Chapter 9
“I did.”
I looked at her.
Sophia held my gaze.
“I didn’t abandon our marriage,” she said. “But I left the house. I chose to disappear.”
“To stay alive.”
“Yes.”
“And because you were pregnant.”
“Yes.”
“And because you didn’t trust me.”
Her eyes softened.
“No, Dom.”
I waited.
“I didn’t trust what you would do before listening.”
That was worse.
Because it was true.
She reached for the divorce papers.
For one terrifying second, I thought she was going to sign them.
Instead, she looked at the first page.
“Did you really come here to end our marriage?”
“Yes.”
She nodded slowly.
“Did you hate me?”
“I tried.”
“Did it work?”
“No.”
That earned me the smallest smile.
It was gone almost immediately.
She set the papers down.
“I was angry at you.”
“You should be.”
“I still am.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know if I can go home with you.”
I forced myself not to react.
“Then don’t.”
Sophia looked surprised.
“You mean that?”
“Yes.”
“Dom—”
“I want you home. I want Elena home. I want to wake up tomorrow and discover the last four months were some kind of nightmare.”
My voice tightened.
“But you shouldn’t come home because I want it.”
She watched me carefully.
“You need to feel safe.”
Her eyes filled.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that she blinked and looked away.
I had seen Sophia cry many times.
At movies.
At funerals.
When her father died.
When Harbor Relief saved its first family from foreclosure.
This felt different.
She was not crying because I had said something beautiful.
She was crying because I had finally said something I should have understood years ago.
A knock sounded.
Viktor entered carrying a white envelope.
He stopped when he saw Sophia.
For once, the usually unreadable Viktor looked genuinely shaken.
“Mrs. Rossi.”
“Hello, Viktor.”
His eyes moved to the crib.
Then back to me.
I nodded once.
His expression changed completely.
“Congratulations,” he said quietly.
“Thank you.”
He handed me the envelope.
“Found it exactly where I said.”
My name was written on the front.
Not Mateo’s handwriting.
I opened it.
Inside was a storage key.
A receipt.
And a folded sheet of paper.
Three words were written across it.
ASK ABOUT NORTHSTAR.
Below that was an address.
Sophia stood.
“I know that address.”
“Where?”
“It’s one of Harbor Relief’s old properties.”
“What kind?”
“A records warehouse. We stopped using it two years ago.”