Page 75 of Stalk Me

“Yes, thank you.” My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since yesterday. “I’m Sofia.”

“Emma.” She gives a small bow. “The dining room is this way.”

I follow her down a sweeping staircase into a grand room with a long mahogany table. Only one place is set.

“Where is everyone else?” I ask, settling into the chair as Emma pours coffee into a delicate tea cup.

“The Signor has business in town. The staff are at your disposal.” She places a plate of fresh pastries before me.

I sip the rich espresso, studying the room’s details, such as the crystal chandelier, the carved ceiling, and the views ofFlorence beyond the terrace. This is old money, generations of wealth and power.

“Has my father visited recently?” I ask.

Emma’s expression tightens. “I cannot discuss family matters, Signorina. My apologies.”

I nod, picking at a flaky cornetto. The silence in this massive villa is deafening. Where are all these relatives Mario mentioned? Do they know I exist? Do they want me here?

Through the terrace doors, I spot gardeners tending immaculate topiaries. Two men in dark suits patrol the grounds, earpieces visible. Not just staff, then, but security. I’m being watched.

“Would you like a tour of the gardens?” Emma asks. “They’re lovely this time of year.”

“Maybe later.” I stand, needing to move. “I’d like to explore inside first if that’s allowed?”

“Of course. The library is just down that hall.” She gestures to double doors of rich mahogany. “Please let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” I reply, walking down the hall toward the library.

I push open the heavy mahogany doors, and my breath catches. Floor-to-ceiling shelves stretch two stories high, filled with leather-bound volumes in various languages. The scent of old paper and wood polish fills my nose. A spiral staircase winds up to a wraparound balcony, and plush reading chairs are scattered throughout.

My fingers trail along the spines as I walk deeper into the room. First editions of Dante, Petrarch, and other Italian classics catch my eye. In another section, I find art history texts that would make my academic colleagues weep with envy.

Settling into a leather armchair by the window, I pull a worn copy ofThe Picture of Dorian Gray. The pages fall opennaturally, suggesting others have read it before me. I try to lose myself in Wilde’s prose, but my thoughts drift to Nikolai.

Is he tearing Boston apart looking for me? I picture him in his office, barking orders into his phone while his brothers coordinate search efforts. He must be furious, worried... maybe even scared. The thought of Nikolai being afraid seems wrong, somehow.

The sun shifts, casting shadows across the page. I haven’t turned it in minutes, too caught up imagining Nikolai’s steel-gray eyes darkened with concern. Would he understand this family connection or see it as a threat to our relationship?

I close the book, unable to focus. Through the window, I watch guards patrol the grounds below. Their movements are precise and professional, just like Nikolai’s security team. Everything about this place speaks of power, but I feel lost in this world without him.

I look up from my book as the library door creaks open. A man steps in, his expensive Italian suit perfectly tailored to his tall frame. My breath catches as I meet his eyes—the same green-gold shade as mine. His gray hair is styled neatly, but deep lines around his mouth and eyes show recent strain.

He stands frozen in the doorway, staring at me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken words. His hands tremble slightly as they grip the doorframe, and I notice a gold signet ring on his right hand.

Something in his haunted expression tugs at my heart. Rising from my chair, I smooth my skirt and take a tentative step forward.

“Hello,” I say softly, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m Sofia.”

A muscle twitches in his jaw as he studies my face, like memorizing every detail or searching for something—or someone—in my features.

I wait, my heart pounding against my ribs. Is this him? My father? The man whose condition Mario said was deteriorating? Questions crowd my throat, but I hold them back, giving him time to find his voice.

The man takes another step into the library, his hands dropping to his sides. “Antonio,” he says softly, his accent thick. “Mi dispiace... I’m sorry.” He switches to rapid Italian, words flowing like music I can’t understand.

My brow furrows. “I don’t speak Italian.”

Another tear slips down his weathered cheek as he crosses the space between us. His arms open, hesitant, like he’s afraid, I’ll vanish if he moves too quickly. His scent—rich coffee and tobacco—envelops me as his arms lock me against his chest.

I stiffen at first, unsure how to respond to this stranger, my father. His shoulders shake as he holds me, and I feel his tears dampen my hair. Something deep inside me shifts, a piece clicking into place that I never knew was missing.

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