Page 93 of Stalk Me

I can practically hear Erik’s frown. “The Castellanos?”

I smile darkly. “They tried playing puppet masters. Now they’ll learn what happens when you try manipulating a master manipulator—and his queen.”

Below, Sofia pauses to examine a statue, her fingers trailing over the marble. Even from here, I see the calculation in her movements, the way she catalogs every detail. She’s embraced her true nature, becoming more dangerous than Antonio ever imagined.

“The dock shipments are delayed,” Erik continues. “Dmitri suggests?—”

“Tell him to handle it. I trust his judgment.” My attention remains fixed on Sofia as she speaks with a guard, her posture radiating quiet command. Pride swells in my chest. She’stransformed from the gallery owner who caught my eye into someone who makes even hardened soldiers straighten their spines.

“You’ve changed,” Erik observes. “She’s changed you.”

“She hasn’t changed me.” I watch as Sofia disappears into the villa’s entrance. “She’s completed me.”

The line goes quiet for a moment. “People are asking questions. About her true role.”

“Let them ask.” I adjust my cufflinks, platinum catching the light. “They’ll understand soon enough.”

I end the call and turn to the documents spread across my desk. Each piece of evidence was carefully collected, each thread of deception now exposed. I lift Antonio’s medical records, pristine forgeries that would fool most eyes. But Sofia’s expertise in authentication exposed the subtle flaws—paper aging that didn’t quite match, ink consistencies that wavered.

Beside them lies the trail of Mario’s machinations. Hotel bookings, flight manifests, gallery shipping records. A masterclass in manipulation, creating the perfect storm to drive Sofia back to Florence. The old man orchestrated every detail, from the timing of art acquisitions to the “chance” encounters with Castellano associates.

I trace my finger over a document showing Mario’s substantial donation to the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, made just weeks before their curator “spontaneously” reached out to Sofia about authenticating several Italian pieces. The timing wasn’t subtle, at least not to those who knew where to look.

They thought themselves puppet masters, using illness and heritage to force Sofia’s hand. But they failed to see what I recognized instantly—that Sofia’s talent for manipulation runs deeper than mere genetics. She doesn’t just authenticate art; she reads people like priceless manuscripts, seeing the flaws and forgeries in their facades.

My phone vibrates against the mahogany desk. Sofia’s message lights up the screen:

Grandfather’s calling a family meeting. Time to begin.

I gather the documents, sliding them into a leather portfolio. The old men wanted Sofia to embrace her Castellano heritage. Now, they’ll see exactly what happens when you try to force a natural predator into a cage. She hasn’t just embraced her heritage—she’s transcended it.

I walk to the formal living room, adjusting my cuffs as I enter the opulent space. Marble columns frame the gathering of Italy’s most dangerous family, but my attention is focused solely on Sofia. She commands the center of the room in a black designer dress that whispers power, her honey-blonde hair swept up to expose the elegant line of her neck.

Mario gestures as he speaks, his weathered hands painting pictures of family legacy and duty. Sofia nods at precisely the right moments, her expression a perfect mask of earnest attention. But I catch the predatory calculation beneath—the way her eyes catalog every reaction and expression around the room.

“The future of our family requires strong leadership,” Mario declares. “Fresh vision combined with respect for tradition.”

Sofia leans forward, concern etched on her features. “Of course, Grandfather. The weight of such responsibility...” She lets the words trail off, and I suppress a smile at her masterful manipulation. The old man practically preens at her apparent deference.

Antonio shifts in his chair, clearly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. His gaze darts between his daughter and father, sensing something he can’t quite grasp. He should be worried.

When Sofia’s eyes meet mine across the antique furniture and gathered Castellanos, that slight curl of her lips sends heatthrough my veins. In that little expression, I see everything—her satisfaction at their ignorance, her anticipation of what’s to come, her acknowledgment of our shared power.

The Castellanos wanted their prodigal daughter to return and take her rightful place. They succeeded beyond their wildest dreams—just not how they intended. They made her their perfect heir, never realizing they created their own destruction.

I take a slow sip of scotch, savoring the burn and the show before me. Sofia continues her performance, every gesture and response calibrated for maximum effect. The queen I chose. The queen I created. The queen who will help me burn it all down.

I lean against the doorframe, savoring every word as Sofia dismantles the Castellano empire’s leadership structure. Her voice carries the perfect blend of respect and steel as she addresses the gathered family.

“While I’m deeply honored by your faith in my abilities,” she says, “Leonardo has demonstrated the vision and capability this family needs.”

Mario’s face contorts in shock. “But you are the direct heir?—”

“Which is precisely why my endorsement of Leonardo carries such weight.” Sofia’s smile could cut glass. “Unless you’re suggesting my judgment is somehow... flawed?”

I suppress a proud smirk as Antonio shifts uncomfortably in his chair. The manipulation they used to draw her here now serves as her weapon against them.

“The documents supporting Leonardo’s qualification are extensive,” Sofia continues, spreading papers across the antique table. “His management of the Milan galleries alone shows remarkable innovation while honoring tradition.”

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