Page 22 of Forced Arrangement

“I noticed,” I reply, my voice tight. I want to say more, to find some way to explain the turmoil inside me, but what’s the point? Angelo isn’t here to play therapist and I’m not about to bare my soul to him.

He turns to me, his green eyes steady. I feel a pang at the lack of emotion in them. He’s back to business then. I miss the charming lover who made jokes and called me Italian endearments “Ready?”

“Are you always this chipper after a long flight?” I shoot back, hoping to lighten the mood—or at least distract myself from the memories clawing at my insides.

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Only when I’m returning home with beautiful company.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s no denying the flutter in my chest at his words. “How sweet. I’m sure all your ‘beautiful’ guests appreciate your warm welcome.”

“None of them have complained yet. You didn't seem to mind when my tongue was down your throat, and my fingers were…”

“Okay, you can stop now. What happens in the mile-high club stays in the mile-high club.”

“If you say so,” he says to me, offering his arm.

I hesitate before taking it. The moment our fingers touch, that familiar spark shoots through me, making it hard to think straight. I hate how easily he can make me feel this way—vulnerable, exposed and completely aware of him.

As we descend the steps and step onto the tarmac, I feel the weight of the city settle over me. The skyline looms in the distance, and for a moment, I’m that little girl again, running through the streets with nothing but joy and endless possibilities ahead of her. But those days are gone, replaced by the harsh reality of what New York has become for me.

The car waiting for us is sleek and black, a symbol of the power and influence that Angelo wields so effortlessly. The driver opens the door and I slide into the backseat, feeling the weight of what is to come pressing down on me.

We ride in silence, but it’s not a comfortable silence. It’s thick with unspoken words, questions I’m not ready to ask, and answers Angelo isn’t willing to give. I can feel his eyes on me, like he’s waiting for me to say something, to crack under the pressure. But I’m not about to give him the satisfaction.

Finally, I break the silence. “So, what’s the plan? Do I get a bulletproof vest and a personal bodyguard? Or are you just going to lock me in your penthouse and throw away the key?”

He turns to me, one eyebrow raised. “I thought you’d enjoy living in a penthouse with security. It will save you from having to run away again”

I clench my jaw, refusing to rise to the bait. “I’m not running. I’m…strategically retreating.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,Tesoro mio.”

His use of the endearment sends a shiver down my spine, but I force myself to focus. “So, what’s next? Am I supposed to just wait around until you decide what to do with me?”

“Something like that,” he replies casually, like we’re discussing dinner plans and not my future. “First, you get settled in. Then, we figure out who’s after you and how to keep you safe.”

I scoff. “And what if I don’t want your protection?”

He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “You don’t have a choice, Sophia. You’re here now and that means you’re under my care. Whether you like it or not.”

The intensity in his gaze makes my heart race, and I hate how much it affects me. “Fine,” I mutter, turning away to look out the window. The city whizzes by in a blur of light and shadow, a stark reminder of everything I have lost—and everything I am about to face.

We pull up in front of a towering glass building, the kind that screams wealth and power. The doorman nods at us as we walk in, and I follow Angelo to the elevator, feeling the weight of his presence beside me.

The ride up to the penthouse is quiet, but the tension between us crackles like electricity. When the doors finally slide open, revealing the luxurious apartment that will be my new prison, I step inside, taking in the sleek furniture, the polished floors, and the floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a breathtaking view of the city below.

“This is it,” Angelo says, his voice steady.

I nod, trying to ignore the knot of anxiety tightening in my chest. “It’s nice. If you’re into cold, impersonal spaces.”

He smirks. “I thought you’d appreciate the lack of personal touches. Makes it easier to leave when you’re ready to run again.”

I shot him a glare, but his words hit too close to home. “You don’t know me, Angelo. Stop picking at me.”

“I don’t know you?” He steps closer, his gaze piercing. “You’ve been running your whole life, Sophia. But you can’t run from this. I need you to understand that.”

I want to argue, to tell him he’s wrong, but the truth is, I wasn’t sure he was. The past had finally caught up with me, and now, there was no escaping it. No more running, no more hiding.

“Get some rest,” he says, his tone softening slightly. “You’ll need it.”

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