Page 81 of Twisted Vows

Sophia watches all this with one brow arched. No fear in the staff’s eyes. Only history.

Luca’s grin widens. “This her?”

“She has a name,” I deadpan.

“Sophia,” she replies politely.

He nods once, then bends toward her. “Keep him out of trouble.”

She offers him a small laugh. It’s light and genuine and sends something sharp through my chest. This woman who shouldn’t belong in this world fits in it too perfectly.

Into the chaotic kitchen we go, where Chefs shout in Italian, knives flash, and pans sizzle. Steam rises like fog in a war zone. One of the cooks, elbow-deep in red sauce, jabs a spoon at Sophia.

“Assaggia,” he says.

She blinks. “Taste it?”

“Si! Tell me if it’s good.”

She dips the spoon, samples, then beams. “Oh my god. That’s illegal levels of delicious.”

Laughter breaks out like firecrackers as everyone joins in. Surrounded by knives and fire, she glows like a saint in a cathedral of sinners.

From the corner, old Zia Caterina beckons with both wrinkled and wiry hands. Her hair balloons around her head like a cloud of smoke, covering most of her face but exposing eyes that miss nothing. She was Dante’s godmother but loved him like her own. She’s got fierce loyalty and an even sharper tongue.

The woman survived three mob wars and buried two husbands.

She crooks a gnarled finger at Sophia. “You. Come here.”

Sophia walks over slowly, uncertain. My jaw locks. Muscles coil. Every instinct urges me to intervene.

Caterina doesn’t like newcomers.

Her voice carries the thick gravel of Naples. “You think you’re strong enough to be Ricci’s wife?”

The room falls dead silent. Even the water stops boiling.

Sophia blinks, then straightens. When she responds, her voice is low but steady. “I never asked to be in this world, but I’m not going to break either. Not while I’m with him.”

Every bone in me stills.

Caterina’s gaze has me sweating under my collar. Then she nods once. “Bene.” Good. And just like that, the tension melts. Laughter bubbles up again. Someone uncorks wine. Someone else offers fresh focaccia.

Later, Sophia’s helping serve bread to a cluster of kids and children of the staff. She kneels, meets them eye-to-eye, and coaxes smiles from even the grumpy ones.

She belongs in a kindergarten classroom. But somehow, she belongs here too. One of the older men, Mario, who’s worked here since Nonna’s day, leans over the bar and murmurs, “Quella donna…ha il cuore di una vera donna mafiosa.” That woman has the heart of a true mafia wife.

My stomach knots.

Hearing my family compliment Sophia this much means that my only defense against her is crumbling. The assumption that she doesn’t belong here, that she’s better than this world, was the one thing keeping me honest. The night ends with her hand in mine, soft but sure. We walk to the car like any couple out for dinner would. Except I’m packing a Sig under my jacket—easier to conceal for formal occasions than the Glock I usually carry—and she’s got secrets in her smile.

In the car, she rests her hand on my thigh and traces small circles. Not nervous. Not afraid. Just…claiming space.

“I liked that place,” she says. “You’re different there. Lighter. You actually smiled. Not the smirk you use to intimidate people. A real one.”

“It’s the only place left that’s still mine.”

She glances sideways. “You’re proud of it.”