"You will. I promise."
She settles back against me, her breathing finally evening out, and I hold her and wait.
The villa is silent again, but it's not the peaceful silence of this morning.
It's the silence of held breath. Of waiting for the next blow to fall.
Only moments later, I hear cars roll up.
I tense, but there’s no shouting or gunfire, so I relax and stand carefully, still holding Sofia.
My legs protest, but I make my way down the hall toward the front door.
Dante stands near the door, speaking with Enzo.
They’re both very serious, dark scowls carved into their faces.
His jacket is unbuttoned, his shirt rumpled.
There's exhaustion in his posture, in the set of his shoulders.
But when he sees me, his expression shifts.
He's relieved.
He crosses the hall and pulls me—us—into his arms.
Sofia makes a small noise of protest, squeezed between us, but she doesn't pull away.
"You're okay," he sighs, and then presses a kiss to my forehead, and then to Sofia's.
"We're fine." I pull back slightly so I can see his face. "But we need to talk."
He nods and releases us.
Sofia immediately reaches for him, and he lifts her into his arms.
She buries her face in his neck, clinging to him the way she clung to me earlier.
"Upstairs," he says, looking at me. "We'll talk upstairs. And once we get Sofia to bed, I need to show you the safe room.”
"Why?" I ask, already terrified that something worse is going to happen. But Dante doesn't answer.
I follow him through the hall and up the staircase.
He carries Sofia the entire way, whispering to her in Italian.
I catch fragments—you're safe, Papa's here, everything's okay.
But everything's not okay.
Not even close.
Tonight was just a taste of what we could have to live through, and Dante has a lot of explaining to do.
I'll never sleep again.
Not until this war with Antonelli Gerard is over.
