"That's what everyone keeps saying. It's a bullshit answer."
"It's the only answer any of us have."
I want to push harder, to demand more information, to do something other than stand here feeling helpless. But I can see in Marco's face that he's not going to budge, and honestly, I respect him for it. If Vito asked me to keep a secret, I'd keep it too.
Doesn't mean I have to like it.
"I'm heading home," I mutter, fishing my own keys from my pocket.
"You want to grab dinner?"
"Nah. I'm good."
The drive to my apartment takes longer than usual, thanks to rush hour traffic that gives me too much time to think. I haven't been back to my place since this whole thing started—since Vito assigned me to watch Sofia and my entire world shifted on its axis.
The building looks exactly the same, which is somehow both comforting and depressing. My apartment is on the third floor,at the end of a hallway that smells like cooking oil and other people's lives. I unlock the door and step into a space that feels like it belongs to someone else.
It's not much—one bedroom, small kitchen, living room with a couch that's seen better days. But it's mine, or it was mine, before I started sleeping in guest rooms and cars and wherever Sofia happened to be.
There's a layer of dust on everything, mail piled up on the counter, the kind of stale air that accumulates when a place sits empty. I open a few windows to get some circulation going, then head to the kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge.
The first sip tastes like freedom and loneliness in equal measure.
I settle onto the couch and look around at this life I built for myself. It's simple, functional, without much personality or warmth. The kind of place a man lives when he doesn't expect to bring anyone home, when his real life happens somewhere else.
When did I stop thinking of this as home? When did Vito's house become the place I belonged, and by extension, when did Sofia become the person who made that house feel like something more than just my boss's headquarters?
The beer goes down easy, so I get another one. And then another.
By the time I'm on my fourth, the sun has set completely and the apartment is dark except for the streetlight coming through the windows. I should eat something, should probably call it a night and try to get some sleep.
Instead, I open another beer and settle deeper into the couch, letting the alcohol numb the sharp edges of missing someone who might never come back.
Somewhere out there, Sofia is sitting by herself, deciding whether loving me is worth the price of admission to this fucked-up world. And here I am, drinking alone in an apartment thatfeels like a tomb, wondering if I even deserve to be part of that decision.
The beer tastes bitter now, but I drink it anyway. Because tomorrow I'll wake up and she'll still be gone, and I'll still have to pretend that's okay.
But tonight, I can sit in the dark and let myself feel exactly how not okay it really is.
CHAPTER 39
Sofia
I waketo the sound of gentle humming drifting up from downstairs. For a moment, I'm disoriented—the unfamiliar room, the soft morning light filtering through curtains I didn't close last night, the absence of any urgency or fear. Then I remember: the villa, the week away, the choice I'm supposed to be making.
The humming continues, melodic and peaceful, accompanied by what sounds like quiet movement in the kitchen. Mrs. Chen, the caretaker Marco mentioned. I check the bedside clock—nearly nine in the morning. I can't remember the last time I slept so late, or so deeply.
I pull on jeans and a sweater, running my fingers through my tangled hair as I make my way downstairs. The scent of coffee and something sweet—cinnamon, maybe—fills the air.
"Good morning, dear," a warm voice calls as I enter the kitchen.
Mrs. Chen is exactly what I pictured and nothing like I expected all at once. She's probably in her late sixties, with silver-streaked black hair pulled into a neat bun and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She's smaller than me, barely fivefeet tall, but there's something about her presence that fills the room.
"I hope I didn't wake you," she continues, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "I tried to be quiet, but these houses have their own sounds."
"You didn't wake me. I smelled coffee and..." I gesture vaguely at the kitchen, where she's clearly been busy. Fresh fruit is arranged in a bowl, and there are what look like homemade muffins cooling on a rack.
"Blueberry lemon," she says, following my gaze. "Mr. Vito mentioned you might enjoy them. He has quite a sweet tooth himself, you know."
