For the first time since she set foot in my house, she doesn’t look like she’s bracing for impact.
"It’s so pretty," she says, almost to herself. "I forgot how good the forest smells."
The corner of my mouth lifts. "We can do this as often as you like," I promise her.
We walk a little farther, and the trees part to reveal a ribbon of sunlight dancing off moving water. A stream cuts through the forest here, the water clear enough to see the pebbles on the bottom. Her face lights up in a way I haven’t seen before—wide-eyed, almost childlike—and for a moment, I just watch her instead of the water.
Then I catch movement on the far bank. I lift a hand, pressing a finger to my lips, and she stills instantly. I point toward the source, and her gaze follows.
A buck—tall, antlers wide like a crown—stands at the water’s edge. He lowers his head, drinking slowly; every muscle in his body is alert. His ears flick, constantly scanning for danger, and his eyes move up between sips to survey the trees.
We stay there, side by side, the only sound the whisper of the stream and the quiet rhythm of his drinking. The air feels different in moments like this, heavy with stillness, but alive with the awareness that something wild is sharing the space with you.
I glance at Sophia, and the sight of her—eyes bright, lips slightly parted in awe—does something to me I can’t name. We watch the buck until he finally lifts his head, ears twitching toward some sound only he can hear, and disappears into the trees with a quiet grace.
Sophia’s eyes follow him until he’s gone, and then… the light in them dims.
"Am I like him?" she asks softly.
I frown. "What do you mean?"
"Always alert. Always scared. Always ready to be pounced on?"
I don’t even think. I can’t stop myself—I step forward and pull her into my arms. She stiffens immediately, her muscles tight under my hands, but I hold her like something precious I refuse to drop.
"Oh, bella mia," I murmur against her hair. "Don’t confuse alertness with fear."
She tilts her head slightly, like she’s not sure if she believes me.
"The buck isn’t a coward; he’s alive because he’s ready. Ready to fight, ready to run, ready to survive. And so are you." I lean back just enough to see her face, my hands still warm on her arms. "You’ve already survived the worst. That takes more courage than you know."
Her gaze drops, and I can see the words fighting to get past her lips.
"You think I’m strong?" she whispers, almost like she’s afraid to hear the answer.
"I know you are," I say without hesitation. "You just need… a little more time. A little more strength. And someone who will stand between you and anything that even thinks about hurting you again."
I let that hang there, making sure she understands I mean every word.
"You don’t have to do this alone anymore, bella mia." My voice softens further. "Not as long as I’m breathing."
Now is the time to tell her. "I hired someone, her name is Esther, she specializes in intimate-partner violence recovery."
She stares at me. Her lips part, but no sound comes out. For a long moment, we stand there, the trees swaying around us, the stream whispering over the stone.
For the first time, she looks like she might be starting to believe me. I feel her stiffen against me, and as much as I don’t want to let her go, I loosen my hold. The last thing I want is for her to think she’s trapped again.
"I can't talk to a therapist," she whispers.
"You can talk to her," I reassure her. "Lexy knows and trusts her. You can tell her anything."
"Anything?" Her brows wrinkle, and I know what she means. Mafia business is not something you talk about with outsiders.
"Anything," I nod. I’m not concerned she's going to reveal where the weapons are stashed or how we move drugs—if she even knows that information—she's too seasoned for that.
She laughs then, sharp, a little wild. “Oh yeah, that would begreat,” she says in a voice that is thick with something like bile and humor mashed together. “I’ll stroll into a therapist’s office and casually tell some stranger that my father would’ve killed me if I hadn’t married the mafia boss, that my husband thinks I’m property, that I watchedthe man whosavedme run through my guards like they were paper, sporting an AR and a grin, angel of death and all. I’ll tell her about trafficking, about the men with the van, about the things done in basements and listed in ledgers. And while I’m at it, why don’t I add that my brother would probably disown me, that my father would slit my throat for the shame, and that everyone who hears it will want a piece of whatever I say? Brilliant idea. Super casual. Perfect for Tuesday.”
She’s grinning at the end of it, but her hands are shaking. She's wearing the sarcasm as a shield. I can see the panic perched like a bird on the edge of her ribs.
