"That's what I thought," she says.
CHAPTER 14
Sofia
The silencein the car is suffocating.
I can feel the weight of my words hanging between us, sharp and cutting and absolutely true. I know I've pushed Dante too far—I can see it in the way his jaw is clenched, in the dangerous stillness of his posture. But I couldn't help it. The words came pouring out of me like poison, and now they're sitting in the space between us, impossible to take back.
Good. Let him sit with them. Let him face what he really is to me.
"You're right," he says finally, his voice so quiet I almost don't hear him.
I wasn't expecting that. I was expecting anger, defensiveness, maybe even him storming out of the car. But this calm admission catches me off guard.
"I am your jailer," he continues, still not looking at me. "I am here because Vito ordered me to be here. And you're right that if I really cared about what you wanted, I'd get out of this car right now."
Something twists in my chest at his words. This isn't the vindication I thought I wanted.
"But here's what you don't understand, princess." Now he does look at me, and the intensity in his blue eyes makes my breath catch. "You think this is easy for me? You think I enjoy watching you try to kill yourself every day? You think I don't know exactly what's going to happen in three weeks?"
"If you know, then why?—"
"Because it's my job." His voice is getting rougher, more dangerous. "Because I have orders. Because that's what I do—I follow orders, no matter what I think about them."
Heat floods my cheeks. "So you admit it. You'll hand me over."
"I'll do what I'm told to do." He shifts in his seat, turning to face me fully, and suddenly the car feels impossibly small. "Just like you've been doing what you think you need to do to survive."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you've been playing games, Sofia. The touching, the flirting, the looks—you think I don't know what you're doing? You think I can't tell when someone's trying to manipulate me?"
The accusation hits like a slap. "You bastard."
"Maybe. But at least I'm honest about what I am. Can you say the same?"
"I hate you," I say, but the words sound weak even to my own ears.
"Do you?" He leans closer, and I can smell his cologne, can see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes. "Because your actions say something else entirely."
"My actions?—"
"The way you look at me when you think I'm not watching. The way you touched my chest when you were patching me up. The games you play at breakfast while your mother's sitting right there." His voice drops lower, more intimate. "So either you're a really good actress, or you're lying to yourself about what this is."
"There is no 'this,'" I snap, but I don't move away from him.
"Isn't there?" His hand comes up toward my face, and for a moment I think he's going to touch me. But then he stops, his fingers hovering inches from my cheek. "Tell me there's nothing here, Sofia. Tell me I'm imagining it, and I'll get out of this car right now."
I should tell him exactly that. I should lie through my teeth and get him out of here so I can escape. It's what the smart, strategic part of me is screaming to do.
But I can't. Because as much as I hate him, as much as I resent everything he represents, I can't deny the electricity that sparks between us every time he gets too close. I can't pretend my pulse doesn't race when he looks at me like he's doing right now.
"I hate what you represent," I whisper instead.
"That's not what I asked."
"It's the only answer you're getting."
