Page 104 of Cara
“Soph.”I'm not ready.
Her arms surround my waist as we walk towards the exit, crossing the galleries and corridors of art unseen. She buries her head into the crook of my arm, clinging to me as we pass the curious attendant wordlessly. Two capos are waiting beyond the doors, bowing their heads as we scale the stairs. She doesn’t lift her head to see the row of soldiers lining the street, one who is opening the door to a bulletproof vehicle.
Stepping off the curb, I guide her inside, passing a look to my driver. “Michael.”
“Boss.”
“Take us to the estate.”
Sinking into the sleek leather, I'm already planning how tomake this easier for her when Sophie, not bothering to clip her seatbelt, slides across the leather, melting to my side. Our gazes shift to the museum we walked into as free people and left as this. Right back where we started.
Sophie gently guides my face to hers, such exquisite beauty amongst this darkness. “We’ll come back here, X… when we’re ready to laugh.”
Xavier
The estate lights were turned down in my absence.
As Michael opens the gates, they blink on and off sequentially while the men take their time securing our grounds.
Sophie’s grim expression gives her a hardness I’m not used to seeing as I help her out of the vehicle, her attention solely directed at the main house. On the porch swing swaying in the warm breeze. On the wild rose bushes brushing against their thorns. It’s a shield she’s learned to wield on her own, without my help.
Michael lowers his head as I guide her inside, a steady hand of reassurance on her spine. “Welcome back, Mrs. Marcello.”
Mechanically, she replies, “Grazie.”
Sophie seems smaller as she climbs through the threshold and into the dark foyer.
Michael’s waiting to be relieved for the night.
“Post the men around the gates,” I say. “No one enters this house without notice. Tell Dario I’ll see him at the restaurant in the morning.”
“Heard, Boss.”
“Go home.”
When the door closes behind me, and I see her standing in the middle of the foyer, her long obsidian hair flowing down her back, I’m stunned speechless, watching her absorb the familiar surroundings with caution. The tiered chandeliers our guests passed under on the night of our wedding. The twin marble staircases that define the room. The gold accents on the window drapes, the roses swarming the room with fragrance.
It takes me just a few moments to notice how heavy she’s breathing. Four years couldn’t have been enough. Even I feel the menace of these halls, the lingering presence of a past life that destroyed us both. While I’ve grown accustomed to it all, there’s no way she could. Seeing her here again confirms that.
Sophie’s a rare beacon of light, an oddity among the lavish furnishings and crystal chandeliers bought with blood.
My hand intertwines with hers, leading her from the foyer to the kitchen and into the living room. Each glance back, I find her mesmerized by this space, which served as her summer home during our childhood. She spent her younger years here willingly and, later, by force.
The terrace light illuminates the living room.
As I reach for the light switch, Sophie grabs my hand and shakes her head. Strangely enough, I get the hesitation. For the both of us, it’s now easier to navigate the darkness than face what’s around us. Photographs of my parents, encased in gold frames on every coffee table.
It’s all the same as the last time she was here. To change anything, to make any improvements felt wrong—like I’d be accepting this home as my own. Now that she’s in this room with me, I wish I’d cared enough to remove the remnants of the man who bore me.
“I think I’ll take that drink now,” she says, entrapped by my father’s looming smile.
Before I grab the glasses, I gather every photo frame I can find with his likeness—even those with my mother and family—finding myselfin front of the fireplace. As I toss them into the hearth, taking the time to kindle flames that will reduce everything to embers, Sophie merely watches—not the blazing fire, but me.
As the glass crackles, I pour her a drink from the wet bar nestled in the far corner of the room. Sophie drifts her fingers across some papers on the sofa’s armrest, making me freeze, remembering what’s on them.
The glass in my hand clinks against the countertop as she bends close to the fire, inspecting the information and images on each page. Noticing her shiver—aware it’s not just the draft in this old manor—I ditch our drinks to fetch a blanket from the couch, wrapping it around her shoulders.
I kneel beside her, watching the flickering flames bring to life the photographs of my wife from three years ago, taken on the bustling streets of Madrid.
