Page 82 of His Assistant

Sofia gets in first. I lower Marco carefully across the seat, his head near her lap. She touches his hair with shaking fingers, whispering to him in Italian too soft for me to catch.

I climb in beside them.

Rafe leans through the open door. “I’ll clean this up.”

I nod.

Sofia doesn’t let go of Marco’s hand for the entire drive. I don’t take my eyes off her.

Chiara is waiting by the elevator with Dr. Greco and two medical bags when we arrive at my building. The second she sees Sofia, she covers her mouth and starts crying.

Sofia steps out of the car, pale and hollow-eyed.

“I’m okay,” she says before anyone asks.

Dr. Greco looks at her stomach, then her face. “I’ll decide that.”

Sofia lets out a broken little laugh.

I carry Marco inside and we make our way up to the penthouse. One of the guards helps me get him to a guestroom, and Sofia urges Dr. Greco to check him first. She doesn’t argue, which is exactly why I’ve trusted her for so many years. Thank God Sofia just happened to stumble onto her for her obstetrics needs.

29

SOFIA

I’m sitting next to my father’s bed when he wakes up. He looks around, sees me, and seems to remember everything at once. He immediately tries to get up. It would be more annoying if he could actually stand without nearly passing out. Thankfully, he’s not getting anywhere fast.

“Absolutely not,” I say, gently pushing him back into the bed.

Dad glares at me through one swollen eye. The other looks slightly less awful today, at least.

“I’m not staying here,” he mutters. “You can’t make me.”

“I don’t have to,” I say, frustrated. “You’re not strong enough to move.”

“I can move,” he grumbles petulantly.

He looks toward the doorway like he might make a run for it, then winces and sinks back against the pillows. His room is almost as nice as mine, with great views of the city and high-thread-count sheets. There are much worse places to recover, not that he’d ever admit it.

He’s been here two days already, but today was the first day he had enough strength to open his eyes.

Dr. Greco has been here twice for him and twice for me. Apparently, stress, kidnapping, and violent rescue missions are not ideal prenatal care.

Thankfully, the baby is fine. I’m also fine, physically. Dad, on the other hand, has two cracked ribs and a concussion.

He shifts on the bed and grimaces. I move toward him before I can stop myself, adjusting the pillow behind his shoulder.

“I’ve got it,” he grumbles.

“You do not.”

“Sofia.”

“Papa.”

Dad looks down at his hands, which are mottled with bruises and wrapped where the restraints tore skin.

“I’m sorry, Sofia,” he finally says, surprising me. “I said things I shouldn’t have said.”