Roberto’s jaw tightens. "Don’t threaten me over nothing. She’s emotional. She exaggerates." His voice rises as if sheer volume will make the lie sound true.
A pause. His expression changes—something between irritation and unease—before he answers again. "We’re on vacation. She’s fine."
Whatever Marcello says next makes him exhale sharply through his nose before holding the phone toward me. "Here. Your brother."
I take it, trying not to look as rattled as I feel. "What did you say to him?"
"Just made it clear that hurting you won’t be good for his health, Soph."
"He doesn’t—" I start, but he cuts me off.
"We’ll talk when you come back. When are you coming back?"
"Just a few days."
"If he touches you, you call me."
A nervous laugh slips out—God, I wish I could believe it would be that simple.
"He doesn’t hurt me, Marcello," I lie, because the truth will only bring more danger crashing down on us both.
"We’ll talk about it when I see you," he says before hanging up, leaving me staring at my phone like it’s a lifeline I’m not allowed to hold onto.
When I glance up, Roberto is still watching me, smiling in that way that isn’t a smile at all. It’s the kind of smile that promises a storm is coming.
The fake smile vanishes, replaced by something far more honest. "What the fuck did you tell him?"
My throat tightens. "He doesn’t?—"
"Don’t." His voice is low, quiet in the way that’s somehow worse than when he shouts. He steps closer, forcing me back until the backs of my knees hit the bed. "Don’t you fucking lie to me, Sophia."
I grip my phone tighter, wishing I could hide it, throw it, anything to keep this from turning into what I know it will. "He called me, Roberto. I didn’t tell him anything."
He tilts his head, studying my face like a man looking for cracks in stone. "You think I don’t know when you’re lying?"
"I’m not," I whisper.
He doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the way his jaw works, in the slight flare of his nostrils. But he’s not going to hit me. Not here. Not now. Not with his business unfinished. Instead, he leans down, his mouth brushing my ear. "When we get home," he murmurs, and I can feel the smile in his words, "you and I are going to have a very long conversation about boundaries."
He straightens, pocketing his own phone, and moves toward the minibar like we’re just another married couple winding down for the night. I stay frozen where Iam, my phone still warm in my hand, Marcello’s voice echoes in my head.If he touches you, you call me.
If it were only that simple.
Because the man pouring himself a drink is already deciding how I’ll pay for this, and I know exactly how much that bill will hurt.
The bellabove the shop door jingles when I push it open, and for a split second, it feels almost normal, like I’m just back from a supply run. Then I see the faces inside. Several of the men who came with me to Venezuela. Five out of the ten, not adding Mario and Pierre. They're bruised, limping, and bandaged, but alive.
Leo is the first to step forward; surprise flickers across his face before relief takes over.
"You made it?" he says, almost disbelieving. "I feared the worst when I watched the Caracas footage." He had a live feed after hacking into the hotel's security cameras.
I grip his shoulder. "What the fuck happened?"
"It was too fast," he replies with a darkening expression. "An army of Valverde’s men pulled up in front of the hotel, and before I could get a warning out, they werealready inside. Then the connection dropped, probably an EMP."
My jaw tightens. "And the others?" I gesture toward the battered men scattered through the shop.
"These are the ones who made it out. They got in contact with me, and I had them flown back. Hope that’s okay."
