3. Sofia

3

SOFIA

D id he really say yes?

I fumble with the keys, my hands shaking slightly as I unlock the door to my apartment above Perfezione. I’m acutely aware of Angelo’s presence behind me as I push the door open, his cologne a subtle but intoxicating scent in the cramped stairwell.

“Come in,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady as we step inside.

The apartment is small, barely 600 square feet. The main room serves as living room, dining room, and my bedroom all in one. The pull-out couch where I sleep is still folded out from this morning, sheets rumpled. Lou’s room, formerly the master bedroom, is off to the side, her door plastered with colorful stickers and drawings.

The kitchenette is tucked into one corner, dishes from breakfast still in the sink. My face burns. Shit, I should have taken care of that this morning.

Everywhere, there are signs of our life—Lou’s lunch box tossed on a chair, my sewing kit open on the coffee table, books and magazines scattered about.

I watch Angelo’s face nervously as he takes it all in. What must he think of this tiny, cluttered space? A man like him, used to luxury and grandeur, surely finds it pitiful.

To my surprise, Angelo doesn’t seem put off. His eyes roam curiously, taking in every detail. He pauses at a framed photo on the wall—me and Lou at the beach a few years ago, both of us grinning widely, our hair windswept.

“This is a nice place,” Angelo says, turning to me with a smile.

“Thanks,” I reply automatically, even though I’m sure he’s just being polite. There’s no way he actually thinks this cramped, dingy apartment is nice .

Suddenly feeling awkward, I gesture toward the kitchenette. “Would you like some coffee?”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I cringe inwardly. Coffee ? We just had some at the restaurant while Lou devoured tiramisu. Jesus Christ, I am the worst .

But Angelo’s warm smile doesn’t falter.

“Coffee would be great, thank you,” he says.

I can feel Angelo’s eyes on me as I move into the kitchen. I’m hyper-aware of every imperfection in the apartment—the peeling wallpaper in one corner, the water stain on the ceiling, the worn carpet. Yet when I glance back at Angelo, all I see in his eyes is warmth and… is that admiration?

My heart skips a beat, and I turn back to the coffee maker, trying to calm my racing thoughts. This man, this powerful, dangerous, undeniably attractive man, is in my tiny apartment. And somehow, impossibly, he doesn’t seem to mind at all.

I fumble with the coffee grounds, my hands shaking slightly. The sound of Angelo’s footsteps coming closer sends a shiver down my spine. Before I can turn around, I feel his breath on the back of my neck, warm and enticing.

“Fee,” he murmurs, his voice low and intimate.

My hands freeze on the coffee maker as his lips brush against the nape of my neck, sending a jolt of electricity through me. Is this real life? My heart is beating a million miles a minute as Angelo’s kisses trail along my skin, his lips soft and insistent. His tongue flicks out to taste me, tracing a path along my shoulder.

I moan softly, the sound escaping before I can stop it. My grip tightens on the counter, and I let my head fall back slightly, giving him more access. Angelo’s body is close, almost pressing against my backside, and the heat from him is intoxicating. His hands rest lightly on my hips, grounding me and setting me alight at the same time.

Every kiss, every touch sends a wave of desire crashing through me. I can hardly believe this is happening—this man, this powerful Mafia Don, is here with me, in my tiny kitchen, making me feel like the most desired woman in the world.

“Angelo,” I whisper, my voice trembling with a mix of need and disbelief.

He pulls back just enough to turn me around, his eyes dark with hunger.

I stare up at him, lost in the intensity of his gaze. This moment, this connection—it feels surreal, yet more real than anything I’ve ever known. As he leans in to kiss me, I close my eyes, surrendering to the sensation, to the undeniable pull between us.

His lips crash against mine with a fierce intensity, igniting a fire deep within me. Our kisses are desperate, as if we’re trying to memorize every curve, every taste, every sensation. His hands roam my body, pulling me closer, and I mirror his movements, my fingers tracing the hard planes of his chest, the taut muscles of his back.

The world outside fades away, leaving only the two of us, our connection feeling like the only real thing in our lives. Angelo’s kiss is both demanding and tender, a paradox that sends my senses into overdrive. I can’t get enough of him, the way he makes me feel, the way he consumes me.

I pull away just enough to catch my breath, my lips swollen and tingling, “Do you still want that coffee?” I tease, my voice breathless and playful.

Angelo growls, a deep, primal sound that sends a shiver of anticipation down my spine. “I want something else,” he murmurs, his eyes dark with desire. “Something only you can provide.”

His words send a rush of heat through me, and before I can respond, his mouth is on mine again, more insistent this time. Our tongues battle for dominance, each stroke a clash of need and hunger. Angelo’s hands find their way to my hips, lifting me slightly as he presses me against the counter. I moan into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss.

He breaks away, his lips trailing hotly down my neck, licking and biting his way to my shoulder. Each touch, each graze of his teeth, sends a jolt of pleasure through me. I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging him closer, needing more.

“Angelo,” I gasp, my voice a mixture of desperation and desire.

He presses against me, and I can feel him, hard and ready. The sensation makes my knees weak, and I clutch at him, pulling him closer, wanting to feel every inch of him.

His hands slide under my shirt, the touch of his fingers on my bare skin eliciting a shiver of pleasure. He kisses his way back up to my lips, capturing them in another searing kiss. His tongue delves into my mouth, exploring, tasting, claiming. I arch against him, the ache inside me growing with every touch, every kiss.

Our need for each other is palpable, a raw, undeniable force that binds us together. I lose myself in him, in the way he makes me feel alive, cherished, desired. His kisses, his touch, are like a drug, and I’m hopelessly addicted.

My fingers work quickly, undoing the buttons of his shirt and shoving the fabric off his shoulders. He helps by shrugging the shirt off, our lips never breaking the kiss. When we finally pull apart, both of us are breathing heavily. I take a moment to admire him, my eyes roaming over his chiseled body.

God, he’s a work of art. His muscles are taut and defined, a testament to his strength and power.

But my gaze catches on something else. Patchy burn marks mar the back of his left shoulder, trailing down his back and arm. They stand out starkly against his otherwise perfect skin. Without thinking, I reach out and gently trace the burn marks down his shoulder and arm. He shudders under my touch, the sensation sending a spark of something deeper between us.

I want to ask him what happened, to understand the story behind these scars, but before I can form the words, he yanks my shirt over my head. My bra quickly follows, and then his mouth is on my breasts, making me gasp. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and longing that makes my head spin.

God, this feels so good. It’s been so long since I last had sex. It’s hard to do so when Lou lives in the other room, and besides, no one else has been worth it.

But Angelo… he’s different. He makes me feel alive, cherished, desired in a way I haven’t felt in years.

And I’ve only known him for not even a day. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me?

His lips and tongue work magic on my breasts and nipples, drawing moans from deep within my chest. I arch into his touch, my fingers tangling in his hair as I pull him closer. Every kiss, every caress, sends waves of pleasure through me, making me ache for more.

“I need you,” I breathe, my voice barely more than a whisper.

He lifts his head, his eyes meeting mine with a fierce intensity. “So do I,” he says, his voice rough with desire.

His words send a thrill through me, and I pull him back to me, our mouths crashing together in a kiss that’s both desperate and tender.

Angelo’s strong arms wrap around me, lifting me effortlessly as if I weigh nothing. He strides over to my sofa bed and gently lays me down, his touch reverent. The room seems to shrink, the air thick with anticipation. He stands before me, his eyes never leaving mine as he unbuckles his belt and slides off his pants and boxers.

My mouth dries as I take in the sight of him. His body truly is a work of art—sculpted muscles, a taut abdomen, and a chest that tapers down to a narrow waist. Every inch of him exudes power and dominance. His arousal stands proud and imposing, and a shiver of delight runs through me.

Will that even fit? I wonder to myself.

Angelo’s full mouth curves into a smirk. “It’ll fit,” he says smugly, as if he could read my thoughts.

How the fuck did he know I was thinking that ?

But I don’t have time to dwell on Angelo’s apparent mind-reading abilities because his hands are on my pants, helping me pull them and my panties down. The hunger in his eyes intensifies, and he lets out a hoarse whisper, “You’re beautiful,” before climbing on top of me.

His weight settles against me, grounding me in the moment. I can feel the heat of his body, the hard length of his dick pressing insistently at my entrance. He pauses, looking deep into my eyes, almost as if he’s asking for my permission to continue. The intensity of his gaze is both electrifying and comforting.

Without breaking eye contact, I reach up and pull his head down to mine, capturing his lips in a deep, urgent kiss. It’s all the answer he needs. Angelo pushes into me slowly, stretching me, filling me completely. A gasp escapes my lips, swallowed by his kiss.

He starts to move, each thrust slow and deliberate, igniting a fire deep within me. His hands roam my body, caressing, gripping, as if trying to memorize every inch of me. I wrap my legs around his waist, urging him deeper, harder. The rhythm of our bodies syncs perfectly, a dance of raw desire and need.

Every thrust sends waves of pleasure crashing through me, building higher and higher. Angelo’s name falls from my lips in a breathless chant, and his growls of pleasure only spur me on. His movements become more urgent, driven by an insatiable hunger.

“Oh, fuck, Angelo,” I moan, feeling deliciously filled as he thrusts into me, his balls slapping against my ass.

“That’s right,” Angelo snarls. “Fucking moan my name.”

As the pressure builds, my nails dig into his back, and I arch against him, meeting each powerful thrust. Angelo’s lips find my neck, his hot breath sending shivers down my spine. The coil of pleasure tightens, and with a final, deep thrust, we both shatter, falling over the edge together as I cry out.

For a moment, we remain entwined, breathing heavily, the aftershocks of our climax rippling through us. Angelo rolls off me, but before I can miss his warmth, he pulls me close to his chest. I rest my head against him, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back.

“I should probably leave soon,” he murmurs.

A pang of anxiety grips me, but I push it aside. “I’d rather you stay,” I say softly, not wanting this moment to end.

He chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates through me. “What, are you afraid of the dark or something?”

I give him a playful punch on the arm. “Ha-ha. Very funny. Maybe I just enjoy your company.”

His laughter fades into a gentle smile. “Well, if you really want me to stay, how can I say no?”

“That’s what I thought,” I say teasingly, but I don’t want to tell him the truth—that I don’t want to be alone. Instead, I snuggle closer. Angelo wraps his arms around me, holding me securely.

The exhaustion from the day’s events soon lulls us into a peaceful sleep, wrapped up in each other as the world ceases to exist.

I’m fifteen years old again, the familiar excitement and nervousness of adolescence coursing through me. I’ve snuck out of the house to go to a party with friends, feeling a rush of rebellion. It’s not like my mother will care where I am. She’s too wrapped up in herself and her latest boyfriend to give a shit what I do.

The party is loud and chaotic, a blur of teenage energy. I stick close to my friends, feeling a mix of exhilaration and uncertainty. As we weave through the crowd, my eyes land on the most attractive person I’ve ever met.

He’s tall with floppy blond hair, a chiseled face, and piercing blue eyes. My heart skips a beat as our eyes meet.

To my surprise, he approaches me, flashing a charming smile. “I’m Jonah,” he says, his voice smooth and confident. “And you are?”

My friends giggle and nudge each other, their excitement palpable as I smile. “I’m Sofia.”

“Nice to meet you, Sofia. Do you want to dance?”

My friends squeal and nudge me forward, and I take Jonah’s hand. We dance together in the dimly lit room. His hands find my waist, and I feel a thrill of being noticed, of being wanted. The music pulses around us, and I lose myself in the moment.

I find out that Jonah’s full name is Jonah Ansel and he’s a sophomore in college. He told me the name of the school, but I can’t remember it.

Jonah presses a red Solo cup into my hand, his smile encouraging. I hesitate for a moment, but wanting to feel cool, I take a sip. The taste is bitter and disgusting, but I force myself to drink it anyway. I can’t let him see my discomfort. Another cup follows, and another, and soon, the edges of my world begin to blur.

The cups refill endlessly, and the world around me starts to spin, the lights blurring into streaks of color. I feel a growing discomfort in my stomach, and my head feels heavy. I try to find my friends, but they’re nowhere in sight, swallowed by the crowd.

“Hey, I don’t feel so good,” I mumble, swaying on my feet.

Jonah catches me, his grip firm but unsettling. “Come on, I’ll take you home,” he says, his voice smooth but with an edge I can’t quite place.

“Where are my friends?” I ask, my words slurring together. “I need to find them.”

“They probably left already,” he replies, guiding me toward the door. “Let’s get you home.”

As we step outside, the cool night air hits me, but it does little to clear my head. Jonah has to support me as I stumble, my legs barely able to hold me up.

“You’re so nice, Jonah,” I mumble, trying to keep my eyes open. “Thanks for helping me.”

“Of course,” he says, but his tone is different now, colder. “Just trust me.”

We walk a little further, but something feels wrong. I glance around, my vision hazy, and realize he’s leading me to a darkened alley.

“Wait… where are we going?” Panic rises in my chest as I try to pull away from him. “I want to go home.”

Jonah’s grip tightens, and fear floods through me. “Relax, Sofia,” he says, his voice hardening. “We’re almost there.”

“No, let me go!” I cry, struggling against him. But he’s too strong, overpowering me with ease.

I faintly hear someone calling my name, and I scream, the sound echoing off the walls of the alley. “Help!”

“SOFIA!”

“Somebody help me! Jonah, STOP IT!”

“Sofia! WAKE UP!”

I wake up, heart pounding, drenched in sweat. In the dim light, I become aware of Angelo’s arms around me, his presence both comforting and overwhelming.

“Sofia? Are you alright?” His voice is thick with concern.

A wave of nausea hits me, and I shove away from him, stumbling out of bed. I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m bent over the toilet, dry heaving. The dream clings to me like a second skin, unwanted and suffocating.

I hear Angelo’s footsteps, then his presence at the bathroom door. When I finally look up, he’s holding out a glass of water. I take it gratefully, shame burning in my cheeks. I can’t believe I had another night terror in front of Angelo.

“Thank you,” I murmur, avoiding his eyes.

“Who’s Jonah?” Angelo asks.

I stiffen, nearly dropping the glass. “Why… why do you ask?”

His eyes are dark with concern. “You were screaming his name. And it didn’t sound like it was a pleasurable scream.”

I close my eyes, willing the memories to fade. But they persist, flickering behind my eyelids like an old film reel. Jonah’s face, the red Solo cups, the scrape of the cement against my back as Jonah forced me onto the ground.

“He’s… he’s…” I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I’m about to say. “Jonah is Lou’s father,” I begin, my voice barely above a whisper.

Angelo remains silent, his eyes encouraging me to continue. I swallow hard, deciding to trust him with the full truth.

“When I was fifteen, I was raped,” I say, the words feeling like broken glass in my throat. “Jonah got me drunk and raped me. I got pregnant with Lou as a result.”

I pause. Ten years later, and the memories are still so painful. “I knew his name, but after it happened, he disappeared. I never saw him again. I had to drop out of school. Everyone found out, and I became a social pariah.”

Tears start to fall, and I roughly wipe them away. “My grandfather took me in, gave me a job at Perfezione. It was the only place I felt safe.”

Throughout my confession, Angelo remains silent, his face a mask of concern and something darker—anger, perhaps, but not directed at me.

“What about your parents?” Angelo finally asks.

“My mother…” I choke out a bitter laugh. “When she found out I was pregnant, she was furious. Called me a slut, a whore, you name it, she said it. It was the first time she’d paid attention to me in years, and it was only to tell me what a disappointment I was. God forbid I make her look bad in front of Husband or Boyfriend Number Whatever. And I never knew my father.”

I sniffle. “Thank God for my grandfather. He’s helped me raise Lou, gave me this apartment so I could have a place of my own. He’s given me a job, taught me everything he knows. I couldn’t have done it without him.”

Angelo reaches out, hesitates, then gently takes my hand in his.

“Fee,” he says softly, “I’m so sorry that happened to you. You didn’t deserve any of that.”

His words, so simple yet so powerful, break something open inside me. Fresh tears fall, but this time, I don’t try to stop them.

“You’re incredibly strong,” Angelo continues, his thumb tracing soothing circles on my hand. “To have gone through that and still be the amazing woman and mother you are today… it’s remarkable.”

I look up at him, searching his face for any sign of pity or disgust. Instead, I find only admiration and a fierce protectiveness that takes my breath away.

“Thank you,” I whisper, squeezing his hand. “For listening, for not judging…”

“I would never judge you for this, Fee,” Angelo says firmly. “What happened wasn’t your fault. And look at what you’ve done. You’ve raised an incredible daughter. You run a successful business. You’re a survivor.”

His words wash over me, soothing some of the old pain. For the first time in years, I feel truly seen and accepted. It’s terrifying and liberating all at once.

I open my mouth to thank Angelo, but before I can utter a word, I notice his body suddenly go rigid. His eyes dart toward the apartment door, nostrils flaring slightly.

“Angelo? What’s wrong?” I ask, confusion and worry creeping into my voice.

But then I smell it too—the acrid scent of smoke. A faint crackling sound reaches my ears, seeming to come from below us. My heart plummets as realization dawns.

“Oh, my God!” I cry out, panic rising in my chest. “The shop! It’s on fire!”