Page 134 of Twisted Vows

The man in the coat gestures to a chair. “Sit. Make this easy.”

For a moment, I almost choke. Choices flash like lightning. Run, scream, or fight. None of those end well.

So I sit.

The chair’s metal bites through my jeans. My hands knot together in my lap. I keep my face calm. Pretend you’re back in a classroom with twenty kindergartners testing your patience. Fake control.

“Your father’s dead,” the man says, “but his mess lives on. We need access to what he left behind. Codes. Accounts. Maybe you’ve seen something.”

Their meaningless talk buzzes around me. Only the shape of danger is clear here.

One of them lights another cigarette, a predatory flame flickering in his eyes. He takes a drag, then flicks ash onto the floor like he’s got all the time in the world to hurt me. “You don’t seem afraid.”

“I’m tired.” The answer slips out before I can swallow it.

The honest answer hangs between us. I’m tired of running, of men like these, of loving monsters.

The smoker leans close enough that his breath ghosts my cheek. “Tired gets you killed.”

Maybe. But for the first time, that thought doesn’t terrify me. It just feels inevitable.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and the room is so dark that I can barely see. Every small noise echoes even louder. The scraping boot, the creaking leather, the faint hiss of someone putting out a cigarette…

Sitting here, everything narrows to one thought. I used to know—without doubt—that Enzo would find me no matter what. Now I’m not sure whether he even realizes I’m gone.

My heart slows as I focus on my breathing, my entire body numb with worry about the unknown.

Fear can’t hurt someone who’s already broken.

I am broken now, caught between a man I love but should hate and a dad I hate but need to grieve.

Entering Enzo’s world—the same world that broke my family, cost me a father, and almost a mother—should feel like a mistake, but it gave me love and made me feel alive.

It appears less like an interrogation and more like a confession, every truth scraped raw on metal. Enzo’s warning from when he taught me defensive moves in the Hamptons echoes through my memory. “Never let them see you scared.”

I cross my legs, lift my chin, and feign poise while my pulse flails in my throat.

A thick Volkov lieutenant with a gold tooth and skin the color of old tobacco slides a folder across the table. “Tell us, Sophia,” he says, each syllable carved from vodka and contempt. “How deep does your father’s business go?”

The folder opens like a wound. Photos, ledgers, wire transfers. Vincent’s handwriting. His universe laid bare. They just want me to confirm what they already know.

Bitterness coats my mouth. “He played everyone. Italians. Russians. Feds.” My mother. Me. “He’d promise loyalty, then sell the same promise twice.” Each sentence costs a piece of my tongue.

The younger Volkov brother—with sharp cheekbones and green eyes that should’ve belonged to an artist not a killer—leans back, watching me like I’m some rare insect he might pin to a swatch of velvet. “You don’t lie like a coward,” he comments. “Brave little dove.”

“It’s not bravery.” I almost laugh. “It’s exhaustion.”

The elder brother’s gaze narrows. “And Enzo Ricci? What does he know of your father’s work?”

I pause to form a lie. “Nothing. He wanted peace. He wanted out.”

All I can do is hope and pray they take me at my word.

Their eyes flick toward each other. The air shifts. They either believe me or decide they don’t need to. Sometimes, survival wears the same face as surrender.

The older one snaps the folder shut. “If the Benedettis move against us, you’ll be the first to pay.” His tone is casual, like he’s promising rain. Then the two men rise, satisfied.

When they dismiss me, the words come across as both a pardon and a sentence.