Page 24 of Forced Arrangement

“Or she’ll fight,” Franco counters. “She’s stronger than you give her credit for.”

I knew that. God, I knew that better than anyone. But I also knew that Sophia was unpredictable, a wild card in a game that required precision and control. If she found out about the real terms of the betrothal now, before I had a chance to earn her trust, it could blow everything up.

“I’ll tell her when the time is right,” I say, more to convince myself than Franco. “But not yet.”

There is a pause on the other end of the call, and I can sense Franco weighing his next words carefully. “Just be careful, Angelo. You’ve got a lot riding on this. And so does she. And so do I, frankly.”

I knew that. I knew what the sting of betrayal felt like, and I knew that people like us didn't forgive it. This is no act. She will be getting married to me, whether she wants to or not. Her safety depended upon it.

But it makes me feel like shit to have to lie to her, especially when she has lived her entire life being lied to. Her father lied, her mother lied to her for twenty years, and here I was doing the exact same thing. Really living up to that reputation. My own father would be proud.

Thinking of my old man made me grimace. Sophia might hate her own father, but she has no idea how bad things could have been. It was a blessing that her father allowed her to remain in hiding, didn’t pressure her to come back to take her place as his daughter.

My own childhood was like something from a nightmare. I wouldn’t have wished such an experience on anyone else. It had made me into the perfect soldier for my father, for my family, but it had been torture at times.

“I will remember that,” I promise, ending the call before I say too much.

I slip the phone back into my pocket, my mind still racing. The betrothal is a complication, one I have been trying to navigate since the moment I found Sophia. It’s the key to everything—her safety, her place in this world, and my control over the situation. But it’s also a ticking time bomb, one that might explode if I’m not careful.

But it’s not just the betrothal that worries me. It’s Sophia herself. The way she challenges me, pushes me, makes me question everything I think I know. It’s the way she makes me want things I haven’t allowed myself to want in years.

I have to stay focused, have to keep my eye on the goal. But with Sophia, focus is becoming hard to maintain. She’s a distraction, a dangerous one, but one I can’t seem to stay away from.

I walk back to the bar in the corner of the living room, pouring myself a glass of whiskey. The amber liquid swirls in the glass,catching the light as I bring it to my lips. The burn is familiar and comforting, but it does little to quiet the turmoil inside me.

I’m a man who thrives on control, who has built his life on power and influence. But with Sophia, control is slipping through my fingers like sand. And the more I try to hold on, the faster it seems to slip away.

But I can’t let her see that. She needs to believe that I’m in control, that I have everything under control. Because if she doesn’t, if she sees through the cracks, she’ll run. And that’s something I can’t afford to let happen.

Not now. Not ever.

As I down the last of the whiskey, I hear the bedroom door creak open. I turn, catching sight of Sophia as she steps out, her hair tousled from sleep, her eyes still heavy with exhaustion.

But even in her disheveled state, she’s beautiful. Too beautiful for her own good.

“Can’t sleep?” I ask, keeping my tone casual, though the sight of her makes my pulse quicken.

She shakes her head, her eyes meeting mine with a mixture of weariness and something else—something that makes my chest tighten. “Too much on my mind.”

“Want to talk about it?” I offer, though I’m not sure if I want to hear what she has to say. Her thoughts, her feelings—they’re a minefield. One wrong step, and everything could blow up in my face.

“Getting sentimental, are we?” She rolls her eyes and perches on the coffee table beside me. It’s a piece of furniture that certainly isn’t meant to be used as a chair.

“I see places aren’t the only things you run away from.” My comment makes her bristle, and I would smile, but I think I might get castrated.

“You’re not wrong.” Her sigh is soft. “But there’s nothing to talk about. I’m just…trying to figure out how I got here. How everything got so messed up.”

I want to tell her that she isn’t alone, that I’m trying to figure it out too. But instead, I stay silent, letting her have this moment. I can see the weight of everything pressing down on her, the way her shoulders sag under the burden of it all.

She’s strong, but even the strongest people need someone to lean on from time to time.

“Whatever it is, we’ll get through it,” I say, my voice firm, hoping to offer her some semblance of reassurance. “Together.”

She glances at me, her eyes searching mine, and for a moment, I think she might say something—something real, something that will break through the barriers we’ve both built. But instead, she just nods. It’s a small, almost imperceptible movement.

“Angelo, I need to know that you’re not lying to me. I need to know that regardless of what shitstorm or fuckfest we encounter, I can depend on you to not screw me over. I also need to know that you’re not going to treat me like a toy or piece of property. I know the men in the Cosa Nostra have a reputation for how they treat their women. I want this partnership to be different.”

I’m silent for a moment. There are things she needs to know and this could be the time to tell her.

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