POV: Alternating - Sofia and Antonio
---
SOFIA
He sat across from me at the tiny reading table like a lion in a library—too large, too dangerous, completely out of place among the shelves of well-loved paperbacks and children's picture books.
Antonio Matteo.
The man I was supposed to marry.
Up close, he was even more overwhelming than he'd seemed when he walked through the door. The suit was obviously custom, dark and perfectly fitted, but it couldn't hide the sheer physical power of him. Broad shoulders. Strong jaw with just enough stubble to look dangerous rather than unkempt. Hands that looked like they'd broken things. Broken people.
And his eyes. Dark, deep, and currently fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
"You're staring," I said.
"You're worth staring at."
I blinked. Was that supposed to be charming? "Does that line actually work on women?"
One corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "I wouldn't know. I've never used it before."
"Then why start with me?"
"Because it's true."
I felt heat creep up my neck and hated myself for it. "You're impossible."
"So I've been told." He leaned back in the chair, somehow managing to look completely at ease despite the fact that he was a Matteo in a Bianchi's territory. "Thank you for agreeing to talk to me."
"I didn't agree. You just sat down."
"You didn't tell me to leave."
I opened my mouth to tell him exactly that—then closed it. Because he was right. I hadn't.
"I'm curious," I admitted. "About what kind of man walks into his enemy's territory and asks for coffee like it's a normal request."
"Desperate?" He said it lightly, but something flickered in his eyes. "Lonely? Following orders?"
"Which one is it?"
"All of them, maybe." He glanced around the bookstore, and I watched his expression shift—genuine interest replacing the careful mask. "This is yours?"
"Yes."
"All of it?"
"Every book. Every shelf. I sanded and stained those myself." I pointed to the built-ins along the wall. "Took me three months."
He looked at them, then back at me. "Why?"
"Because I wanted something that was mine. Something that had nothing to do with..." I trailed off.
"With families like mine?"
"With families like ours."
He nodded slowly, like he understood more than I'd said. "My mother had a garden. Behind the house in Staten Island. She planted everything herself—roses, tomatoes, herbs. My father thought it was beneath her. She didn't care." He paused. "It's still there. I make sure the groundskeepers don't touch it."
I didn't know what to say. This wasn't the monster I'd expected. This was a man with a dead mother and a garden he protected.
"Why are you telling me this?"
He met my eyes. "Because you asked what kind of man I am. And I don't know how to answer that except to show you. But that takes time, and we don't have much of it."
The reminder of our situation landed like a stone in my stomach. "Right. The wedding."
"Three weeks."
"Three weeks." I laughed bitterly. "That's not enough time to learn someone's favorite color, let alone decide if you want to spend your life with them."
"What's your favorite color?"
I stared at him. "What?"
"Favorite color. Mine's blue. Like the sky after a storm. My mother used to point it out to me when I was small—she said it meant the worst was over." He shrugged. "Your turn."
"Green," I heard myself say. "Like old book spines. Like the velvet chair in the reading nook that's been there since I was a kid."
"That's specific."
" You asked."
He smiled. Actually smiled. And it transformed his face—warm, almost boyish, nothing like the cold mask he'd worn at the door.
"I did," he agreed. "And now I know something about you that no one else in my world does."
The words hung between us, weighted with something I couldn't name.
---
ANTONIO
She was even more beautiful when she wasn't looking at me like I was about to hurt her.
Which was most of the time, honestly. But every once in a while—when she talked about her bookstore, when she forgot to be afraid—her face softened, and I caught a glimpse of the woman in the photograph. The one who laughed.
I wanted to see that laugh.
I wanted to be the reason for it.
The realization unsettled me more than any enemy ever had.
"So tell me," she said, leaning forward, "what happens if I say no? If I meet you, spend time with you, and decide I'd rather take my chances running?"
The question I'd been dreading.
"Then you run," I said honestly. "And my father sends men after you. And your brother's debt comes due. And whatever happens after that..." I met her eyes. "I won't be the one hurting you. But I can't stop it either."
"You're his son. You could try."
"I could." I held her gaze. "Would it matter to you if I did?"
She was quiet for a long moment. "I don't know."
"Fair enough."
A woman approached the counter with a stack of children's books. Sofia's attention shifted immediately—warmth flooding her face, a genuine smile replacing the guarded tension.
"Mrs. Delgado! Let me get those for you."
I watched as she helped the elderly woman, chatting about her grandchildren, recommending titles, making change. She was good at this. Really good. The bookstore wasn't just her business—it was her calling.
When the woman left, Sofia turned back to me, and the warmth faded slightly. But not completely. Some of it lingered.
"You're still here," she said.
"I said I'd stay for coffee. You haven't given me coffee."
She laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of her—and the sound hit me somewhere in the chest.
"Fine." She stood. "One coffee. But you're getting the cheap stuff. I'm not wasting my good beans on a Matteo."
"Wouldn't expect anything less."
---
She brought two mugs to the table—plain black for me, something complicated and frothy for herself—and sat back down.
"It's not poisoned," she said.
"The thought hadn't crossed my mind."
"It crossed mine."
I took a deliberate sip. Held her eyes. Swallowed.
"Still alive."
"Give it time."
We sat in silence for a moment, drinking our coffee, surrounded by the quiet hum of the bookstore. An old man in the corner read a Western. A teenager flipped through magazines. Normal life, happening all around us, completely unaware that two heirs to criminal empires were having their first conversation in their midst.
"What do you want?" Sofia asked suddenly. "From this. From me."
"I don't know yet."
"Liar."
I looked at her. "I want... something real. Something that isn't about territory and bodies and settling scores. My father said you could give me a reason. I don't know if that's true. But I'd like to find out."
She studied me for a long moment. "And what do I get?"
"Whatever you want. Within reason."
"Freedom."
"You'll have it. More than you think—I'm not interested in a prisoner. I want a wife. There's a difference."
"Is there?" Her voice was sharp. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like the same cage with different wallpaper."
"Then change the cage." I leaned forward. "Build something inside it that makes it worth staying. Use my resources. Expand your bookstore. Open another location. Travel. Read. Do whatever you want. The only thing I ask is that you come home to me at night."
She stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "You're serious."
"I'm always serious."
"That's what scares me."
I finished my coffee and stood. "I should go. You have a business to run, and I have... whatever it is I do."
"Murder and intimidation?"
"Among other things." I pulled out a card, set it on the table. "My number. If you want to talk. If you want to run. If you just want to yell at me some more. Call anytime."
She looked at the card but didn't touch it.
"I'll be back tomorrow," I said. "Same time. You can tell me to leave again if you want."
"And if I'm not here?"
"I'll wait."
I walked to the door, then stopped. Turned back.
"Sofia?"
"What?"
"My mother's garden. I told you about it because it's the only thing I have that's mine. The only thing that has nothing to do with the family." I held her eyes. "I'd like to show it to you sometime. If you're interested."
She didn't answer.
But she also didn't say no.
I walked out into the cold November air and realized I was smiling.
---
SOFIA
I stared at the door for a full minute after he left.
Then I looked at the card on the table. Black. Simple. Just a name and a number in raised silver lettering.
Antonio Matteo.
I picked it up. Turned it over. Nothing on the back.
"What just happened?" I whispered to the empty store.
The store, predictably, didn't answer.
I tucked the card into my pocket and tried to focus on inventory. Failed. Tried to focus on anything. Failed.
He'd told me about his mother's garden. About the sky after a storm. About wanting something real.
He'd looked at me like I was the only person in the room.
And God help me, part of me wanted to see that garden.
No. No, I couldn't think like that. He was the enemy. He was the reason my life was falling apart. He was—
He was coming back tomorrow.
And I wasn't sure if I wanted him to or not.
That night, alone in my apartment above the store, I took the card out of my pocket and set it on my nightstand.
Just in case.