Page 83 of Twisted Vows

A couple of minutes later, I’m seated across from him at the dining table. The meal unfolds with brittle silence and sharp teasing. Fingers brush and linger. Everything feels like it’s balancing on a precipice, as though naming what’s building between us might shatter the room.

And then Marco storms in. The air changes immediately, as I’ve come to associate his presence with trouble.

“Is something wrong?” I tilt my chin.

Marco shakes his head. “No problem. Just got a message for the don.”

“Then deliver it. I’m his wife. I have the right to know.”

He leans against the doorframe, his dark curls damp with morning sweat, his eyes flicking between Enzo and me like he’s stumbled into a soap opera.

Enzo clears his throat. “The lady has spoken, Marco.”

Marco’s voice takes on a singsong quality, though his expression stays serious. “Padrino needs you.”

I brush his knuckles. “You should go. I’ll be safe.”

Enzo’s barely out the door when my phone rings.

Nonna Rosa’s voice spills out, thick and sweet as honey over old bricks. “Bella. There’s a christening tomorrow. Family must show up, capisci?”

Family. The word lands like a brick in my stomach. My gut says run. Being alone in a room full of Benedettis is basically a trust exercise with knives. But Nonna’s got this way about her, soft but somehow inevitable.

“I understand. Thank you, Nonna. We’ll be there.”

As soon as I end the call, my phone buzzes again. The hospital.

“Mama?”

“Hello.” My mother’s voice is alert.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m awake. That’s what matters.”

I close my eyes and exhale my relief.

“Sophia. I want to say something to you.”

My stomach twists. “Okay.”

“Vincent left things behind. Files and records in his study. You know that, right?”

“I…” I swallow. “What files?”

“The kind men like him use to keep tabs on their enemies.”

I falter. “Mama, where are the files?”

“I need you to be careful, Sophia,” she warns sharply. “Vincent’s world is a dangerous place.”

“Do you know where the files are?”

Her breath crackles through the speaker. “Check your father’s emails. I have to go.”

The line goes dead.

I stare at my phone, my hand shaking. Is this another one of her senseless delusions, or is my mother’s mind finally clearing?