Roberto is very stillin the car. That kind of still that feels louder than yelling. Louder than slamming fists or shattered glass. He hasn’t said a word since we left the hospital, but I can feel the fury radiating off him like heat off pavement in the dead of summer.
Because I didn’t tell him where I was going.
Because I walked in without him.
Because I existed outside of his control for longer than sixty seconds.
The moment we pull into the driveway, he throws his door open. Before I can even unclip my seatbelt, he's already around the car, opening my door, and yanking my arm.
"Get out," he growls.
I stumble out onto the stone path, barely catching myself. He doesn’t wait. Just grabs me by the wrist, still raw from the ties from last night, and drags me up the stairs and through the front door, like I’m a misbehaving child he’s tired of pretending to care for. The house is quiet when we enter. The moment we hit the living room, he lets go, just long enough to slap me.
The sound echoes.
My head whips to the side, my cheek stings from the blow, and my hair falls loose around my face. I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I just stare at the floor like I always do.
Like I’ve been taught to.
The maids scatter, Louisa among them. None of them looks at me. The guards step back, pretending to be busy, suddenly very interested in the hallway, the floor, the air. They all know what’s coming.
"So, this is what we’re doing now?" Roberto’s voice is low, mocking. "You’re keeping secrets?"
"I wasn’t?—"
Slap.
Harder this time.
"Don’t lie to me, Sophia. You went in without me. You knew exactly what that would look like. What that would say about me."
I taste blood in the corner of my mouth.
He steps closer, crowding me back until my spine hits the wall.
"I think," he says, tilting his head with that fake, thoughtful expression I’ve learned to fear, "I need to remind you of your place."
His fingers dig into my chin, forcing my gaze up to his.
"You’ve gotten a bit uppity lately, haven’t you?" he sneers. "And today? Today was the fucking high point."
I don’t move.
I don’t speak.
Because there’s no right answer, there never is. And right now, I can already feel it, the coming storm. The punishment. The lesson he thinks I need.
But suddenly, the sharp trill of his phone shatters the moment, making him freeze. His grip loosens just enough for me to drag in a ragged gasp. His indecision about whether he should ignore the call or finish me off has him sneering, but then he looks at the screen, and I see the name before he turns it away.
Edoardo.
The one call he can't ignore. Relief floods me; it seems my punishment has been stayed, at least for now. My knees are turning to Jello and barely keep me up. I hold on to the ledge of the fireplace, not daring to make a move or sink to the ground lest I recapture my husband's attention.
"What?" he sounds breathless; he doesn’t dare bark into the phone the way I know he wants to. Not with our Don. Furiously, he paces a few steps away and turns his back to me.
"Since when?" he snaps. A pause. "No, I’ll come myself. Tell them I’m already on my way. And make sure they understand—this gets fixed."
He ends the call and turns back to me, his fury is still simmering, but it’s buried now under something more urgent.
