Chapter 4 - The Place She Forgot
“I don't know where anything is.”
Sophia paced the library.
“I didn't even know there was a ledger.”
Antonio studied the writing.
“Your father believed you did.”
“Then my father was wrong.”
“He wasn't careless.”
“You haven't lived with him for fifteen years.”
“No. I kept him alive for fifteen years.”
The words landed harder than Antonio intended.
Sophia stopped.
He exhaled.
“That wasn't fair.”
“No, it wasn't.”
Antonio set down the photograph.
“What did your father give you as a child?”
“What?”
“Anything unusual. A box. Key. Book.”
“He gave me birthday presents.”
“Think.”
Sophia closed her eyes.
Childhood memories came in fragments.
Her father teaching her chess.
Her mother baking on Sundays.
Her sister Mia stealing Sophia's clothes.
Then something surfaced.
A summer afternoon.
Her father kneeling beside her in the garden.
A music box.
Sophia opened her eyes.
“My ballerina box.”
Antonio became still.
“What about it?”
“My father gave me a wooden music box when I turned twelve. He made me promise never to throw it away.”
“Where is it?”
Sophia's stomach dropped.
“At our old house.”
The house had been sold after her mother's death.
Marco located the current owner within an hour.
The property was vacant and undergoing renovation.
Sophia wanted to return immediately.
Antonio refused.
“We were attacked less than seventy-two hours ago.”
“Then send Marco.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if your father hid something for fifteen years, I don't trust anyone else to retrieve it.”
“Anyone?”
Their eyes met.
Including Marco?
Antonio didn't answer.
That night Sophia found him on the terrace.
His shirt was open at the collar. A fresh bandage showed beneath it.
“You should be resting.”
“So should you.”
She approached.
The island below was quiet.
“Why did you really bring me here?”
Antonio looked toward the sea.
“To get you out of New York.”
“You knew an attack was coming.”
“I suspected one.”
“And you didn't tell me.”
“I've noticed you dislike being told you're in danger.”
“I dislike being lied to.”
“Fair distinction.”
Sophia almost smiled.
Almost.
“Antonio?”
“Yes?”
“Why did you say I was only your wife on paper?”
His expression changed.
“That matters now?”
“It mattered then.”
He took his time answering.
“Because wanting something has always made it vulnerable.”
Sophia looked at him.
He continued quietly.
“Everyone I've loved has been used against me.”
“You didn't love me.”
“No.”
The answer hurt more than expected.
Then Antonio stepped closer.
“Not then.”
Her breath caught.
His hand rose but stopped before touching her.
For once, he waited.
Sophia understood the question.
She could move away.
She didn't.
His fingers brushed her cheek.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Nothing like the commanding man who had ordered her onto the yacht.
“You're afraid of me,” he said.
“Sometimes.”
“I hate that.”
“You created it.”
“I know.”
There was no excuse.
Only acknowledgment.
Sophia's pulse accelerated as Antonio leaned closer.
He stopped an inch away.
Her decision.
Sophia closed the distance.
The kiss was brief.
Soft.
Almost painfully restrained.
Antonio pulled back first.
His forehead rested against hers.
“That,” Sophia whispered, “wasn't very mafia boss of you.”
A quiet laugh escaped him.
It was the first genuine laugh she'd ever heard from Antonio Russo.
Then a gunshot shattered the glass behind them.
Antonio threw Sophia down.
Security alarms screamed.
Another bullet struck the stone railing.
Marco's men flooded the terrace.
“Shooter on the eastern ridge!”
Antonio covered Sophia until guards secured the area.
Minutes later, Marco returned carrying something.
Not a weapon.
A phone.
“The shooter left this.”
On the screen was a live video.
Sophia's father sat tied to a chair.
Mia knelt beside him.
A man's voice spoke from behind the camera.
“Bring me the ledger, Antonio.”
Sophia stopped breathing.
Then Carlo Russo stepped into view.
May you like
Antonio's uncle smiled.
“And bring my niece.”
