Chapter 3 - The Bullet Meant for Me
Lorenzo pushed me behind him.
“Stay close.”
The song floated through the dark villa.
An old Frank Sinatra recording my father used to play on Sundays.
My skin prickled.
“How would anyone know that song?”
“Someone who knew him.”
Lorenzo moved toward the staircase.
Emergency lighting glowed faintly along the floor.
His security team searched the house.
No intruder.
No open doors.
Then one guard found a speaker hidden inside my bedroom.
The music had been triggered remotely.
I wanted to leave immediately.
Lorenzo refused.
“Moving you now makes you easier to target.”
“So we stay in a villa someone has already entered twice?”
“Until I know which route is safe.”
“You said ‘target.’”
“Yes.”
“You finally admit this is about me.”
“I admitted that yesterday.”
“No. Yesterday you said they wanted to frighten me.”
His face hardened.
“Today Victor Hale is dead.”
The words ended the argument.
For the next three days, the villa became a fortress.
Lorenzo rarely slept.
Neither did I.
We searched everything my father had left behind.
Emails.
Corporate files.
Photographs.
Then I remembered something ridiculous.
A children’s puzzle box.
My father had given it to me when I turned twelve.
I still owned it.
It was in New York.
Marco found it in our mother’s apartment.
Inside was a brass token engraved with the number 214.
The final key.
I sent Lorenzo a photograph.
He stared at it.
“214.”
“Does it mean anything?”
“No.”
“To you?”
“No.”
“To your family?”
He paused.
“What?”
“My uncle owned warehouse number 214 at the old Bellini docks.”
I looked at him.
“My father’s docks.”
“Shared property once.”
“Is it still there?”
“Yes.”
“Then that’s where we go.”
“No.”
“Lorenzo.”
“No.”
“You do not get to decide.”
“Actually, keeping you alive is one of the few things I have decided recently.”
The sentence caught both of us off guard.
He looked away first.
That night, we ate in silence.
I finally asked, “Why didn’t you marry someone from your world?”
“Because women from my world come with families who want something.”
“My family wanted eleven million dollars forgiven.”
“You didn’t.”
“I wanted eighty-four people to keep their jobs.”
“Exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“You weren’t bargaining for yourself.”
I lowered my fork.
“You make that sound unusual.”
“It is.”
“Maybe in your world.”
He smiled faintly.
“Especially in mine.”
I watched him.
“I thought our marriage meant nothing.”
“It does.”
“You hesitated.”
“No.”
“You did.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Maybe.”
He changed the subject.
I let him.
But something between us had shifted.
On the twenty-first night, rain arrived.
Heavy.
Relentless.
The villa staff went home early.
Security doubled.
Lorenzo told me we would return to New York at dawn.
I packed.
At eleven thirty, I found him on the balcony.
“You’ll get soaked.”
“I noticed.”
“What are you doing?”
“Thinking.”
“Dangerous hobby.”
He looked over his shoulder.
“You’re becoming comfortable insulting me.”
“I’m your wife.”
“On paper.”
I should have let that hurt.
Instead, I walked beside him.
“Twenty-one nights.”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow we go back to being strangers?”
“We were never strangers.”
My heart stumbled.
“Meaning?”
“You’re difficult to ignore.”
“That might be the closest thing to a compliment you’ve given me.”
“It wasn’t one.”
“Liar.”
He looked at me.
Rain collected in his dark hair.
For one impossible second, I thought he might kiss me.
Then he suddenly grabbed my arm.
“Inside.”
“What?”
“Now.”
He had seen something beyond me.
A flash.
Movement near the lower garden.
Lorenzo pulled me toward the doorway.
Glass shattered.
The sound was deafening.
He shoved me behind the stone wall.
His body jerked.
For half a second, neither of us understood.
Then he collapsed.
“Lorenzo!”
Blood spread across his shirt near his lower abdomen.
He pressed one hand against it.
“Stay behind me.”
“You were shot.”
“I noticed.”
I dropped beside him.
My hands shook as I tried to help.
He caught my wrist.
“You took it for me.”
His breathing was strained.
Outside, his security team shouted.
I looked at him.
“You idiot.”
“That’s becoming repetitive.”
“You could die.”
“Not planning to.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would you do that?”
He stared at me.
Three weeks earlier, he had promised no love.
No expectations.
No future.
Now his blood was on my hands.
“I said our marriage meant nothing,” he whispered. “Not that you did.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“Then why would you die for me?”
His eyes softened.
“Because somewhere along the way… you stopped being just my wife.”
I pressed my forehead to his.
“Then you’re not leaving me tonight.”
Footsteps pounded toward us.
Lorenzo’s men arrived.
They carried him inside.
A private doctor reached the villa eighteen minutes later.
The bullet had passed through.
No major organ damage.
He needed surgery.
While the medical team stabilized him, I stood outside the bedroom covered in his blood.
One of Lorenzo’s guards approached.
“Mrs. Santangelo.”
“Yes?”
“We found where the shooter fired from.”
“And?”
“No shell casing.”
“Professional?”
“Yes.”
He handed me a small plastic evidence bag.
Inside was a brass token.
Engraved with one number.
My father’s key.
I stared at it.
“That was near the shooter?”
“Placed deliberately.”
I looked toward Lorenzo’s bedroom.
Someone wanted me at Warehouse 214.
Lorenzo woke after surgery.
His first words were, “Where is Sofia?”
I was sitting beside him.
“Here.”
He opened his eyes.
“You stayed.”
“You sound surprised.”
“You had reasons to leave.”
“I had more reasons to stay.”
He looked at my hand.
I was still wearing his ring.
For the first time, I realized he had noticed.
“Tomorrow,” I said, “we go to Warehouse 214.”
“No.”
“You took a bullet for me. That earns you exactly one day without arguing.”
“Sofia.”
“The answer is still yes.”
He closed his eyes.
“You are exhausting.”
“You married me.”
“Worst negotiation of my career.”
I smiled.
His fingers brushed mine.
Then stopped.
It was the smallest touch.
It felt more intimate than our wedding kiss.
Three days later, we returned to New York.
Lorenzo should have stayed in bed.
Instead, he came to the warehouse.
Number 214 stood abandoned along the Brooklyn waterfront.
The brass token opened a hidden compartment beneath an old office floor.
Inside was a black ledger.
And an envelope addressed to me.
My father’s handwriting.
SOFIA — IF YOU ARE READING THIS, I FAILED.
I opened it.
The first page contained only one sentence.
The man who killed me will eventually marry into your family.
I looked at Lorenzo.
His face had gone pale.
Then a car door slammed outside.
A man walked into the warehouse.
My brother Marco.
May you like
He was holding a gun.
And he pointed it directly at my husband.
