The question hangs in the air between us, and I find myself thinking of things I've always wondered about but never pursued. Adventures I've imagined but never taken. Parts of myself I've kept hidden because they didn't fit into the neat categories others had created for me.
"I don't know," I admit. "I've spent so long being someone's sister or someone's problem or someone's target that I'm not sure I know who I am when I'm just... me."
"Then that's where you start." Mrs. Chen's voice is gentle but firm. "Not with whether you can love this man, or whether you can live his life. Start with who Sofia is when no one else is watching. What she wants, what she dreams about, what makes her feel alive."
She stands again, collecting our empty cups. "Take your time with it, dear. The phone will still be there when you're ready to use it. But make sure when you do call, you're calling as yourself—not as the woman you think someone else needs you to be."
After she leaves, I sit in the quiet kitchen for a long time, her words echoing in my mind. What would claiming my own space in the world look like?
For the first time since arriving at the villa, I'm not thinking about Dante or Vito or the choice I'm supposed to be making. I'm thinking about me—about the woman I might become if I'm brave enough to figure out who that is.
CHAPTER 40
Dante
Thirteen years old
The training centeris freezing at six in the morning, my breath coming out in visible puffs as I wrap my hands for what feels like the hundredth time this week. My knuckles are split and raw, covered in bandages that do little to cushion the impact anymore. But Vito doesn't care about my comfort—hasn't since he took me in.
"You're slow," he says, watching me fumble with the tape. "If you can't wrap your hands properly, how do you expect to use them effectively?"
I want to point out that most thirteen-year-olds don't need to know how to wrap their hands for combat, but I've learned that smart-ass comments only earn me extra hours in this concrete hell. Instead, I focus on getting the tape tight without cutting off circulation.
Vito stands in the center of the ring. He's wearing simple workout clothes, but there's nothing casual about his stance. Everything about him screams predator, even during training sessions.
"Today's different," he announces as I climb through the ropes. "No drills, no combinations, no technique work."
"What then?"
"Today you try to hit me. One clean shot. Land it, and we're done with this phase of your training."
I stare at him, trying to process what he's saying. For a year, he's been teaching me to fight—how to read an opponent, how to use my reach, how to turn my anger into something useful. But we've never actually fought each other. Not like this.
"What's the catch?"
His smile is sharp, predatory. "No catch. Just you and me. You get one hour to land one punch. Anywhere on my body counts."
It sounds too easy, which means it's going to be anything but.
We circle each other for the first few minutes, and I try to remember everything he's taught me. Keep my guard up, watch his feet, don't telegraph my movements. But knowing the theory and applying it against Vito Rosso are two very different things.
I throw a jab—tentative, testing—and he slips it easily, his movement so fluid it looks effortless.
"Pathetic," he says calmly. "Is that really the best you can do?"
Anger flares in my chest, and I come at him harder, throwing a combination that would have dropped any of the street punks I used to fight. Vito deflects every shot like he's swatting flies, then taps me lightly on the ribs—a reminder that he could have hurt me badly if he'd wanted to.
"Better. But anger without control is just noise."
Twenty minutes in, I'm already breathing hard. Vito hasn't even broken a sweat.
I try everything—feints, combinations, even attempting to grapple him to the ground. Nothing works. He's always one step ahead, reading my movements before I make them,countering with the kind of precision that comes from decades of experience.
"You're thinking too much," he observes, easily avoiding another wild swing. "Fighting isn't a chess match, Dante. Sometimes you have to trust your instincts."
"My instincts are telling me to run," I gasp, wiping sweat from my eyes.
"Then you're not angry enough yet."
