Chapter 15 SOPHIA
Earlier that day…
I wake up slowly; every movement hurts like hell. My wrists are sore. The skin on them is rubbed raw from the ropes. My back aches from the awkward angle he left me in. My cheek still throbs from the slap that finally knocked me sideways, and my legs tremble when I sit up too fast.
But the bed is empty. Thank God for small mercies.
No Roberto. Again.
For the past week, he’s been in and out—mostly out—chasing shadows.
Giovanni’s disappearance after Enrico’s ambush has thrown him into some manic spiral of strategy meetings, failed leads, and phone calls that end in screaming fits.
He’s convinced Cammie knows something. Convinced she’s hiding.
Or worse—being hidden. He won’t admit it, but I think he’s scared.
And Roberto Giordano does not do well with fear. He turns it into violence against me.
Last night was... bad.
Worse than usual. He tied me standing up to the bedpost, muttering about loyalty, about betrayal, about how I looked at him. I didn’t even say anything. But that didn’t matter. He slapped me once. Then again. And again. And again.
Until he got bored and passed out drunk, leaving me tied like some broken animal until the early hours of the morning when he finally jerked awake and untied me like he was doing me a favor.
I must have gotten a few hours of sleep after that. Enough to not collapse. Not enough to feel human.
Now the silence in the house feels like a gift. I peel off what’s left of my nightgown and step into a steaming shower, standing under the spray like it can wash the bruises away. For a moment, I let myself pretend that I’m safe.
That I’m free.
But even the water can’t hide the ache in my bones.
When I get out, the towel feels too rough against my skin. I wrap myself in a robe and crawl onto the edge of the bed to check my phone, mostly out of habit. And I'm stunned when I see all the notifications. Dozens.
Text after text after text, all saying the same thing.
So sorry.
We're praying for him.
I can't believe this happened.
Let us know if you need anything.
My stomach drops.
No.
No no no no—
My fingers fumble as I open the news app; my heart is already pounding, and my breath feels caught in my throat. The knot gets only worse when I read:
Marcello Orsi Shot in Parking Garage — Currently in Critical Condition at St. Raphael’s ICU.
The screen blurs, and I read the headline again. And again.
It doesn’t change.
My brother.
The only person left in this world who loves me without needing something in return. The only one who ever really saw me. Shot. Like an animal. In a parking garage. I can’t breathe.
A sob tries to break free, but I swallow it back down. I’ve learned how to bury sounds, to choke back screams, to silence grief the way I silence everything else.
But this? This is different. This is Marcello.
He might be dying. That thought hits harder than any punch to the gut that Roberto has ever given me. I crumble over myself as tears slide down my face before I can stop them. Silent. Salt on a wound that will never close.
It takes me a moment before I'm able to read the rest of the article. My eyes burn from focusing so hard through the tears, as I devour every single word.
Mob Ties: Marcello Orsi Shot in Midtown Parking Garage
By: Angela Donati
Marcello Orsi, son of alleged Mafia kingpin Carlos Orsi, was shot late Wednesday afternoon in a Midtown parking garage located beneath Parkway One Tower at 420 East 58th Street.
Eyewitnesses reported hearing multiple gunshots around 4:45 PM. Surveillance footage shows Orsi exiting the elevator in the garage with two as-yet-unidentified subjects moments before the attack.
Sources close to law enforcement confirm that Orsi sustained multiple gunshot wounds, including one to the head.
I gasp, my hand flies to my mouth as I stare at the screen. My chest tightens, and my vision blurs once again. Shot in the head. That's bad. That's really, really bad. I will the tears back, because I want to read the rest of the article, which feels like a lifeline to my brother.
Orsi was rushed to St. Raphael’s Medical Center, where he remains in critical condition in the Intensive Care Unit. Doctors have stated he is not expected to survive the night.
Marcello Orsi, 30, is the son of Carlos Orsi, the controversial patriarch of the Orsi crime family, currently on trial for federal racketeering and embezzlement. While Marcello has no official criminal record, he has been suspected of involvement in the family’s business operations overseas.
I stop reading, and my eyes fall on the last text exchange between Marcello and me, from yesterday afternoon.
Roberto had retreated to his office, leaving me with fresh bruises and orders to cancel the dinner he’d just had me schedule.
I had typed out the message with a shaking hand, but my words were steady.
I'd been daydreaming of Marcello being my knight in shining armor, but in reality, it could never happen.
The moment he found out, Roberto would be dead, and Marcello would be so deep in trouble I can't even imagine it. I can't do that to him. I just can't.
So I cancelled dinner.
Marcello:
I'll come by your house now
Me:
No, don't. I'm not home.
Marcello:
Where are you?
Me:
Let's meet tomorrow.
Tomorrow. Today.
Tomorrow, a word I've taken for granted for too long. A word I of all people should know not to take for granted. He must have been shot right after our texts. The phone slips from my hand to the bed. The sob escapes before I can stop it, a raw, shaking sound torn from somewhere deep inside.
I press my hand to my mouth, like that will keep my heart from falling out of my chest. God, no. Please. Not him. Not the only person I have left. Not my brother.
I force a ragged breath through my lungs. You have to be strong now. Yes, I nod to myself. I do. And another thought. You need to get to the hospital.
That's a good plan. On autopilot, I get up and, like every morning, go into the bathroom to apply makeup and cover my bruises.
I select clothing for the same reason: anything that will hide the choke marks on my throat and the abrasions on my wrists.
I'm not a prisoner. Roberto doesn't think I will ever leave him, and I hate to admit it, but he's right. I have nowhere to go.
The driver and guard who are assigned to me are sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee and flirting with the maids.
"I need to go to the hospital," I say, stepping in.
"Just a minute, let me finish my coffee," Ben, the driver, smirks.
Something inside me ruptures. I wouldn't care if this were about me, but it isn't. For all I know, Marcello might already be dead. I don't have time for this nonsense. Not today. "Now!"
Everyone in the kitchen freezes and stares at me like I'm some kind of alien. I sounded like one, too, even to myself.
Ben and Norman rise. Without a word, I turn my back and march toward the garage, putting on a pair of large sunglasses.
The ride to St. Raphael’s Medical Center is sheer torture.
Every second drags like an hour, and my mind is filled with the worst scenarios.
I get there and he's already dead, or back in surgery, dying; one scenario is worse than the other.
I was so distressed when I left that I even forgot to let Roberto know what I was doing, like I was supposed to.
I can come and go as I please, but I have to keep him abreast of every step I take.
I'm sure Ben or Norman will have already notified him, but for once in three years, I don't care.
"Let me out here," I demand, and both Ben and Norman are so stupefied by my behavior that they actually listen. Ben stops at the front door to the emergency room, and Norman follows me, pushing reporters out of the way, who are hovering about the entrance like a pack of vultures.
"Marcello Orsi?" I ask the security guard at the entryway.
He doesn't even have to look Marcello up. He knows who he is. Everybody in this city does. His eyes move from me to my bodyguard, and he must realize we're not the press.
"Top floor, ICU, room 314. The elevator is over there," he points behind him.
Norman makes the metal detector chirp aggressively, but the guard only flinches and turns it off. Of course, Norman is carrying. And of course, the guard doesn't challenge him, despite the big sign: No Firearms.
Wordlessly, we ride up. The elevator stops several times on different floors, and Norman scowls at anyone waiting there, closing the door without letting them in. Then we finally stop on the top floor.
My heart rate hasn't slowed since I got the first notification, and all the beeping of the monitors coming from the open doors around me reminds me of that.
"Here." Norman stops in front of a door guarded by four burly men.
"You can't go in there," one advises, posing a bodily bar in front of it.
"Stay out here," I tell Norman, then look at the man, "I'm Sophia Giordano, Marcello's sister."
He nods at me, turns his head to the partially open sliding door, "Luciano?"
I recognize Marcello’s second-in-command immediately. I met him when I defied my dad's orders and visited Marcello in Sicily a few years ago, and again when I picked Marcello up at the airport.
"Sophia," Luciano nods at me, then to the guard. "Let her in. She's family."
The man steps to the side but refuses to let Norman follow me. I don't care; let the testosterone figure that one out.