Page 50 of Stalk Me

I pin my brother with a lethal stare. “Did you need something?”

“The Italians are?—”

“You’re more than capable of handling it without me.” I check my phone again. Nothing.

The memory of her beneath me, trusting and open, haunts every moment. One perfect night before it all shattered. The urge to go to her gallery, to force her to face me, pounds through my veins.

But Sofia isn’t some common associate I can intimidate into compliance. She requires... finesse. Strategy.

“You’re obsessing,” Dmitri says.

“Get out.”

He lingers in the doorway. “Nikolai?—”

“Now.” Ice coats each syllable.

The door clicks shut behind him. I unlock my phone, pulling up the last image of her from the cameras, curled up on her sofa peacefully before she discovered my betrayal.

The rage builds again, but this time, it’s directed at me for miscalculating and allowing her to make me lose control. My hand tightens on the phone until the case creaks.

I should have waited. Should have bound her to me more completely. Now she’ll run, try to hide. But she doesn’t understand—she’s already mine. Has been since the moment I saw her.

I pull up her number again, fingers hovering over the keys. But what could I say? Sorry means nothing when you’ve violated someone’s privacy so completely. And I’m not sorry for watching over her, protecting her, only for losing her.

The phone clatters onto my desk. I need to make a plan. Sofia is too precious to risk with hasty action.

A sharp knock interrupts my dark thoughts. “Enter.”

Vadim steps in, clutching a worn manila envelope. His face is grave. “Sir, we found it. The sealed adoption records.”

My pulse quickens as I snatch the file from his hands. As I spread its contents across my desk, the paper feels heavy with secrets.

Sofia Castellano.

My breath catches. Not Henley—Castellano. The name blazes from the page like a brand.

Birth certificate. Rome, Italy. Mother: Maria Elena Romano. Father...

“Fuck.” The curse slips out before I can stop it. Antonio Castellano. The head of one of Italy’s most powerful crime families.

Images flash through my mind—the way she moves, her natural grace, those fighting skills she displayed. The pieces click into place with sickening clarity.

The documents detail a frantic transfer to America when she was six. Castellano’s legitimate wife had discovered his mistress and threatened to expose everything. Sofia was smuggled out of Italy and placed with the Henleys to protect mother and child.

My fingers trace her original birth name. She has no idea who she truly is. Who her father is, or that she has power running through her veins.

“There’s more, sir.” Vadim hands me another paper. “Her mother was killed in a car accident two months after Sofia’s adoption. The wife’s involvement was suspected but never proven.”

The rage building inside me threatens to explode. My Sofia, torn from everything she should have known, is hidden away in Boston, her true heritage buried under lies.

The pieces click into place with brutal clarity. The Henleys’ deaths weren’t random. Cut brake lines. A professional hit disguised as an accident—just like what happened to Sofia’s birth mother.

My hands curl into fists, crumpling the adoption papers. Someone knows. Someone has been tracking her, waiting. And by digging into her past, I may have painted a target on her back.

I snatch up my phone, dialing her gallery. One ring. Two. Three.

“You’ve reached Sofia Henley at?—”

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