“And Marco?”
Sophia watched a woman in red heels navigate the cobblestones below, elegant and sure-footed despite the uneven ground. Once, Sophia had believed she could move through life that gracefully. Then she’d spent four years in a marriage arranged by families and dissolved by lawyers.
“Marco is my responsibility,” she said finally. “He always has been.”
Her father was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, some of the edge had left his voice. “You work too hard cleaning up his messes. You should be designing, not managing scandals.”
“Someone has to do both.”
“Not forever, Sophia. At some point, he has to grow up.”
After they hung up, she allowed herself thirty seconds to stand at the window, watching the city that had raised her, shaped her, and occasionally suffocated her. Then she straightened her Castellano blazer—cream silk, impeccably tailored, armor she’d chosen herself rather than having it chosen for her—and pulled up Marco’s number.
He answered on the fourth ring. “Sorella. Let me guess, you’ve seen the photos.”
“The entire world has seen the photos.”
“They’re not as bad as they look.”
“They’re exactly as bad as they look, Marco.” She kept her voice level. He could always tell when she was truly angry—the quieter she got, the more trouble he was in. “Brioni called. Six times.”
A pause. In the background, she could hear water running. He was probably in some penthouse bathroom, nursing a hangover. “I’ll talk to them.”
“You’ll do nothing. I’ll talk to them. You’ll stay out of sight until I’ve fixed this.”
“Sophia—”
“I’m serious. No clubs, no yachts, no cameras. For at least a week. Can you manage that, or should I send Lorenzo to babysit you?”
Marco’s laugh came through thin and tired. Nothing like the charming sound he deployed for cameras. “Lorenzo couldn’t babysit a houseplant.”
“Then make it easy on both of us and disappear for a few days. Please.”
The water shut off. She heard him sigh—a real sigh, not the theatrical ones he used to deflect. “I’m in New York. I was thinking of going somewhere quiet.”
“Somewhere without nightclubs?”
“Somewhere without anything.”
Something in his voice made her pause. Her little brother—though he hadn’t been little in two decades—sounded genuinely exhausted. Not hungover, exhausted. Something deeper.
“Marco. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” The deflection was automatic, and they both knew it. “I just... I need a break, Soph. From all of it.”
She wanted to push. Wanted to ask what had been different about him lately, why his usual bravado had seemed forced at the last family dinner, why their mother had mentioned that he’d called her three times in the past month—more than he usually called in a year. But Marco never responded well to direct questions. He’d only retreat further behind his charm.
“Take your break,” she said instead. “Go somewhere boring. Come back ready to be the face of this campaign like you actually want to be there.”
“And if I don’t want to be there?”
The question caught her off guard. “What?”
“Nothing. Forget it.” The deflection was back, smooth and practiced. “I’ll call you in a few days.”
“Marco—”
But he’d already hung up.
