Page 37 of The One
It seems absurd.
She can’t be that dangerous. I don’t even have Dario escorting me today. I’m all by myself, so she can’t be that bad. Right?
But then again, I’m in the part of the building that’s heavily secured. I glance around, suddenly more aware of the bars on the window, the heavy door and the silent cameras.
How did I miss all of this last night? Even more ludicrously, how could I have thought for even a minute that this young woman could be Mateo’s lover?
Jealousy, that’s how.
It warps your mind and twists things that aren’t there. Though she really is his type.
I incline my head, chewing on my lip as I study her. She looks so normal.
Just a girl.
There’s nothing threatening about her, no dark aura, no chilling presence. I don’t sense a single ripple of danger. If anything, she seems fragile. I search her face, waiting for that uneasy gut feeling to kick in, but it doesn’t.
Giulia must have exaggerated.
But the question still lingers. Why is she locked away?
I know I should leave. In and out, remember? Those were my instructions. And if nothing else, I’m good at following orders. Thanks, Father.
I huff quietly to myself, resentment bubbling up as I step further into the room. I walk straight to the table and set down the tray.
“Please,” the girl begs again, her voice sounding broken and desperate. “Nobody talks to me. I’m stir crazy.”
With a deep breath, I turn around, eyeing her warily.
Her eyes perk up the slightest bit. “What’s your name?”
When I don’t answer, she’s quick to keep talking.
“I’m Sofia.”
Sofia? Why does that name ring a bell?
Before I can stop myself, the question slips out, my voice barely above a whisper, afraid that somebody might hear me talking to her.
“Why are you in here?”
“Huh,” she huffs, and it sounds a little unsure.
I wait, watching as her cheeks turn a soft shade of pink.
“I guess I got on the wrong side of Don De Marco. But I’ve only been acting on my father’s orders. I didn’t really want to do it. But what other choice did I have? When my father says jump, the only right answer is ‘how high’.”
She’s rushing out the words as if she’s accumulated them for weeks and now they’re finally allowed to burst free.
A pang of recognition hits me as her words tumble out. Dealing with an overbearing father? It’s all too familiar. Just like me, it seems she’s expected to follow orders, no questions asked, because that’s the only way it works.
“Who is your father? What did he make you do?” I ask, curious now.
She wrings her hands together, staring at the floor.
“Sofia?” I prompt.
Still, she hesitates.
