Page 26 of Forced Arrangement

“Good to know,” I say, keeping my eyes on Franco, who hasn’t moved an inch. He’s standing so still, is so in control, that it almost makes me want to poke him just to see if he’s human.

“Is that a problem for you?” Franco asks, his tone cool, almost bored.

I narrow my eyes, not appreciating his attitude. “Why would it be?”

“Because,” he says, his gaze hardening, “you’re the daughter of Carlo Agostini. That makes you more of a liability than an asset. For now.”

I feel a spark of irritation flare in my chest. “I didn’t ask for this,” I shoot back. “I didn’t ask to be part of this mess. But I’m here now, so the least you could do is pretend to trust me.”

Franco’s jaw clenches, but his expression doesn’t change. “Trust is earned, not given.”

I hold his gaze, refusing to back down. “I wasn’t planning on asking for it.”

Angelo, watching this exchange with an unreadable expression behind his glasses, finally steps in. “That’s enough,” he says firmly, cutting through the tension. “We’re all on the same side here.”

Franco says nothing, but I can see the flicker of annoyance in his eyes. He doesn’t like me, that much is clear. But I’m not here to make friends—I’m here to survive. If he doesn’t want to trust me, that’s his problem.

Still, I can’t help but feel a little slighted. Who the hell is Franco Pesci to judge me? He doesn’t know what I’ve been through, what I’ve lost. I have spent my entire life running from the world he calls home, and now that I’m standing in the middle of it, I’m not going to let him treat me like I don’t belong.

“I’ve been running from this my whole life,” I say, my voice quieter, but no less steady. “But I’m not running anymore. Whether you like it or not, I’m part of this family.”

Franco’s eyes flicker over me, something unreadable passing behind them. He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell I’ve struck a nerve.

Angelo glances between us, his brow furrowing slightly. “Franco, you know that she’s here because she needs our help. She’s under my protection.”

Franco finally unfolds his arms, taking a step closer. His movements are slow, deliberate, like a predator sizing up its prey. “I don’t care whose protection she’s under,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “As long as she doesn’t get in the way.”

I clench my fists, fighting the urge to snap back. But instead of responding with anger, I take a deep breath and meet his gaze head-on. “I don’t plan to. But I’m not going to sit around and play the damsel, either.”

For a moment, Franco doesn’t react. He just looks at me, his dark eyes boring into mine, like he’s searching for something. Then, slowly, a flicker of something—respect, maybe—crosses his features.

“Good,” he finally says, his voice quieter but still rough around the edges. “Because this isn’t a game, and you’re not a spectator.”

I nod, feeling the shift between us. Franco doesn’t trust me, but he isn’t dismissing me either. And for now, that’s enough. Respect is a start. I can work on trust later.

Angelo, sensing the tension has diffused, claps Franco on the shoulder. “We’ve got a meeting soon. Sophia, you should head back to the penthouse. Franco and I will handle things for now.”

“Right,” I say, glancing at Angelo before turning back to Franco. “I’ll let you get to it.”

Angelo glances at his watch, clearly ready to wrap things up. "We should head to the meeting," he says, his tone all business again. But before I can react, he steps closer to me, his hand catching mine in a firm grip. The warmth of his touch sends a spark up my arm, catching me off guard.

He leans down, his mouth pressing a quick but hard kiss to mine, a show of possession that leaves my head spinning for a second. When he pulls back, his eyes linger on mine for a beat longer than necessary.

Franco raises an eyebrow, watching the exchange with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. "Well, that's one way to say goodbye," he mutters under his breath, arms still crossed as he eyed us both.

I shrug, trying to play it off, though my face probably gives me away. "We are betrothed after all."

Angelo shoots Franco a look, and I can see the flicker of warning in his eyes. "Comportati," he says in a low, commanding tone. I’m not fluent in Italian, but I’m pretty sure the word means something along the lines of “behave”.

Franco gives a mock salute, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. "Capito, boss," he replies dryly.

I have to stifle my giggle, biting my lip as I turn away, but Angelo catches the hint of my smile and squeezes my hand once more before letting go. “We’ll be back soon,” he says, his voice softer as his gaze meets mine again.

I’m not sure what to make of him yet, but one thing is clear: Franco Pesci is a force to be reckoned with.

And whether he likes it or not, I’m not going anywhere.

As I walk out of the office and head toward the elevator, I can’t help but replay the conversation in my mind. Franco is tough, no doubt about that, but there is something else about him—something that makes me wonder if his hard exterior is just a front.

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