Page 13 of Auctioned Innocence
The way our regular staff has been quietly replaced with men whose eyes never stop scanning.
Mom and Dad are at their charity gala—Mom probably micromanaging every detail while Dad works the room with that practiced charm that makes people forget how dangerous he can be.
I’ve seen the way hardened men go pale when Francesco Renaldi’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
The annual Children’s Hospital fundraiser runs late every year, which means they won’t be home until after midnight.
Usually, I’d have begged to join them—glittering dresses, free champagne, and the chance to practice reading people is my kind of night—but Dad insisted I stay home.
“Not this year,tesoro,” he’d said, his tone brooking no argument. “It’s better this way.”
Marco is…somewhere.
He’s been different lately—more secretive, more intense.
I catch him watching me sometimes with this worried look, like he’s seeing threats I can’t imagine.
The circles under his eyes have darkened, and twice I’ve caught him sleeping in his car outside my lecture hall.
Whatever he and Dante discovered the night of the party has changed things.
The casual texts from Dante have dried up.
No more impromptu security “checks” that somehow always coincided with my schedule.
Just silence, and it stings more than I care to admit.
I check my messages again.
Nothing.
Three weeks of nothing.
But tonight, I don’t mind the solitude.
These are rare moments when I can just be Sofia instead of a Renaldi, when I can pretend the world outside my bedroom door isn’t filled with power plays and carefully maintained alliances.
When I can forget the way Dante looked at me on the terrace, like he was fighting a war inside himself.
When I can let down the constant vigilance that comes with my last name.
I stretch, arching my back to work out the knots from hours of studying and procrastination.
My Advanced Encryption final is tomorrow, and Professor Alvarez expects nothing less than brilliance.
“You’ve got a gift,” he told me last week. “Don’t waste it.”
If only he knew the real-world applications I’ve already found for his teachings—like the three backdoors I’ve coded into our family's security system.
Just in case.
My sheets rustle as I roll off my bed, heading for the bathroom.
But I freeze mid-step, every muscle suddenly tense.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up—that primal warning system Marco’s always telling me to trust.
Something feels wrong.
