Chapter 34 Sophia
The next morning…
I wake slowly, like I’ve been floating somewhere soft and warm. My body feels… different. Loose. Heavy, but in the best way. I can’t remember the last time I woke up without my muscles coiled tight, without my jaw aching from clenching it in my sleep.
I keep my eyes closed. I don’t need to open them to know where I am.
Raffael’s house.
Safe.
The word makes me smile against the pillow. Safe. I test it in my mind, roll it over in my head like a foreign phrase I’ve only just learned. Even the lingering terror from last night’s nightmare isn’t enough to ruin it.
Because he was there.
So tender, so thoughtful, like I was something precious. And he’s always wanted me. I know that now, just like I’ve always wanted him.
I hum without thinking, a soft little tune that slips out before I can catch it.
My eyes open slowly to the spilling sunlight across the room.
The spot in bed beside me is empty, but the sheets on the other side are still warm.
I can almost feel the imprint of his body there, the arm he’d kept wrapped around me all night.
He’s gone.
The realization dulls the brightness in my chest for a moment, but not enough to steal the little hum that slips out again as I stretch.
When was the last time I hummed?
I try to remember, but the years blur together—three long, gray years where the smallest joys were dangerous, punishable.
Not that the eighteen that came before that were anything to write home about.
My father is a cruel man. Not like Roberto, but he never held back his slaps or cutting remarks either.
I take my time in the shower, letting the hot water pour over me, and the steam wraps around me like a second skin. My fingers trace over my arms, my shoulders, the places where bruises used to live, and I feel… lighter. Different.
It’s not gone, the fear, the doubt, the instinct to look over my shoulder, but it’s quieter this morning. Less like a scream, more like a whisper that I can ignore if I try hard enough.
I hum again, louder this time, and it echoes off the tile.
I get dressed slowly, choosing one of the soft sweaters from the closet—one I still can’t believe was waiting here for me—and a pair of slacks that fit like they were made for me.
My hair’s still damp from the shower, but I leave it loose.
The ends brush just over my shoulders, and I'm liking the feel of it.
Just like I'm liking that my hair is not pinning me against the bed, a chair, or anything else any longer.
Barefoot, I pad down the hallway toward the kitchen.
The smell of coffee, bacon, eggs, and something faintly sweet greets me before I even step inside.
The moment I cross the threshold, Raffael looks up from whatever he’s doing and drops it without a second thought.
In two strides, he’s in front of me, and his hands slide around my waist as he pulls me in tight.
"Good morning, bella mia," he murmurs, warmly. Then, before I can blink, he sweeps me off my feet—literally—and spins me in a wide, dizzying circle.
A laugh bursts out of me, sudden and bright, and for a second, I don’t even recognize the sound as mine.
When he sets me back down, his mouth is already devouring my lips, his kiss deep enough to steal my breath, his hold unyielding in the best way.
I sink into it without hesitation, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
When he finally pulls back, there’s a smug little smirk tugging at his mouth. "I wanted to get the awkward first-morning-after moment out of the way," he says.
I’m still catching my breath, but I smile at him, my cheeks warm for all the right reasons. "You succeeded."
He guides me toward the table with one hand at the small of my back and pulls out a chair with a little flourish. "Sit, sit," he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to take care of me.
I ease into the seat, and he’s already setting a plate in front of me: bacon, scrambled eggs, and a golden waffle that smells faintly of cinnamon.
Steam curls up from the food, making my stomach tighten with hunger.
Without missing a beat, he slides a tall glass of orange juice in front of me, the condensation already beading on the glass.
"Fresh-squeezed," he says, almost offhand, but there’s a quiet pride in his voice.
The first sip tastes like heaven. The second is even better. The sweet tartness is just what I needed as it floods my mouth, and I realize I haven’t had orange juice in years, not like this.
He takes the seat across from me, a mug of coffee in his hand. For a moment, he just watches me over the rim as he drinks, his eyes softer than I expect for this early in the morning.
"How are you feeling?" he asks finally.
I glance down at my plate, then back at him. "Good," I admit, surprised at how easily the word comes. "The most… relaxed I’ve ever been, I think."
Something shifts in his expression, like my answer matters more than I can possibly understand. "That’s all I want, bella mia," he says quietly. "You, safe, you… at ease."
The words settle in my chest, warm and solid, and for a moment, I just sit there, letting them sink in, while the smell of coffee and bacon fills the air.
He doesn’t rush me. He just sits there, sipping his coffee, occasionally glancing up at me, waiting until I’ve cleaned my plate and pushed it away. When I lean back, content and more full than I’ve been in a long time, he sets his mug down.
"Sophia," his tone shifts to something lower, steadier, carrying a weight that slows my pulse. "I need to tell you something."
I tilt my head and wait for whatever bomb is coming my way. I try to read his body language. There’s no tension in his shoulders, but his eyes… they’re sharp, locked on me.
"Roberto is dead," he fills me in without hesitation.
For a moment, the words don’t compute.
He reaches across the table, his warm hands close around mine, holding them firmly, grounding me while my mind catches up. "There will be headlines," he adds, still watching me carefully, as though I might shatter or explode.
I blink. Once. Twice. Again.
He’s dead.
Roberto is dead.
There’s no burst of triumph. No sting of sadness.
No heavy hollowness in my chest. There’s just…
is. Like stating a fact about the weather.
I search for something to feel, something to hang this on, but my mind is a tornado, spinning fragments, sharp edges that don’t fit together.
And then, randomly, the thought lands: this is the third day since Raffael brought me here.
He took his time with him.
The realization doesn’t bother me. Not at all.
If anything, I think… maybe that’s how it should have been—one day for each life that bastard stole from me. The first year, he stole my innocence, the next, my voice, and in the third, my trust in men. He made me live under his reign of terror for three long years.
"What headlines?" I ask when I can be sure my voice won't crack.
His mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile. "The ugly kind," he fills me in.
I lift a brow. "The ugly kind?"
He gives a little shrug, and his thumb brushes over the back of my hand. "I might have… overdone it a little." There’s no apology in his tone, but his eyes stay fixed on me, assessing, weighing whether I can handle the details.
"I can," I tell him, surprising myself with how steady I sound.
His gaze holds mine for a beat longer, then he leans back. "Eleven people. That’s how many I killed at your house. Every single one of them knew. Every single one of them let it happen."
I nod once, no flinch, no gasp. Just… absorbing.
Faces flash in front of my vision. Pacco, Louisa, Sergeij.
He told me a few days ago that they were dead, and still, even now, I can't bring any emotions for them forward.
Pacco and Lennard deserved whatever they got; Louisa and Sergeij?
I don't know. It's not like they were ever nice to me, but I guess that's no reason to be killed.
"They knew, and they didn't do anything," he reiterates to make sure I don't feel bad or guilty.
Not to defend his actions, because I don't think he feels the need to.
Raffael is what I always knew he was, a cold-hearted killer.
He's not any different from all the men I've grown up with.
Killing might shock other people, but not me. For me, it's a fact of life.
I nod.
"Roberto," he continues, "I delivered his body to the front doors of a police station this morning, just dropped him there like the trash he was." His jaw ticks, but his voice doesn’t rise. "They’ll take a little time to identify him. But as soon as they do…"
"As soon as they do?" I prompt when he pauses.
"They’ll be looking for you," he says simply.
The words hang there, heavy, but strangely not frightening. He’s telling me the truth—every piece of it—and I appreciate it.
"I want you to know you have choices here, Sophia," he says, his voice takes on the steady cadence he uses when he needs me to really hear him. "We can make it look like you were kidnapped, too, and managed to escape."
I keep my eyes on him, waiting.
"I can take you out of the country," he continues. "New passport, new name, somewhere nobody would ever think to look."
"Or…?" I ask, tilting my head.
His gaze holds mine; something unreadable flickers in his eyes.
"Or you can stay here. With me." He pauses, making sure I understand the weight of that choice.
"Everybody who knew you flew back from LA with Roberto is dead.
I can have divorce papers drawn up, and we can say you were in Nevada when it happened. "
I blink at him. "Nevada?"
"Getting married," he says. And for the first time since this conversation started, his composure shifts—just a little. His jaw flexes like he’s bracing for my reaction, and there’s a flicker of insecurity I didn’t expect to see in him.
My lips part, but before I can speak, he adds, "Best alibi." Then he winks, and somehow, in the middle of murder counts and police searches, it’s… adorable.
Against my will, the corner of my mouth curves.
It could be so easy. It could be a dream come true, it could be everything I’ve ever needed, especially after last night. This is the man I’ve loved since I was eighteen. And he’s nothing like Roberto. Nothing. Just thinking their names in the same breath feels like a sin.
Isn’t this what I always dreamed of? To be rescued. To be cared for. To finally feel safe, protected?
Deep down, I know Raffael would give me all of that without hesitation.
But at what price? What will it cost him?
My eyes catch on the lines etched into his skin, the scars, and before I can stop myself, the words spill out. "Where did you get the scars?"
His hand moves to the off-kilter X etched into his skin. "This?" He tries to smirk. "You don't like it?"
I don't reply, just tilt my head and wait.
"It's a long, ugly story."
"We've got time, don't we?" I encourage.
He sighs. "Your father gave it to me."
"My father?" That takes me by surprise; it shouldn't. But it does.
He nods, "A few years ago, I asked him to let me out.
I had a business plan." I can't fight the feeling that there is something he isn't telling me.
But I don't interrupt him. "His answer was to carve me as a warning that I was his.
" He chuckles depreciatively. "The joke is on him, because I've built my business anyway. "
So that is how he was able to afford this house. "Your business?"
He nods. There is pride in his features, and an arrogance that wasn't there the last time I saw him. "Not many people know this, but I built Omertà Infernale, and then turned it into Umbra Arcana." He says the names like they should mean something to me, but I have no idea what.
"Are you sure you want to hear this?" He leans back in his chair.
I nod, even though I'm not.
"Let's go into the family room, where it's more comfortable." He suggests.