"Vito, I?—"
"Don't thank me yet," he interrupts. "You still have to convince her to come back. And after the last three days, that might be harder than landing that punch was."
I'm already moving toward the door, grabbing my keys from the counter, my hangover forgotten in the rush of adrenaline and hope.
"Dante," Vito calls as I reach for the handle.
I turn back, expecting more advice or warnings about what I'm walking into.
Instead, he just nods once, the gesture carrying fifteen years of history between us.
"Go get her, son. And this time, remember that you're not just fighting for her love—you're fighting for the right to choose your own life."
I'm out the door and down the stairs before his words fully sink in, my feet carrying me toward whatever's waiting at those coordinates. But as I start the car and pull into traffic, I understand what he meant.
For the first time in my life, I'm not fighting for Vito's approval or the family's honor or even Sofia's love.
I'm fighting for the right to be happy.
And that makes all the difference.
CHAPTER 42
Sofia
The morning aircarries a bite that promises winter isn't far behind. I stand on the bluff overlooking Long Island Sound, watching the waves crash against the rocky shore below. The water is gray-green and uninviting, the kind of cold that would steal your breath and shock your system into pure, crystalline awareness.
Perfect.
It's been four days since Mrs. Chen asked me what claiming my own space would look like, and I've been circling the answer ever since. Every time I think I know what I want to do, fear creeps in and whispers all the reasons it's a terrible idea.
But this morning feels different. This morning, I woke up with absolute clarity about who I am and what I want.
I want Dante. Not because I'm scared or grateful or trapped, but because loving him feels like coming home to a part of myself I didn't know existed. I want the life we could build together, with all its complications and dangers and fierce, protective love.
But first, I need to do something that's just for me. Something that proves I'm choosing this life as Sofia Gallo, not as a victim or a pawn or someone else's idea of what I should be.
The path down to the beach is steep and rocky, but I navigate it carefully, my bare feet finding purchase on the stones. I've left my clothes folded neatly on the bench in the gazebo—everything except the small silver cross necklace that belonged to my grandmother. That stays with me, a talisman for whatever comes next.
The beach is private, sheltered by high bluffs on either side. No one can see me here except the gulls circling overhead and maybe whatever higher power might be watching. The sand is cold beneath my feet, littered with shells and seaweed from the last high tide.
I walk to the water's edge and let the first wave wash over my toes. The cold is shocking, immediate, like being touched by winter itself. Every rational part of my brain screams at me to stop, to turn around, to find a less dramatic way to mark this moment.
But I wont. Because I'm choosing to do this. To walk into frigid water. To embrace the pain it might cause me along with the triumph. Just like I'm choosing my life with Dante. To embrace the pain that choice might cause me along with the love we will build together.
Another wave, this one reaching my ankles, and I have to bite back a gasp. The water is so cold it burns, but there's something cleansing about the pain. Like it's washing away every doubt, every fear, every voice that isn't my own.
I think about Mrs. Chen cutting her hair, claiming the right to decide what kind of woman she would be. This is my haircut—this moment of absolute choice, of doing something purely because I want to, consequences be damned.
"Sofia!"
The voice carries on the wind, and for a moment I freeze. But when I turn, there's no one there. Just empty beach and the sound of my own heartbeat mixing with the rhythm of the waves.My mind playing tricks, maybe. Or maybe it's my conscience, trying to talk me out of this last act of rebellion.
Too late for that now.
I wade deeper, the water reaching my thighs, my stomach, the cold so intense it makes my lungs seize. But I keep going, driven by something primal and necessary. This is what claiming my space feels like—walking naked into freezing water because I can, because I choose to, because sometimes the most important acts of courage look like madness to everyone else.
"Sofia, stop!"
