Page 1 of His

CHAPTER 1

Sofia De Luca

Fuck me.

So much for a normal day. As soon as I got to my dad’s shop that morning, it had all gone right out the window and flipped me the bird. It might as well have fucked me right in the ass too.

Without any lube.

“Owwwie! Stupid sewing machine!” I cried out. Pain shot down my hand as I tried to extricate myself as gently as I could from the sewing needle impaled in my finger, but in my hurry, I accidentally knocked an entire cup of espresso all over my shirt.

Maybe I should have just stayed in bed today.

“Sofia!Attenta!Be careful with that needle,” my father called from the back room. Thank God he couldn’t see the coffee dripping all over me. That would just make things ten times worse. With a sigh, I dabbed at my shirt with an extra piece ofcloth, but it didn’t seem to make it any better. In fact, it made it worse, spreading it all around rather than soaking it up.

This wasn’t my day.

“I know, Papa. It just slipped,” I replied, sucking on my finger, and grimacing at the metallic taste of my own blood. I glared at the old Singer sewing machine sitting right in front of me. It had belonged to my grandmother. This wasn’t the first time it had attacked me, and I was certain it wouldn’t be the last, the sneaky little gremlin.

I glanced down at my shirt and then at the rows of suits and dresses hanging neatly by the front desk.

I needed to change. Pronto.

Striding over to the back of the shop, I rummaged through the year-old orders that were never picked up, trying to find something other than my stained shirt to wear. After searching for a minute or two, I happened on a white button-up shirt that was at least close to my size, and I quickly changed out of my coffee-stained top.

Pressing my finger into my mouth again, I sucked on it in hopes it would make it feel better, but it didn’t. It just continued to throb and pulse. The stupid needle had sunk in deep. I’d gotten myself pretty fucking good.

I glared back over at the offending dress still laid out beneath the sewing machine. I’d just been trying to take in the hem and had been humming to myself. It was my own fault really; I should have been paying better attention, but still… this fucking sucked.

It hurt. A whole lot.

The bell above the door chimed, signaling a customer, and I looked up only to see that it was the police coming through the front entrance. For a second, I just stared at them, flustered. What were they doing here? What the heck could they want in a simple tailor shop?

Two officers from thePolizia di Stato, dressed in their dark blue uniforms, strode up to the front desk, their expressions apologetic. One was tall with a stern expression, while the other, slightly shorter, had kind eyes that looked sort of sad.

Offhand, they looked kind of familiar, like I’d seen them before but couldn’t exactly place them. I smiled softly and walked over to the counter as they approached, hoping to help them with whatever they needed, be it directions or maybe some information. I opened my mouth to ask, but the taller one spoke first.

“Buongiorno. We need to speak with Marco De Luca,” he said, his tone leaving no room for questions. I gave them a quizzical look, wondering what they would want with my father, but they didn’t explain themselves. With a shrug, I turned my head, cleared my throat, and called out into the back.

“Papa!” I shouted. My father appeared a few moments later, wiping his hands on a piece of cloth, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Yes? How can I help you, Officers?” he asked, his voice calm but increasingly wary, which was kind of weird.

“Mr. De Luca, we have a warrant for your arrest,” the tall officer stated, pulling out a piece of paper and handing it to my father. “You are under arrest for suspected tax evasion.”

I blinked for a second, thinking I’d misheard him. This couldn’t be right. My father was a tailor, not a criminal.

“What? This must be a mistake,” I blurted out, stepping forward. “Tell them, Papa. Tell them it’s some kind of terrible mistake.”

The kind-eyed officer looked at me sympathetically but remained silent as my dad met my gaze. For a fraction of a second, he looked much older than his fifty-two years. He turned to me, his eyes somehow calm amidst whatever this was. What the hell was going on?

“Sofia, call Massimo,” he said quietly, his voice steady despite the insanity of the situation. “Tell him what’s happening.”

“Papa, what’s going on?” I whispered as the officers began to lead him away. My heart was pounding in my chest and my palms were starting to feel a bit sweaty.

“Sofia, just do as I say. Go home and call Massimo,” he repeated, his voice firmer now. I nodded, fumbling to take my phone out of my pocket with shaking hands.

I watched helplessly as they escorted him out of the shop, the doorbell chiming once again as it closed behind them. I didn’t know what to do. Honestly, I just stood there for a moment sort of shell-shocked until I glanced at the phone in my hand and stared at it like there was some sort of solution that would suddenly materialize right in front of me.

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