Page 92 of Stalk Me

I watch Antonio’s face, searching for any sign of remorse. There isn’t any. Instead, his eyes gleam with something that makes my stomach twist—satisfaction.

“You must understand, Sofia. We needed to know if you were capable of leading.” He straightens papers on his desk with practiced precision. “The illness ruse, the staged threats. All carefully orchestrated tests.”

“Tests?” My voice comes out sharp enough to cut glass. “You turned my life into an experiment?”

“An assessment.” He looks up, those familiar green-gold eyes—my eyes—shining with unmistakable pride. “And you’ve performed brilliantly. How you handled the gallery situation, how quickly you adapted to the truth about our family’s business...”

“Stop.” I hold up my hand, bile rising in my throat. “Just stop. This isn’t some corporate training program. These are real people’s lives you’ve been playing with. My life.”

“Precisely.” Antonio rises, spreading his hands. “And you’ve proven yourself more than equal to the task. The way you outmaneuvered Lucia and seamlessly integrated with the Ivanovs...”

“I didn’t do any of that for you or this family. I did it to survive the mess you created.”

But even as the words leave my mouth, I recognize something in his calculating gaze—something I see in my reflection more often lately. That ability to justify cruelty as a necessity, to wrap manipulation in a blanket of love and protection.

“Perhaps,” he concedes. “But that instinct, that ability to turn survival into victory? That’s pure Castellano.”

I want to deny it, but the words stick in my throat. Because he’s right that I’ve taken to this world of power plays and strategic warfare with disturbing ease, like slipping into a dress that was always meant for me.

I stare at my father across his mahogany desk, the late afternoon sun casting shadows through the study windows. The anger that drove me here starts to shift into something else—recognition, perhaps. Of patterns I’ve inherited, of strengths I didn’t know I possessed.

“You’re exactly what this family needs,” Antonio says softly, his voice carrying none of its usual manipulation. “Strong enough to see through manipulation, smart enough to turn it to your advantage.”

My hand explores the rich wood while I process his words. In these past weeks, I’ve discovered parts of myself I never knew existed: the calculated precision in handling threats and the quick strategic thinking that comes naturally as breathing. Nikolai saw that darkness within me that yearned for more than my carefully constructed gallery owner life.

“I am what I am,” I tell Antonio, my voice steady. “With or without your schemes.”

The weight I’ve carried since discovering his deception lifts as I walk away. Not completely gone, but transformed into something I can use, something that makes me stronger.

I sink into the leather chair in my room, my hands trembling as I pour myself two fingers of scotch. The amber liquid sloshesagainst the crystal, betraying my unsteady grip. Anger and pride war inside my chest, making it hard to breathe.

“Bastard,” I whisper, but the word lacks the venom I want it to have. Because beneath the fury at being manipulated, tested like some lab rat in a maze, there’s an undeniable thrill. The way his eyes lit up when he spoke of my capabilities, the pride in his voice when he called me “pure Castellano” sends an electric current through my veins.

I take a burning sip of scotch, letting it ground me. “I shouldn’t care what he thinks,” I tell my reflection in the window. “I shouldn’t want his approval.”

But I do. God help me, I do.

I recall how naturally it felt to outmaneuver Lucia, to turn threats into opportunities. Each move calculated, each response measured—like a dance I’ve known all my life but never performed.

“He had no right,” I whisper, but the words sound hollow even to my ears. Because while the manipulation infuriates me and makes me want to tear down everything he’s built, there’s a part of me that understands. A part that recognizes the same ruthless efficiency in myself.

The scotch burns my throat as I drain the glass. I’m his daughter, through and through. The thought both thrills and terrifies me. All those years of feeling like an outsider, of not fitting into the polished world I’d built. Now I know why. I wasn’t playing the wrong game; I was just playing it too small.

My reflection shows eyes bright with unshed tears, but my jaw is determined. I have the same green-gold eyes as Antonio, holding the same calculated gleam. I hate that he was right about me, about my potential. And I hate even more that some deep, dark part of me is preening under his assessment.

Nikolai clears his throat, his tall frame filling the doorway.“Well?” His deep voice rumbles.

I lift my chin, meeting those steel-gray eyes that see straight through to my soul. “Now we show them exactly who they created.”

His proud smile matches my determination, and I know that whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.

36

NIKOLAI

Istand at the window of our suite in the Castellano mansion, phone pressed to my ear as Erik updates me on Boston operations. “The Chinese deal needs your attention,” he says. “When are you coming back?”

My eyes track Sofia crossing the courtyard below, noting how she moves with newfound authority. “Soon. One last thing to handle here.”

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