17. Sofia

17

SOFIA

T he ringing in my ears drowns out everything else as I try to process my mother’s words. My father… David Bingham. A name I’ve never known, a face I’ll never see. Murdered by Antoni Timpone in a jealous rage. It’s too much to take in.

Beside me, Angelo’s voice cuts through the fog, sharp with anger. “You kept this from her all these years? Let her struggle, let Lou grow up in near poverty, when you could have helped? You’re fucking wealthy enough.”

I see my mother’s face flash with shame before hardening into defiance. “You don’t understand,” she snaps. “I was scared. Of Antoni, of the truth coming out. I thought I was protecting her.”

Her words hit me like a physical blow, and I feel tears welling up in my eyes. “Protecting me?” I choke out, my voice thick with emotion. “No, you never protected me. You had an endless parade of men in your life and ignored me. Why should I believe that now?”

Cher flinches as if I’ve slapped her. “Sofia, please. You have to understand?—”

“Understand what?” I interrupt, anger finally breaking through my shock. “That you let me believe I wasn’t good enough? That you watched me struggle to raise Lou, to keep Perfezione afloat, and did nothing? All while you lived in this… this palace?”

I gesture wildly at the opulent room around us, feeling sick at the stark contrast between this life and the one I’ve been living.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Cher pleads, her eyes filling with tears. “How do you tell your daughter that her father was murdered because of you?”

“You tell her the truth!” I shout, years of pent-up frustration and hurt pouring out. “You support her! You don’t abandon her and her child to fend for themselves!”

Angelo’s arm around my shoulders tightens, grounding me. I take a shaky breath, trying to regain control.

“All these years,” I say, my voice quieter now but no less intense, “I thought there was something wrong with me. That I wasn’t good enough for you to love. But it was guilt, wasn’t it? You couldn’t bear to look at me because I reminded you of him .”

Cher’s silence is all the confirmation I need. I feel something inside me break and mend all at once. The weight of her rejection, which I've carried for so long, suddenly lifts.

“Fuck you,” I spit out, surprising even myself with the venom in my voice. “I’ve spent my entire life trying to explain away your behavior, making excuses for why you couldn’t love me. But now I see the truth. You’re just selfish.”

Cher’s eyes widen, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. For once, she seems at a loss for words.

“I hope you have a great life,” I continue, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because I’m done . I’m done trying to win your approval, done hoping you’ll be the mother I needed. I’ve made it this far without you, and I’ll keep going.”

I stand abruptly, my legs shaking but my resolve firm. “We’re leaving,” I order, not looking at Angelo or Marco. “We’re done here.”

As I stride toward the door, I hear my mother calling my name, her voice tinged with desperation. But I don’t look back. I can’t. If I do, I might crumble, and I refuse to give her the satisfaction.

Let her stew in her guilt , I think bitterly. If she’s even capable of feeling guilt.

I burst out of the house, the bright sunlight momentarily blinding me. I don’t stop, marching straight to the car, my vision blurred by unshed tears.

Once inside, I finally allow myself to break down. Sobs rack my body as years of pain, confusion, and longing pour out of me. I feel Angelo’s arm around me, hear his soothing words, but they seem far away.

All I can feel is the gaping wound where my mother’s love should have been. But mixed with the pain is a strange sense of liberation. The truth, as devastating as it is, has set me free from a lifetime of seeking approval I was never going to get.

As Marco starts the car, I take a shuddering breath, wiping my eyes. I’m done being a victim of my mother’s choices.

Angelo rubs soothing circles on my back as I try to compose myself.

“You know,” he says, a hint of dark humor in his voice, “I could always have my men take care of Cher if it would make you feel better.”

Despite everything, I can’t help but laugh. “No, no. Like I told Lou, violence isn’t always the answer.”

I sigh heavily, leaning into Angelo’s embrace. “At least now I understand why Gino hates me and my family so much. I just wish we had something to hold over his head to make him back off Perfezione.”

Angelo nods thoughtfully. “Zip did identify Gino as his attacker, but that won’t be enough. Even a half-wit lawyer could argue that Zip was confused, given his age and the trauma.”

We lapse into silence, each lost in our own thoughts. Suddenly, Marco’s voice breaks through from the front seat.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he says hesitantly, “but are the video cameras Don Angelo had installed at Perfezione working?”

I blink, surprised by the question. “Yes, they’re working perfectly. Why?”

Marco’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Well, if they’re working, shouldn’t we check the footage? We might have video evidence of Gino attacking your grandfather.”

The car falls silent as Angelo and I process this information. Then, Angelo’s face breaks into a wide grin.

“Marco, you’re a goddamn genius,” he exclaims.

I feel a surge of hope, like Christmas has come early. “Oh, my God, you’re right! We might actually have him on camera!”

Angelo’s already pulling out his phone. “I’ll have the footage sent to me immediately for review. And Romero’s in Chicago, digging up intel on Gino’s loyalists.”

He turns to me, his dark eyes gleaming with determination. “Fee, we might just have the leverage we need.”

For the first time since leaving my mother’s house, I feel a genuine smile spreading across my face. “Let’s nail this bastard,” I say, my voice filled with renewed resolve.

As we speed back toward the city, I feel a shift in the air. We’re no longer just reacting to Gino’s moves. Now, we’re on the offensive.

Gino Timpone won’t know what hit him.

Once we get back to Angelo’s home, I realize that Lou has a half-day at school and we will need to pick her up soon.

“Well, let’s go pick her up,” Angelo says as Marco tosses him the keys. “And since she had a shitty day yesterday, let’s go get her a treat, too. What’s her favorite treat?”

“Starbucks,” I respond, thinking of how often Lou begs for one of their beverages.

Angelo makes a face. “Starbucks, really? But their coffee is shit.”

I shrug. “You asked what her favorite treat is.”

He sighs. “I did, didn’t I? No matter, I’ll introduce her to actual good coffee. Not burnt sludge.”

As we approach the Starbucks drive-thru, Angelo leans forward, squinting at the menu board.

“What the hell is a Frappuccino?” he mutters.

I can’t help but chuckle. “It’s Lou’s favorite. Just order a grande caramel Frappuccino.”

Angelo makes a face, then speaks into the intercom with his usual authoritative tone. “I need a… grande caramel Frappuccino.”

The barista’s cheerful voice crackles through. “Would you like whipped cream on that?”

Angelo looks at me, panic in his eyes. I nod encouragingly.

“Uh, yes. Whipped cream. Please,” he adds as an afterthought.

The barista tells us the total and tells us to pull up to the window. Angelo startles when he hears the price.

“Six dollars for a fucking drink?” he asks, horrified. “And who the fuck puts whipped cream on coffee?”

“It’s not really coffee,” I say, laughing at his face. He looks like he just saw a dog shit on his shoe. “It’s a blended drink that’s a mix between a milkshake and an iced coffee.”

“But six dollars ?”

My sides hurt from laughing so hard. “Angelo, have you ever been to Starbucks?”

“Of course not.” He looks affronted at the question. “No self-respecting Italian goes to Starbucks for coffee. My father is rolling in his grave knowing I’m here.”

When we pull up to the window, Angelo scrutinizes the drink like it might explode. “Are you sure this is right? It looks… weird.”

I pat his arm reassuringly. “Trust me, it’s perfect. Lou will love it.”

As we pull up to the school, I spot Lou near the gates. I go to wave at her, but my heart sinks as I realize she’s facing off with the bully—Jake—again. I start to open the door, but Angelo’s hand on my arm stops me.

“Wait,” he says softly. “She needs to handle this herself.”

I watch, my heart in my throat, as the bully towers over Lou. But my daughter stands her ground, her small frame radiating determination.

The bully makes the first move, lunging forward with a clumsy punch. Lou sidesteps smoothly, just like Angelo taught her. As the bully stumbles past, Lou pivots, her right fist connecting solidly with his jaw.

The bully staggers back, shock written all over his face. Lou doesn’t let up, following through with a quick jab to his solar plexus, causing him to double over. She places one foot on him and easily tips him over.

“Leave me alone,” Lou says firmly, her voice carrying across the schoolyard. “Or next time, it’ll be worse."

The bully nods frantically from his position on the ground. There’s a moment of stunned silence, then the other students burst into cheers.

Before I can react, Angelo is out of the car, rushing toward Lou. He grabs her hand, thrusting it into the air like she’s just won a boxing match. “That’s my girl!” he shouts, beaming with pride. “Louisville slugger wins!”

I step out of the car just as a teacher rushes over, dispersing the crowd of cheering students. “Jake, principal’s office. Now,” she orders before turning to Lou. “You too, young lady.”

“Hey, she was just defending herself,” Angelo starts to argue.

The teacher cuts him off sharply. “We have a zero-tolerance policy for fighting. No exceptions.”

I place a hand on Angelo’s arm. “I’ll handle this,” I say softly. “Lou and I will walk home.”

Angelo scowls but jogs back to the car, returning with the Frappuccino. Lou’s eyes light up as she eagerly grabs it.

“Here’s your reward for finally kicking that bully’s ass,” Angelo says loudly, grinning.

The teacher looks ready to explode. “You are NOT helping,” I hiss, guiding Lou toward the school. Lou glances back at Angelo, throwing him a conspiratorial wink.

Jesus Christ. He’s a terrible influence.

Suddenly, a man rushes up, his face red with anger. He gets right in my face, spittle flying as he yells, “I saw what happened! Your little brat attacked my son! I demand she be punished!”

I open my mouth to snap back, but Angelo steps between us. His entire demeanor changes, his eyes hardening as he grabs the man’s arm. “We need to go for a walk,” he says, his voice low and dangerous.

The man jerks away. “Fuck off! Who do you think you are?”

Angelo doesn’t flinch. Instead, he leans in close, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying an undercurrent of threat that makes my blood run cold.

“I’m the man who knows about your gambling debts, Mr. Thompson. The ones you’ve been hiding from your wife. The ones that could cost you your job if they came to light—oh, yes, I know all about them. Ever since my girl told me about how your son bullies her and other kids, I’ve been doing some digging.” Angelo’s grip tightens. “Now, we’re going to take that walk, and you’re going to listen very carefully to what I have to say about your son’s bullying problem. Understood?”

The color drains from Mr. Thompson’s face. He nods shakily, allowing Angelo to lead him away.

I stand there, stunned, as Angelo effortlessly takes control of the situation. It’s a stark reminder of who he is, of the power he wields. And while a part of me is unsettled by it, another part feels oddly safe.

As I guide Lou into the school, I can’t help but wonder what other surprises Angelo has up his sleeve.

One thing’s for certain. Life with him is never going to be boring.