Bound by Honor

6. Sofia

6

SOFIA

A s I descend the staircase of Rocco’s elegant home, his voice interrupts my escape. "Sofia," he calls out, his tone smooth and deceptively calm.

I freeze, and slowly, I turn to face him.

Rocco stands there like a statue carved from marble—imposing and impeccably dressed—his suit tailored to accentuate the width of his shoulders and the strength of his frame. The tattoos peeking from under his cuffs speak of a past written in pain and power, marking him as a criminal king.

"Why are you sneaking about?" Rocco’s question is direct—his inspection of me is thorough. It’s as if he’s looking through me, reading every rebellious thought.

"I'm not sneaking," I force strength into my words despite the tremors coursing through me. "I'm walking freely in a house that feels more like a cage."

A smirk plays at the corner of Rocco’s mouth—a brief flicker of amusement in his demeanor. "A cage?" he muses. "You see bars where I see protection."

"Protection or control?"

His eyes narrow slightly, and I brace myself for a sharp retort. Instead, he steps closer—too close—and whispers, "In our world, Sofia, protection is control. And whether you like it or not, my protection keeps you breathing."

I know Rocco means well, but his execution is smothering and tyrannical. My protests hardly seem to move him at all. Men his age love to believe they have all the answers, especially when they're used to being unquestioned and feared. I despise walking on eggshells simply because everyone in his life is too chicken to call out his problematic behavior. But I refuse to let his bullshit go unchecked. If I wasn’t worried about messing up his perfect face, I’d punch his lights out and make a run for it.

“Sofia, are you listening to me?” Rocco clears his throat and brings my attention back to him.

As much as I try to avert my gaze like a petulant child, I’m inexplicably drawn to him. The man is old enough to be my father, except my dad, even in his prime, never looked as good as him—God rest his soul. Even now, at forty-four, Rocco puts men half his age to shame.

“Yes,” I grumble, rolling my eyes to disguise my attraction and accentuate my displeasure. At the moment, I’ve got too much on my mind to dwell on my strange fixation with a man holding me prisoner. The more I think about it, the angrier I get.

“I need you to take this seriously, Sofia. Your life depends on it.” Rocco stands by the window, surveying his domain with those dark, piercing eyes that seem to see right through me. Dark brown eyes that once set my teenage heart fluttering wildly in my chest now spark resentment and reluctant admiration within me. How was it that this man, who once symbolized the thrill of the forbidden and the allure of danger, has become such a pain in my ass? No man is worth this much aggravation.

Living under Rocco's constant surveillance feels like I'm caged with a beautiful but lethal creature. You admire its grace, even as you recognize the peril. His nearness is suffocating, not because he’s unkind, but because his very nature demands control—over his environment, his people, and infuriatingly, over me. Every step I take feels monitored—every decision scrutinized under the guise of protection. This house— his house —is a gilded cage with velvet-lined bars. Every privilege comes with strings attached, weaving around me until I fear one day they might strangle me.

“Sofia.” Rocco's voice breaks through my reverie, deep and smooth like a well-aged whiskey that burns going down. “What’s on your mind? Please don’t entertain ideas of escaping.”

I face him fully, summoning all my courage to meet those intense eyes without flinching. “I know how to protect myself. My father taught me how to shoot, and Franco and Marco taught me how to fight. This exercise is a waste of time,” I complain, eager to return to my home and get to the bottom of my father’s death.

A flicker of something unreadable passes through Rocco’s gaze before he masks it with an impassive expression. “I promised your father I’d keep you safe, and I don’t break my promises,” he states in a tone that brooks no argument.

I let out a slow breath to calm the storm inside me before facing him directly. "Living like this isn’t living at all."

His expression shifts almost imperceptibly into something softer, though every bit as intense. "Perhaps," he admits after a pause that seems loaded with things left unsaid, "but it’s better than laying flowers on your grave."

There’s silence between us for a moment—a pregnant pause where tensions stretch as tightly as a bowstring. Then Rocco steps closer, invading my personal space as quickly as he invades my thoughts.

“Is that all? Can I return to my room now?” I grumble, my upper lip curling into a sneer I want him to see.

"No, not even close,” Rocco barks. He gestures for me to follow him downstairs, and I'm curious enough to follow.

As we descend the steps, the sound of punching bags and painful grunts fill my ears. My confusion only grows when I see a muscular young man standing shirtless and sweaty in the middle of a space that resembles a boxer’s gym. The man approaches with his hand held out in greeting. His muscles ripple under his taut skin, evidence of years spent training and honing his body. I can't help but feel slightly intimidated by his powerful form—perhaps slightly titillated. What the hell is Rocco up to?

"Ricci, meet Amato.” The sound of Rocco's commanding tone cuts through the awkwardness of the moment.

I turn to face the man assigned to be my mentor—Ricky Amato. He stands before me, a rugged reflection of my new life, his piercing gaze appraising me not as a naive girl but as a soldier to be honed. At first glance, he’s breathtakingly beautiful, but I have no time to scrutinize him properly when my whole world is crashing down on me.

"Are you ready to learn?" Ricky asks, his tone light but laced with an unspoken challenge, daring me to prove myself worthy.

Challenge accepted.