"Alex, please."
When he finally raises his eyes, they're red-rimmed. "You're really leaving." Not a question. "You're really choosing him."
"I'm choosing myself." Her voice is steady even though her hands aren't. "For the first time in eleven years, I'm choosing what I want instead of what I think I deserve."
Alessandro's face twists. Then he's pulling her into a hug, fierce and brief, his hand cradling the back of her head like she's still the little sister he used to carry on his shoulders. I hear him say "Be safe" into her hair before he lets go and turns away, one hand coming up to cover his face.
Luca doesn't move from his position against the wall. His arms are crossed, his expression carved from granite. Of all the brothers, he's the one who looks most like he wants to put a knife in me—which, given what I know of him, isn't far from the truth.
Sofia approaches him anyway, stops just out of arm's reach. Smart. "Luca."
"Don't."
"I know you're angry—"
"I'm not angry." His voice is flat, controlled in a way that's more frightening than shouting. "Angry is what I was when you disappeared. Angry is what I was when we found out you'd been taken. This?" He gestures between her and me. "This is something else."
"What is it?"
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "Grief. You're my sister, and you're walking out that door with the man who hurt you, and I can't stop you. So yeah. Grief."
Sofia reaches out, slow and careful, and touches his arm. He flinches but doesn't pull away. "I love you, Luca. That doesn't stop because I'm leaving."
"Yeah." He still won't look at her. "It doesn't stop for me either. That's the problem."
She rises on her toes and kisses his cheek. He stands rigid, accepting it without responding, but I see his throat move. A hard swallow. The only crack in that granite facade.
Then she turns.
The room holds its breath—or maybe that's just me, watching her walk toward me across the Rosetti study, leaving her brothers behind with each step. Marco stands like a statue. Nico has his hand on Dante's shoulder. Alessandro still has his back turned. Luca hasn't moved from the wall.
And Sofia walks through all of it, toward me, her eyes locked on mine.
Sofia crosses the room, takes my hand. Her fingers are cold, trembling slightly, but when our hands connect, something in my chest unclenches for the first time since she ran.
I walk out of the Rosetti compound exactly as I entered: nearly naked, vulnerable. But everything else has changed.
Sofia's hand in mine makes all the difference. Her fingers slip fully into mine, and the contact shoots straight through me like always: electric, necessary. Even after everything, my body recognizes hers as home. I grip her fingers tight, but she doesn't pull away. Never pulls away, even when she should.
The guards still have their weapons drawn, still track our movement toward the gate. Any one of them could decide this insult can't stand, could put a bullet in my back before we reach the property line. But they look to Marco, still standing on the steps, watching us leave.
Behind us, Marco watches from the steps. Not forgiving. I see that in the set of his shoulders. But not stopping us either. It's not absolution, but it's permission, and right now, with Sofia's hand in mine and the truth finally burning in the light, it's enough. It has to be enough.
31 - Sofia
The Langham concierge maintains his professional smile despite the half-naked man beside me. Alexei’s black card speaks louder than his bare chest ever could.
"The presidential suite," Alexei says, voice steady despite standing in a hotel lobby wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a sneer. "Immediately."
The concierge's fingers fly across his keyboard, not a single question about the blood still visible on Alexei's hands, or my hollow eyes, or the general disaster we both present. Money talks. Black cards scream.
"Of course, Mr.Volkov. Right this way."
The elevator ride stretches forever. Alexei's hand finds mine, warm and steady, the only solid thing in a world that's tilting off its axis. I'm running on nothing but adrenaline fumes now, the crash coming fast. My reflection in the elevator's gold mirrors shows a ghost: tangled hair, wrinkled dress from the warehouse, eyes that have seen too much truth too fast. I've never been out in public looking like this before. I hate it.
But I also see him watching me in that mirror, and of course, my body responds.
The suite door closes behind us with a soft click that sounds like finality.
