Sofia didn't speak much after the meeting with Alessandro's grandfather. Something inside her felt chipped—like a glass figurine someone had knocked off a shelf but tried to stand upright again, pretending nothing happened.
She couldn't forget the cold certainty in the old man's voice: "A wedding should be announced soon. Then children. That's what's expected."
Expected.
That word echoed in her mind like a curse.
She didn't belong here. Not in these heavy halls. Not in this life of duty and breeding and silence.
Alessandro hadn't brought it up since. He was back to his cold routine—meetings, calls, long silences over dinner. He didn't mention the wedding. He didn't ask if she was alright. And in his silence, she folded inwards.
---
Daisy noticed.
"You've been quiet," her voice hummed through the phone.
"I've just been tired."
"Bullshit," Daisy said cheerfully. "You're in a house of men who think love means possession. You need out. Just for a night."
"I can't—"
"No. No excuses. I've got just the place. It's low-key, super chill. Just music and cocktails. You'll wear that little blue dress you never get to wear. We'll laugh. We'll feel human. Remember that?"
Sofia hesitated, her fingers trembling slightly around the phone.
"I don't know if he'll let me."
"Tell him you're going to meet a friend. Don't ask for permission. You're not his pet."
That night, after a silent dinner, Sofia stood in the doorway of Alessandro's study.
"I'm going out. With Daisy."
He didn't look up from the papers in front of him.
"When?"
"Now."
A pause. "Where?"
"Just a lounge. Nothing big."
He glanced at her then, dark eyes pausing just long enough to take in her expression.
"Take the driver. Be back before midnight."
It wasn't approval. But it wasn't a no.
---
Daisy chose a dim, cozy rooftop lounge on the outskirts of Palermo. Warm lights, quiet music, a breeze that lifted the tension from Sofia's shoulders as soon as she stepped onto the rooftop.
"You look like a hostage who just escaped," Daisy laughed, handing her a sparkling drink.
"I feel like one."
They sat in a corner booth with fairy lights overhead and stars scattered above. For the first time in weeks, Sofia laughed. Really laughed.
"I forgot what this felt like," she said, a little dizzy, a little free.
Daisy raised her glass. "To rebellion. And to cute mafia men we shouldn't love."
Sofia's smile faltered for a second, but she clinked her glass anyway.
One drink turned into two. Then three. Then something fizzy and green that made them both giggle uncontrollably.
It was when she stood to dance that Sofia realized how light her head felt, how her limbs moved just a little too loosely.
"Daisy," she whispered, gripping her friend's arm, "I think I'm drunk."
"Good. You deserve to be."
She swayed, eyes blurring as the rooftop tilted ever so slightly.
That's when she saw him.
Alessandro.
Towering in black, expression unreadable, standing just inside the lounge entrance like a shadow called to life.
Sofia froze.
His eyes locked on hers.
Then flicked to Daisy.
Then narrowed.
"Sofia," he said quietly, dangerously.
People turned.
Sofia's breath caught. Her heart raced. She felt the blood drain from her face.
Daisy straightened. "She's fine. We were just having fun—"
"She's drunk," Alessandro cut in. "She's going home."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
He took her arm—not hard, not rough, but with a finality that made her heart hurt.
Sofia didn't fight it. She let herself be guided, past the stares, down the stairs, into the car.
The door slammed.
The silence screamed.
---
"You think this is a joke?"
His voice was cold steel as the car sped into the night.
"You think you can run around Palermo getting drunk like some brat?"
"I needed air," she said softly.
"You needed to embarrass me?"
Her chest caved inward.
"I didn't do anything wrong."
"You went out alone. You drank. You let people see you like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you don't belong in my world."
The words sliced.
Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back. Her voice shook.
"You want me to fit into your world, Alessandro. But I don't even know who I am anymore."
He looked at her then, jaw tight.
"Don't turn this on me."
"It's not about you," she whispered. "It's about me. It's about your grandfather talking to me like I'm a womb in a dress. It's about being stared at, judged, touched, owned—"
She broke off, her throat catching.
Alessandro's eyes narrowed. "You're drunk. You don't know what you're saying."
"I know *exactly* what I'm saying," she snapped, surprising them both.
He stared.
"I'm scared," she said. Her voice cracked. "I'm scared that one day I'll wake up and I won't recognize the girl in the mirror. That I'll forget how to laugh. That I'll become exactly what they want me to be—a perfect little silent wife who gives them babies and smiles on command."
The car stopped.
She didn't wait.
She opened the door and stumbled into the driveway, her heels unsteady on the stone.
Alessandro followed, his steps quick and angry.
"Don't walk away from me."
"I'm not walking away," she said, voice trembling. "I'm trying to breathe."
She reached the door to her room. Slammed it shut.
Locked it.
And broke.
---
Morning.
The headache was brutal. The shame worse.
She sat up slowly, sunlight stinging her eyes.
A glass of water and painkillers sat on the bedside table.
Beside it, a note.
**"We'll talk when you're ready. – A"**
She clutched it, tears spilling freely now.
Because despite everything—he hadn't punished her. He hadn't yelled.
He'd listened.
And that scared her even more than the silence ever had.