CHAPTER SIX

“I HATE THAT I AM STILL HOPING.”

SOFIA.

The car ride was suffocating.

I sit in the passenger seat of Marco's Mercedes, my hands folded in my lap, staring out the window at the city lights blurring past. He's driving in silence, both hands on the wheel, his jaw tight. The only sound is the low hum of the engine and the occasional whoosh of cars passing by.

I hate this. I hate the silence. I hate the tension that always sits between us like a third passenger. I hate that after seven years of marriage, we still can't have a normal conversation.

I smooth down my dress for the third time. It's black, elegant, falls just below my knees. Conservative enough to be appropriate but nice enough to show I made an effort. My mother picked it out, actually. Called me this morning to tell me what I should wear to the Arena because "you need to look like a proper wife, Sofia. Marco is bringing you to an important event. Don't embarrass him."

Don't embarrass him. That's always the concern. Never how I feel. Never what I want. Just don't embarrass the family. But I should be grateful– I try to be.

My phone buzzed in my clutch and I pulled it out, grateful for the distraction. It's a video from my mother. I press play and Isabella's face fills the screen, her dark curls bouncing as she jumps around in my parents' living room.

"Mama! Mama, look!" She's holding up a drawing, showing it to the camera. "I drew our family! See? That's you, and that's Papa, and that's me!"

My heart clenches. She drew three stick figures holding hands. Me with long hair, Marco tall beside me, and her small between us. She has no idea that the man she calls Papa barely tolerates her existence.

"It's beautiful, mija," my mother's voice says from behind the camera. "Your mama will love it."

"When am I going back home?" Isabella asks, her little face scrunching up. "I miss her."

"Soon, sweetheart. Soon."

The video ends and I have to blink back tears. I miss her too. Miss her so much it physically hurts. She's only been gone since yesterday but it feels like forever. I want her to be home with me, reading her stories, braiding her hair, listening to her endless chatter about school and her friends and everything that happened in her six-year-old world.

Instead, I'm trapped in this car with a man who doesn't care about all of that , heading to a place I absolutely don't want to be.

"She's doing well," I say quietly, trying to fill the silence. "Isabella. My mother sent a video. She drew a picture of us."

Marco doesn't respond. Doesn't even glance at me. Just keeps his eyes on the road.

I try again. "Maybe we could do something with her this weekend. Take her to the park or bring her hom—"

"I have meetings this weekend."

"Oh. Okay. Maybe next—"

"Sofia." His voice is flat. "I'm trying to drive. Can we not do this right now?"

Heat flooded my cheeks. I nod even though he's not looking at me, and turn back to the window. Stupid. I'm so stupid for trying. For hoping that maybe today would be different. That maybe he'd actually want to talk to me like I'm a person instead of just an inconvenience he has to tolerate.

The city passes by in a blur of lights and buildings. We're heading to the industrial district, the part of town where the old factories and warehouses are. The Arena is down here somewhere, tucked away where respectable people don't look too closely.

My stomach is churning with anxiety. I hate this place. I hate everything it represents. I've only been once before, a few months ago when Marco insisted I attend some family function. I spent the entire night trying not to look at the fights, trying not to see the blood and the violence and the way men cheered while other men beat each other unconscious.

It made me sick. Literally sick. I spent half the night in the bathroom trying not to throw up.

And now I have to go back.

"Marco," I try once more, keeping my voice soft. "Do I really have to come tonight? I could stay home, I promise I would be good and not make trouble—"

"No."

"But I don't understand why—"

"Because I said so, Sofia." He glances at me finally, his expression hard. "Because you're my wife and when I tell you to do something, you do it. Is that clear enough for you?"

I flinch. He's never spoken to me like that before. Never been outright cruel. Distant, yes. Cold, yes. But not cruel.

"I just... I don't like the fights," I whisper. "The blood makes me—"

"Then don't look at the fights. Look at your phone. Look at the wall. But you're coming and that's final."

I swallow hard and nod, blinking back the tears that are threatening to spill over. I won't cry. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing how much his words hurt.

But they do hurt. God, they hurt.

I watch the buildings pass by and try to calm my racing heart. Try to figure out why he's being like this. It's not just about his cousin being at the house. It can't be. Marco has had plenty of family stay with us before and he's never insisted I come to his business meetings.

This is different. Something about this cousin makes Marco nervous. Tense. Almost afraid.

And that terrifies me.

Because Marco Valentino doesn't get afraid. He's always calm, always controlled, always the picture of composure. If this cousin scares him enough to act like this, what does that mean for the rest of us?

I think about the conversation I overheard last night. The cousin's voice, deep and rough, talking about killing people like it was nothing. The casual threat in his words. The way Marco spoke to him, like he was walking on eggshells.

Who is this man? And why do I feel like I know his voice from somewhere?

It's been nagging at me all day. That sense of familiarity. Like I've heard him before, in another life, in another time. But I can't place it. Can't remember where or when or why.

Maybe I'm going crazy. Maybe the stress of this marriage and the loneliness and the constant feeling of being trapped is finally breaking me.

"We're here," Marco says, pulling into a parking lot behind a nondescript building.

The Arena doesn't look like much from the outside. Just an old warehouse with boarded-up windows and a single door guarded by two large men in suits. But I know what's inside. The fighting ring. The blood. The violence that these men call entertainment.

My hands are shaking as I unbuckle my seatbelt.

"Listen to me," Marco says, turning to face me for the first time since we got in the car. His expression is serious, almost stern. "When we go inside, you stay by my side. You don't wander off. You don't talk to anyone unless I introduce you first. You smile, you nod, and you keep quiet,. Understand?"

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"I mean it, Sofia. This isn't a social event. These are dangerous men. Important men. One wrong word from you could cause problems I don't need right now."

"I understand," I manage to say.

"Good." He opens his door and gets out, and I follow, my legs unsteady in my heels.

The night air is cool against my skin. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite my jacket. The guards at the door nod to Marco as we approach. They look at me with blank expressions, like I'm not even worth noticing.

We step inside and the noise hits me immediately. Male voices, loud and rough, laughing and shouting. The smell of cigar smoke and alcohol. The bass thump of music playing somewhere in the background.

Marco's hand is on my lower back, guiding me through the crowd. Men in expensive suits everywhere, clustered in groups, drinks in hand. They nod to Marco as we pass. Some of them look at me with interest. Most don't look at me at all.

We're moving through a narrow hallway now, the walls bare concrete, the lighting dim. I can hear something else beneath the music and voices. A rhythmic thudding. The sound of fists hitting flesh.

My stomach turns.

"Marco, please—"

"Not now," he says quietly, his hand pressing harder against my back. Pushing me forward.

We emerge into a large open space. The main room. And in the center, surrounded by rows of chairs and standing spectators, is the fighting ring.

Two men are in there right now, circling each other. One of them has blood running down his face. The other is favoring his left side, probably has a broken rib. The crowd is cheering, calling out bets, money changing hands.

I look away immediately, focusing on the floor, on my shoes, on anything but the violence in front of me.

Marco guides me to a section of seats near the ring. Prime seating, apparently. Several men are already seated here, and they stand when Marco approaches.

"Marco," one of them says, extending his hand. "Good to see you."

"Santino." Marco shakes his hand. "You remember my wife, Sofia."

"Of course. Lovely as always, Mrs. Valentino." Santino smiles at me, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"Thank you," I murmur, because that's what I'm supposed to say.

There are more introductions. Names I won't remember. Faces that blur together. Everyone is polite but I can feel their judgment. A wife at the Arena is unusual. Wives stay home. Wives don't see this part of the business.

So why am I here?

Marco settles into his seat and I sit beside him, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. The fight in the ring is still going. I can hear the crowd roaring, can hear the sickening sound of someone hitting the mat hard.

I close my eyes and think about Isabella. About her drawing. About her sweet face and her innocent questions. I focus on that instead of where I am. Instead of what's happening around me.

My phone is in my clutch. I could pull it out, look at the video again. But that feels rude. Marco said I could look at my phone but I don't think he actually meant it. I think he just wants me to sit here quietly and not cause problems.

So that's what I do. Sit quietly. Try not to cause problems. Try not to think about how much I hate this. I hate all of it.

The fight ends. Someone won. Someone lost. I didn't watch so I don't know who.

There's a break in the action. Men moving around, getting drinks, placing new bets. Marco is talking to the man on his other side, something about territory and shipments. Business I'm not supposed to hear.

I pull out my phone after all and watch Isabella's video again. Her bright smile. Her happy voice. My mother in the background, patient and loving in ways she never is with me.

"Mama! Mama, look!"

I watch it three times, and each time my heart aches a little more. I should be there with her. Not here. Not in this awful place with these awful people.

"Put that away for now," Marco says quietly, not looking at me. “But you said–”

“Forget about that, people here would see as rude, if my wife’s face is glued to her screen” he snarled, still not even looking at me.

"It's about to start again."

I put my phone back in my clutch and fold my hands in my lap again. Perfect posture. Perfect wife. Don't embarrass him.

The announcer—a heavy-set man with a booming voice, he steps into the ring with a microphone.

"Gentlemen!" he shouts, and the crowd quiets down. "For our next match, we have a very special guest. A man who's been making quite a name for himself. A man who many of you know by reputation if not by face."

My stomach churns again. I hate this. I hate listening to them talk about violence like it's entertainment. Like these are gladiators instead of men who are probably desperate for money or trapped in this life with no way out.

"This man," the announcer continues, his voice building with excitement, "has fought his way up from nothing. Has survived things that would kill lesser men. Has proven himself time and time again to be one of the most dangerous fighters we've ever seen."

The crowd is murmuring now, excited. Marco leans forward slightly, interested.

"He is also one of the candidates for next Pakhan and he is here back in the Valentino territory” My hands are gripping each other so tightly my knuckles are white. I don't want to watch this. I don't want to see someone get hurt. I don't want to be here at all.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer shouts, "I give you... Dante Valentino!"

The crowd erupts. Men are standing, cheering, shouting. The noise is deafening.

And my blood turns to ice.

Dante.

Dante Valentino.

No. No, it can't be. It's a common name. Valentino is Marco's family name, there must be dozens of Dantes in the family. It doesn't mean—

It can't mean—

I look up at the ring for the first time all night.

And the world stops.

A man is climbing through the ropes. Tall, powerfully built, moving with a controlled grace that's almost predatory. He's shirtless, and even from here I can see the scars covering his torso. So many scars. Too many to count.

And I see his back.

On his spine, in elegant black script, is a single word.

FARFALLA.

Butterfly.

My nickname.

The nickname only one person in the world ever called me.

The room is spinning. I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't process what I'm seeing.

It can't be him. He's gone. He disappeared seven years ago. He's dead or moved on or living somewhere far away where I'll never see him again.

But that tattoo.

FARFALLA.

He turns more, and I see his face in profile. Sharp jawline. Dark hair. Those features I used to trace with my fingers, that face I used to kiss, that mouth that used to whisper promises that I foolishly believed.

No.

No, it can't be.

But it is.

It's him.

Dante.

He's here.

He's alive.

And he's been in Marco's house.

The cousin. The voice I recognized but couldn't place.

It was him. All along, it was him.