s expression softens in a way that feels more dangerous than anger.
“I understand why Dominic is so taken with you now. You have a lot of fire in you.”
“You’ve got me,” I try again. “Just let him go.”
One of the men near the door coughs like he’s covering a laugh. Calderone’s smile widens.
“You’re really in no position to make demands, Sofia.”
I hate the way he casually says my name. I hate that he’s acting like we’re just old friends instead of a dangerous man who’s kidnapped my father and me.
Calderone crosses to the long table near the wall and pours himself a drink from a crystal decanter, like he’s hosting a dinner party.
“Dominic Vieri has spent years convincing this city he cannot be touched,” he says. “No soft places. No exposed nerves. No weakness. Men like him build their empires on that kind of myth.”
“He has family.”
“Yes. A sister protected by walls, money, and men who would die before they let anyone breathe too close to her. Rafe, who may as well be a blade with legs. Soldiers. Lawyers. Drivers. Useful people, certainly, but not soft people.”
I hate how easily he says that.
“And then there’s you,” he continues, turning back toward me. “A pregnant mistress.”
My skin crawls.
Dad spits blood onto the floor. “Go to hell.”
Calderone looks amused.
“I see where you get that fire from, Sofia. It’s cute how hard you two are fighting to pretend you’re in any position to bargain.”
“Dominic will find me,” I say.
“I’m sure he will try.”
“He’ll kill you.”
“Possibly.” Calderone takes a sip of his drink. “But not before he makes mistakes. Men like Dominic are most dangerous when they are cold. I need him hot. Reckless. Human.”
My stomach twists. I think of Dominic’s face when I stepped away from him outside the safe house. The way he looked like I had hit him. The way I did it because I needed him to understand that his control had hurt me too.
Calderone sets down his glass. “Marco and I need to finish our conversation.”
“No,” I say immediately.
Dad’s eyes go to mine. “Sofia, don’t.”
Two men move toward Dad.
“No.” I try to step forward, but the hand on my elbow becomes an arm across my waist. “No, stop. Leave him alone!”
Dad struggles as one of the men cuts the ties around his ankles and hauls him upright. He’s too weak. His knees buckle almost immediately, and I make a sound I don’t recognize.
“Papa!”
He looks at me, one eye swollen, mouth trembling. “Don’t look, carina.”
That breaks me.
I fight then.
I kick backward and catch the man holding me in the shin. He grunts, and for half a second, I almost get free. Then another man grabs my arms, and between the two of them, they hold me still.
“Let him go!” I scream.
Calderone stops at the door and looks back at me. “For what it’s worth, I have no intention of killing him tonight.”
I hear the emphasis. He plans to kill him eventually, then. That’s no comfort to me at all.
They drag Dad through the door. He tries to keep his feet under him, stumbles once, and I nearly fold in half from the pain of watching it. The door shuts behind them, muffling his voice, then cutting it off entirely.
The men finally let me go.
I stumble back until my legs hit a chair, then sit, because if I don’t, I’ll fall. My whole body is shaking now. Hands, knees, teeth. Everything. The man from the car sets a bottle of water on the table beside me.
I stare at it. “Seriously?”
He shrugs. “You need to stay hydrated.”
I pick up the bottle and throw it across the room. “Fuck you,” I scream.
He smiles coldly. “Have it your way. I’m not allowed to hurt you, but I’m in no position to stop you if you hurt yourself.”
He goes to sit in another chair, crossing his arms and watching me closely. I turn away from him and stare at a wall.
Sitting here now, I finally understand Dominic’s overprotectiveness. Every time I thought he was being dramatic or controlling, he was just trying to prevent this exact thing.
I’m the one who screwed up his plans.
I’m the only one to blame for the position I’m in now.