Chapter 49 SOPHIA
The door clicks shut behind us. Marcello doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t let go of my hand. He just stares at me, like he’s trying to convince himself I’m real. Like if he blinks, I’ll vanish.
I try to speak, but my throat closes up. Then, in a single breathless movement, he pulls me into him and wraps his arms around me like he’s anchoring both of us to the floor.
"I thought you were dead," he murmurs, "I thought—I was sure he killed you."
"I’m okay," I whisper into his shoulder. "I’m here. I’m okay."
His grip tightens, and I finally let myself cry. Not the quiet kind. The ugly kind. The kind that shakes your spine and strips the words out of your mouth until all that’s left is breath and sound.
"I’m so sorry," I sob. "I wanted to come back. I wanted to call. But I was afraid, afraid you’d hate me for what happened. For marrying him. For not telling you."
He leans back just far enough to see my face, and his thumb gently brushes away one of my tears.
"You think I cared about that?" he asks softly, like the thought physically pains him. "You think I’d ever blame you for what that bastard did?"
I swallow hard and nod. "You don’t know everything. What he—what he made me—"
"I know," Marcello cuts in, voice a low rasp. "I know about the cuffs. The collars. The dress."
I freeze.
I hadn’t said it out loud to anyone but Raffael and Esther. I didn’t know he—how could he—
Marcello sees it on my face and shakes his head.
"I should’ve stopped it," he whispers. "After L.A., I had a feeling. I knew something wasn’t right. I thought—I thought I had time to get you out." His voice cracks. "I told myself I was planning. Playing it smart. But I was just too fucking slow."
"Marcello…" I whisper, shaken by the guilt in his voice. "It’s not your fault."
"It is," he says, jaw tight. "I’m your brother. I was supposed to protect you."
"You still are," I murmur. "You always have. Even when you didn’t know it."
He pulls me back in. "You survived. You made it through. And now you’re back. That’s all that matters to me."
I sob into his shirt again, letting his words sink in like sunlight through cold skin. There’s so much we still need to say. So much I’ve kept buried. But for the first time in what feels like years, I feel safe in my brother’s arms.
"I missed you so much," I whisper.
"I never stopped looking," he says. "And I never stopped hoping."
I pull back just enough to see his face again, to breathe through the ache in my throat. "I was in a bad place, Marcello." My voice is shaking more than I like. "I mean… I still am, sometimes. Not all the time. But some nights… It’s like I’m back there. In that house."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt. Just listens. In a way that only a brother who wants to understand can.
"I felt like a ghost. Like I didn’t belong anywhere. Like I didn’t even exist except when he—" I stop and swallow the bile. "When he needed to remind me that I was his property."
Marcello’s hands clench at his sides. I can see the war behind his eyes, the guilt, the fury, the wish that he could go back in time and burn it all down before it ever touched me.
"I didn’t even know how much of me was gone until…" I take a breath. "Until Raffael."
Marcello’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t speak.
"He didn’t just pull me out, Marcello," I whisper. "He saw me. He let me breathe again. And he didn’t ask for anything in return. He didn’t push.
He didn’t demand." I shake my head. "He gave me time.
Space. And he let me be angry. He let me fall apart.
And he never once made me feel like I was weak for it. "
Tears well in my eyes again, but I blink them back this time. "I know you don’t trust him. And I get it. I do. He’s not like us. He wasn’t raised in this world. But maybe that’s why he loves me like no one else ever did."
Marcello drags a hand down his face, exhaling like the weight of all this is finally catching up to him. "I don’t have to like it," he mutters, voice hoarse. "But… I believe you. I can see it."
He meets my gaze. "You look more like yourself now than you have since you picked me up from the airport."
"He's good for me, Marcello. I love him."
He nods, and I realize how tired he looks, see the dark circles under his eyes. Gently, I swipe a finger over one. "I'm sorry."
He takes my hand and presses it. "As much as you're responsible for most of that, it's not all you." He confesses.
Something twists in my chest.
"Not all me?" I ask carefully, alarm flaring in the back of my throat. "Oh Marcello… I thought— I thought you were okay. Healed. From the shooting."
He tries to smile, but it’s all edges. "I was. I am."
His gaze drifts over my shoulder for a moment, like he's searching for steadiness. "But Violet was shot last week."
The words crash into me like ice water.
"Violet?" I echo, trying to recall the name. It takes me a moment to fish it out of the deep recesses of memory. "The nurse? From the hospital?"
He nods once. Slowly. Now I remember her, quiet, composed, but warm.
Gentle in the way you wish more people were.
She comforted me at his bedside, right before…
Roberto. "Oh my god. That's terrible." It takes me another moment to digest. "But why…. I know that's terrible, but you… her…" A rueful smile crosses his features, one I haven’t seen since we were kids. And the pieces finally click together. She was his nurse. He was her patient. Charts and wristbands. Her professional calm; his eyes following gloved fingers. The line no one’s supposed to cross… crossed with a whisper, not a shout. Aren’t there supposed to be boundaries or something?
Not that I care. I want him to be happy.
He deserves to be happy. Maybe the bravest thing is choosing someone even when the sign on the door says Do Not. "You and her?"
He nods. "I love her."
That’s…. HUGE. My brother doesn't say those words. Never has. He does love. I know that. He just doesn't say it. Violet must indeed be a very special person to bring that side out in him.
"I didn’t even realize it myself. Not until she was lying in my arms, bleeding, and I thought—" His voice catches. "I thought I was going to lose her."
Without thinking, I wrap my arms around him. He stiffens for half a second—because he always does—but then he sinks into it.
"I’m so sorry," I murmur. "I didn’t know. I didn’t know you—"
"I love her," he says into my hair. "I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to. But I do."
Tears burn behind my eyes again, but this time for a different reason.
Gratitude. Fear. Relief. And, yes, a thin ribbon of admiration for a woman who held the line until holding him mattered more.
Like Lexy, but quieter. Not a gun on a table, but steel under scrubs.
"How is she?" I ask, pulling back just enough to see his face.
"She’ll live," he says softly. "She’s better now. But it scared the hell out of me. Made me realize how much I care. How much I’d already given her without noticing."
I nod, breath hitching. "She’s lucky to have you."
"No," he says, voice low. "I’m lucky she didn’t give up on me."
He takes a deep inhale. "I thought with you gone, I had lost the one chance to tell you too. I love you, sis. I love you more than you'll ever know."
My heart drops—just drops. My chin follows. Wow! He's never said that to me. Ever. New tears flood my eyes. "I love you too, you know."
"I figured," he grins.
"I'd like to get to know her."
"You can come by anytime. She's home and bored to death."
His phone begins to ring, and he looks at the screen. "Edoardo. Looks like we’ve run out of time."
"It's okay," I embrace him again. "I'll see you soon."
He stops at the door, "Promise?"
I cross my heart and whisper, "And hope to die."