I scoop her up easily, spinning her once. “How’s my princess?”
“Better now that you’re here,” she beams.
Behind me, Dante coughs loudly.
“Who’d you assign to Elena?” Dante asks once Sofia returns to her magazines.
“Rocco.”
“That’s good,” Dante says, nodding. “Smart. Loyal. Quick.”
“He better be,” I say, jaw tightening. “I’m getting updates.”
“Every hour?”
I glare.
Dante bursts out laughing. “Oh my god. Every thirty minutes?”
I don’t answer. Which is an answer.
“Jesus Christ. You’re worse than I am with Isabella.”
I open my mouth to tell him to go fuck himself, but Dante waves me toward his office.
“Come on. Sit with me while I find a guard for Isabella.”
I pause. “I thought she refused.”
“She did,” he grumbles. “So I need someone who can follow without being noticed.”
“That’s impossible,” I say flatly.
“With Isabella,” Dante sighs, “everything is impossible.”
He spreads out files, photos of potential guards, resumes.
I sit across from him, helping him eliminate the ones who are too loud, too noticeable, too stupid.
He trusts my judgment. Always has. But every thirty minutes, my phone buzzes.
ROCCO:
All good.
She’s smiling.
She found a dress she likes.
Having some kind of cheese tray now.
Trying on shoes.
Everything’s fine, Boss.
Every message eases something in me. Every message tightens something else. Because every time I see her name— I want her back in our house.
In my space. Near me. And I don’t know what the fuck to do with that.
