The silence they left behind was worse than the noise. The absence of the kicking, the voices, the engine—it was a void filled with the echo of what had almost happened. And the echo of the voice that had stopped it.
This is mine.
The words echoed in the hollows of her mind, cold and possessive. Alessandro Morano hadn't come to her rescue like some knight in a fairy tale. He had asserted ownership. She was a disputed territory, and he had driven off the rival claimants.
A fresh wave of trembling seized her. She fumbled for her phone on the floor, her fingers numb and clumsy. She didn't call 9-1-1. She called Chloe.
Her friend answered on the first ring. "Soph? Everything okay? I was just thinking about—"
"They were here," Sophia choked out, the words a broken whisper. "Chloe, someone was here. They tried to break in."
There was a beat of stunned silence on the other end, followed by the sound of movement. "I'm on my way. Right now. Are you hurt? Are you safe? Are they gone?"
"He's gone. They're all gone." The pronoun slipped out. He.
"He? Who's he? Sophia, talk to me!" Chloe's voice was sharp with panic.
"Just come. Please. The back door. I… I can't go to the front." Her voice broke on a sob.
"I'm five minutes away. Don't move. Don't hang up."
Sophia didn't move. She listened to the sound of Chloe's frantic breathing and the jangle of her keys over the line, a lifeline to the normal world that now felt a million miles away. True to her word, five minutes later, a frantic knocking came from the back door.
Sophia scrambled to her feet, her legs weak and unsteady, and unlocked it. Chloe burst in, her face pale with fear, and pulled Sophia into a crushing hug.
"Oh my god, Soph. Your hands are like ice." She held her at arm's length, her eyes scanning her friend for injuries. "What happened? Tell me everything."
The story spilled out in fractured, hiccupping sentences. The sounds outside, the voices, the kicking. The sheer, mind-numbing terror of being trapped. And then… him. Alex. Materializing out of the night like a dark angel of death. The cold, terrifying exchange. His final, unequivocal statement of ownership.
Chloe listened, her hand over her mouth, her eyes growing wider with every word. When Sophia finished, she sank onto a stack of empty buckets, looking shell-shocked.
"He said… you were his?" she whispered, aghast.
Sophia just nodded, wrapping her arms around herself again, trying to stop the shaking.
"Okay. Okay," Chloe said, switching into practical mode, a defense against the horror. "First, we call the police. Then, you are packing a bag. You are not staying here tonight. You're coming to my place."
The police. The thought of explaining this to a uniformed officer made Sophia's stomach clench. How could she possibly explain the context? But Chloe was already dialing.
Two officers arrived twenty minutes later. They were professional, polite, and utterly perplexed. They took a statement, examined the splintered doorframe, and took photos.
"Any idea who might want to break in?" one officer, a woman with a kind face, asked. "You have any disgruntled customers? Ex-employees?"
Sophia and Chloe exchanged a look. The unspoken truth hung heavy in the air between them.
"No," Sophia said, her voice small. "No one."
The officer's eyes lingered on her face, seeing the pale terror she couldn't hide. "Miss Bianchi, sometimes these things are random. Sometimes it's just kids, or someone looking for cash. The door held. That's the important thing."
It wasn't random, Sophia screamed inside her head. It was because of him. He caused this. And then he stopped it. But saying that would open a door she could never close. It would drag her fully into his world, into police reports and testimonies and a life defined by this night. So she stayed silent.
After the police left with a promise to increase patrols—a hollow comfort—a different car pulled up out front. A sleek, black sedan. A man in a dark suit got out, not Alessandro, but someone who carried the same air of quiet, dangerous competence. He carried a toolkit.
Sophia watched, frozen, as he examined the door, then rang the bell. Cautiously, she and Chloe went to the front.
"Miss Bianchi?" the man said, his voice neutral. "Mr. Morano sent me to repair your door."
The air left Sophia's lungs. He was already managing the aftermath. Controlling the narrative. Erasing the evidence.
"We… we don't need…" she began, but the man was already stepping inside, assessing the damage with a professional eye.
"It will be like it never happened," he said, not unkindly, but with a finality that brooked no argument. He set to work with an efficiency that was almost frightening.
Within an hour, the splintered wood was replaced, the frame was reinforced with steel braces he'd brought with him, and a new, heavier deadbolt was installed. He swept up the debris, leaving no trace of the violation. He left a business card on the counter. "For the locksmith. The account has been taken care of."
And then he was gone, as quietly as he had come.
The shop was secure again. More secure than it had ever been. But it was different. The sanctuary was gone. The broken door could be fixed, but the feeling of safety could not. Every shadow in the corner seemed deeper. Every sound from the street sounded like a threat. The new lock on the door felt less like protection and more like a cage he had provided.
"I can't stay here," Sophia whispered, staring at the perfectly repaired door.
"You're not," Chloe said firmly, grabbing her hand. "Go upstairs. Pack a bag. Right now."
Numbly, Sophia complied. In her apartment above the shop, everything was exactly as she'd left it. Her cozy living room with its second-hand furniture, her small kitchen, the photo of her and her father on the mantel. It all looked the same, but it felt alien. Tainted.
She threw clothes and toiletries into an overnight bag mechanically. Her eye caught the stack of cash in her open purse, the money Alex had left. Blood money. Payment for the trouble his world had brought to her doorstep.
She snatched it up, the bills feeling filthy in her hand. She wanted to burn it. Instead, she shoved it to the very bottom of her bag, out of sight. She didn't want it, but a cold, practical part of her brain whispered that she might need it. The thought made her sick.
Back downstairs, Chloe was on the phone, her voice low. "...yes, tomorrow morning. First thing. The best you have. Yes, on the front and back. And the windows. Thank you."
She hung up and looked at Sophia. "Security system. Cameras, motion sensors, the works. My treat. Don't you dare argue."
Tears welled in Sophia's eyes, this time of gratitude. "Chloe, I can't let you—"
"You can and you will," her friend said, her own eyes glistening. "I can't fight mobsters, but I can damn well make sure you have a really loud alarm."
They left through the back door, the new deadbolt clicking into place with a heavy, final sound. As they drove away, Sophia looked back at Bianchi Blooms. It looked so peaceful, so normal, bathed in the soft glow of the streetlight.
But she knew the truth. The thugs had broken the door. Alex Morano had broken the illusion. Her father's dream, her peaceful life, was over.
The war that Luciano Rossi had warned Alex about had already begun. And Sophia Bianchi, standing in the rubble of her sanctuary, was the battlefield.