“She’s not bait,” I manage, my throat raw. “She’s not just leverage.”
Luca steps closer, and there’s something harder in his eyes now. “No, she’s not,” he says. “Which is exactly why you haveto be smarter than they expect. You go in hot, you don’t get her back. You go in smart, you might.”
The garden holds us in silence, only the sound of wind through hedges and the faint splash of water breaking the stillness.
Then a new voice cuts in, soft but fierce, full of certainty and impossible to ignore.
My pulse thrums with barely contained anger.
I know Luca. I know his logic, his cold calculations. I know he isn’t saying this because he doesn’t care—he’s saying it because he does.
But he doesn’t understand.
Before I can say a damn thing, a voice slices through the thick tension.
"You can’t be serious, Luca!"
The sharp, trembling words snap through the room like a gunshot.
I turn just as Valentina steps into view, her dark eyes burning with disbelief.
Luca exhales, rubbing his fingers against his temple like he already regrets what’s about to happen. "Valentina?—"
"No." She steps forward, shaking her head, her expression tight with rage. "You can’t just write Sofia off. She’s my best friend. She’s family."
Her voice wavers on that last word, but her stance doesn’t.
Luca’s brows knit together. "This isn’t about emotions?—"
"The hell it isn’t!" She shakes her head. "This is about her! About Sofia." Her voice cracks, raw and thick with emotion. "Do you even hear yourself? Do you even care that she’s out there, in their hands, suffering because of us?"
Luca doesn’t flinch, but something in his gaze hardens.
"I care about keeping this family alive," he says, "And running headfirst into a trap won’t bring her back—it will only get more people killed."
Valentina stares at him, her expression a mixture of fury and betrayal.
I know exactly how she feels.
She turns to me, eyes pleading now. "You have to go after her, Marco," she says, her eyes shining. "You can’t let them do this to her."
11
SOFIA
Consciousness creeps back slowly, like an old wound tearing open.
At first, I feel a river of sensations—the dull, rhythmic pounding in my skull, the tight pull of rope biting into my wrists, and a mechanical whirring in the background. My body feels foreign, heavy, as if I’ve been dropped into myself after floating somewhere far away.
I try to move, but pain lances through my shoulders, sharp and immediate, stopping me cold. A whimper slips from my lips before I can swallow it down. My arms are pinned behind me, the circulation sluggish, my fingers tingling at the edges of numbness.
Then, the cold.
It seeps into my skin, wrapping around me like a second layer, the kind that doesn’t fade no matter how hard you try to shake it off. The floor beneath me is solid concrete, its chill bleeding through the thin fabric of my clothes. My cheek presses against it, rough and unyielding, dust and sweat clinging to my skin.
I blink, once, twice. My lashes are heavy, my vision slow to clear.
Darkness surrounds me. No windows. No sliver of sky to tell me if it’s morning or night. Just the dim glow of a single, flickering bulb swinging lazily overhead, its weak light casting shifting shadows along the barren walls.
