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?