Lorenzo kicks it open.
The room is larger than mine was. There’s a cot in the corner, a bucket, a single bare bulb that flickers like it’s dying. And pressed against the far wall, trying to make herself as small as possible.
Sofia.
My baby sister. She’s thin. So thin. Her hair is longer than I’ve ever seen it, tangled and dirty. Her clothes hang off her frame like they belong to someone else. And her eyes, when they find us in the doorway, are hollow. Distant. She’s learned that nothing good comes through these doors.
She doesn’t recognize me. The realization stops me in my tracks. My own sister. The girl I used to make burned brownies with, the girl who called me Izzy because no one else was allowed to. Looking at me like I’m a threat.
“Sofia.” My voice comes out wrong. Too high. Too desperate. “Sof. It’s me. It’s Izzy.”
She recoils at the name. Presses harder against the wall.
I take a step forward. Lorenzo stays by the door, giving us space, and I’m grateful for that.
“Sofia. It’s okay. You’re safe now. I’m here. I found you.”
Her mouth opens. Closes. No sound comes out.
But when I say her name again — “Sof, please, it’s me, it’s your sister” — her eyes shift. Recognition, maybe. Or just the ghost of it.
She reaches for me. Doesn’t speak. Just reaches, her hands trembling, her whole body shaking like a leaf in a storm.
I close the distance between us and pull her into my arms.
She’s so small. When did she get so small? She used to be taller than me, bragging about it, stealing my clothes because she could fit into them and I couldn’t fit into hers. Now she feels like a bird. Hollow bones and tissue paper skin.
I hold my baby sister and I cry. The tears come whether I want them to or not. Since she was taken. Since that night. All of it, all the rooms like this one, whatever horrors happened behind these walls. And I never stopped. I never stopped looking.
She’s alive. Broken, but alive. I didn’t fail her completely.
Sofia doesn’t cry. Doesn’t make any sound at all. Just holds on to me like I’m the only solid thing in a world that’s been trying to shake her apart. Her fingers dig into my back, press into my shoulder, her whole body curved into mine like she’s trying to disappear inside me.
We stay like that until my tears run out. Until Lorenzo clears his throat from the hall.
“We need to move.” He steps toward us. Instinct, maybe. Reaching to help Sofia to her feet.
Sofia screams. Nothing resembling a word. A sound. Pure terror, ripped from somewhere deep. She presses herself against the wall, hands clawing at the concrete, eyes locked on Lorenzo with the blank, animal panic of someone who’s learned that men equal pain.
Lorenzo freezes. He backs off immediately, three full steps, palms up and visible. His face goes carefully blank but I catch the wince he doesn’t quite hide.
“I’m sorry,” he says. Quiet. Directed at her, not me. “I won’t come closer.”
He moves to the hall. Puts his back to the wall. Gives her the space she needs.
Sofia’s breathing is ragged. Her fingers dig into my arm hard enough to bruise.
“It’s okay,” I murmur. “He’s safe. He won’t touch you.” I pull her against me, my body between her and the door. Between her and any man. “He’s with me.”
Her breathing slows. Not calm. But manageable.
I look up. He’s watching us. Watching Sofia. His expression flattens. The nothingness is back. But I see what he’s doing. Cataloging. The bruises on Sofia’s arms. The way she shrinks from his voice. The marks that speak to years of damage I don’t want to imagine.
His chin drops. Just enough for me to notice.
Stefano, I think. Stefano kept her. Stefano did this. Lorenzo will make sure he dies slowly.
“Can you walk?” I ask Sofia, pulling back just enough to look at her. She nods. Doesn’t speak. Her hand finds mine and holds on tight.
