HIS BUTTERFLY BETWEEN TWO DONS

CHAPTER THREE

“NOT ALL DEMONS LIVE IN HELL.”

SOFIA.

I must have dozed off at some point because I woke to the sound of my bedroom door opening.

My eyes snap open and I sit up quickly, my heart already racing before I'm even fully awake. The room is still dark but there's a stream of light from the hallway, and Marco's shadow fills the doorway.

"Marco?" My voice comes out rough from not sleeping properly. "What—"

He closes the door behind him and I hear the click of the lock. That's new. Marco never locks my door. Marco barely even comes into my room.

"We need to talk." His voice is low, but I can hear the anger underneath it. The tension.

I reach for the lamp on my nightstand and turn it on. The soft light fills the room and I can see his face now. He's still dressed, and hasn't changed since he left earlier. His jaw is tight and there's something in his eyes I've never seen before. Not quite angry. Something closer to fear.

"I heard you," he says flatly. "In the hallway. I know you were listening."

My stomach drops. "Marco, I'm sorry, I just—"

"I told you to stay in your room." He moves closer to the bed, his hands clenched at his sides. "I specifically told you to stay in your room and not come down. Do you understand how serious this is?”

"I didn't mean to, the vase, it was an accident, I wasn't trying to—"

"I don't care if it was an accident." His voice is sharp now, sharper than I've ever heard it. "I told you to stay away and you didn't listen. You never listen, Sofia. You always have to push, always have to involve yourself in things that have nothing to do with you."

The accusation stings. I always have to push? I've spent seven years staying out of his way, minding my own business, being the perfect quiet wife who doesn't ask questions. And the one time I step out of my room, the one time I dare to be curious about what's happening in my own house, I'm the one who pushes too much?

"I live here too," I say quietly, trying to keep my voice steady. "Don't I have a right to know who's staying in the room next to mine? Especially someone who—" I stop myself, not sure if I should repeat what I heard.

"Someone who what?" Marco's eyes narrow.

"Someone who murders people ," I finish, my voice barely above a whisper.

Marco's expression doesn't change. He doesn't deny it, doesn't try to explain it away. He just stands there looking at me like I'm a problem he doesn't know how to solve.

"That's exactly why I told you to stay away," he says finally. "That's exactly why you need to listen to me. He's dangerous, Sofia. More dangerous than anyone you've ever met. And I need you to stay away from him."

"Who is he?"

"That doesn't matter."

"It matters to me. He's living in the room next to mine. He's in my house. I think I deserve to know—"

"You don't deserve anything." The words are cold, brutal. "You're my wife in name only. We both know what this marriage is. I gave you what you needed seven years ago and you gave me what I needed. That's where it ends. I don't owe you explanations about my family or my business."

The words hurt more than they should. I knew this already. I've always known this. But hearing him say it so bluntly, so coldly, makes something inside me crack.

"I just want to understand," I say, hating how small my voice sounds. "I just want to know what's happening in my own home."

"It's not your home." Marco leans forward slightly, his hands gripping the footboard of my bed. "It's my home. You live here because I allow it. Because of our arrangement. Don't forget that."

I swallow hard, feeling tears prick at my eyes. I won't cry. I won't give him the satisfaction.

"Listen to me very carefully," Marco continues, his voice dropping lower. "You are going to avoid him in everything you do. If he walks into a room, you walk out. If he speaks to you, you don't respond. You don't look at him, you don't acknowledge him, you act like he doesn't exist. Do you understand?"

"Marco, I—"

"Do you understand?" He says it louder this time, more forcefully.

"Yes," I whisper.

"I mean it, Sofia. Not even a glance in his direction. Nothing. You stay away from him completely."

"Why?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "Why are you so afraid of him? He's your cousin, isn't he? Family. Why would you be this worried about—"

"Because you're my wife, Sofia." He cuts me off, his voice tight. "You're my wife and I'm trying to protect you. For once in your life, just do as I say without questioning it. Just trust that I know what I'm doing."

Protect me. The words sound strange coming from him. Marco has never been protective of me before. He's been practical, efficient, and businesslike. But protective? No. That's new.

"How long is he staying?" I ask.

"I don't know."

"Days? Weeks?"

"I said I don't know." Marco straightens up, running a hand through his hair. He looks tired suddenly, older than his thirty-five years. "As long as he wants, I suppose. I can't exactly tell him to leave."

"Why not? It's your house."

"It's not that simple."

"Then explain it to me. Help me understand."

"No." He shakes his head. "You don't need to understand. You just need to stay away from him. That's all you need to do. Can you do that? Can you just listen to me this one time?"

I nod, even though I have a thousand more questions. Even though nothing about this makes sense. "Okay. I'll stay away from him."

"Good." He moves toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the lock. "And Sofia? Tomorrow night. You're coming with me to the Arena."

I blink. "What? Why?"

The Arena. I've only been there once, that strange evening a few months ago when Marco insisted I accompany him for reasons he never explained. It's not a place for wives. It's not a place for women at all, really. It's where the men go to fight, to settle disputes, to blow off steam and to kill betrayer in ways that society doesn’t see as just or fair. But truly, in the mafia world nothing was ‘fair’ or ‘just’, the only language they understood was power and more power, no matter what they had to do to gain it or rip it off someone else.

"Because I can't trust you to stay here alone," Marco says bluntly. "Because you've proven tonight that you can't follow simple instructions. Because if I leave you here with him, you'll do something stupid."

Something stupid. Like I'm a child who can't be trusted. Like I'm an i***t who doesn't know how to stay out of trouble.

"I said I'd stay away from him," I protested. "I won't—"

"You'll come with me to the Arena," he says firmly. "Tomorrow night. Eight o'clock. Wear something appropriate. And don't argue with me about this."

"But Isabella—"

"Is staying with your mother for the rest of the week. I already called her."

The rest of the week. So this cousin is definitely staying for a while then. Long enough that Marco doesn't want Isabella in the house. Long enough that he's rearranging our entire lives around this man's presence.

"Marco, please—"

"This isn't a discussion, Sofia." His hand is on the doorknob now. "You're coming with me. That's final."

My throat is tight and I can feel the tears building behind my eyes. My mouth tastes bitter, like I've been chewing on something sour. I want to argue, want to push back, want to demand answers. But what's the point? Marco has made up his mind. He always does. And I never get a say in anything.

"Okay," I whisper, the word barely audible.

He unlocks the door and opens it, pausing in the doorway. For a moment I think he might say something else. Might apologize for being so harsh. Might explain what's really going on.

But he doesn't. He just looks at me for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression, and then he walks out. The door closes behind him with a soft click.

And I'm alone again.

I sit there in my bed, the lamp still on, and let the tears come. They're silent tears, the kind I've gotten good at crying over the past seven years. The kind that don't make noise, don't attract attention, don't bother anyone.

My mouth still tastes bitter. My eyes are starting to swell and I know they'll be puffy in the morning. I'll have to use extra concealer to hide it. Can't let anyone see that I've been crying. Can't let anyone know that my perfect marriage has cracks in it.

Marco has never been this angry with me before. Never. In seven years, he's been distant and cold and indifferent, but never angry. Never harsh like this. I've never heard that edge in his voice, never seen that look in his eyes.

He's scared. That's what this is. He's terrified of whoever is sleeping in the room next to mine, and he's taking it out on me because he doesn't know what else to do.

But that doesn't make it hurt less.

I reach up and wipe my eyes, trying to pull myself together. Crying won't help. It never does. I need to be practical. I need to figure out how to navigate whatever is happening here.

Tomorrow night I'm going to the Arena. I have no choice about that. Marco has made it clear. And I'll have to spend the evening watching men beat each other bloody while Marco conducts whatever business he conducts there. Wonderful.

And until then, I have to avoid the man in the next room. Can't look at him, can't speak to him, can't acknowledge his existence. I have to pretend he's not there even though I can probably hear him breathing through the wall if I listen hard enough.

I wonder what he's doing right now. Is he sleeping? Or is he lying awake like me, thinking about whatever brought him back here? Whatever made Marco so tense?

I wonder if he heard Marco come into my room. If he heard our conversation through the wall. If he knows that I'm supposed to avoid him.

The thought makes me feel exposed, vulnerable. Like I'm a mouse in a cage and there's a cat just on the other side of the bars.

I turn off the lamp and lie back down, pulling the covers up to my chin. The room is dark again but I don't close my eyes. I just stare at the wall, the wall that separates me from the dangerous stranger, and try to understand what's happening.

Marco said he's trying to protect me. But protect me from what? From his cousin? Why would his own family member be a threat to me?

Unless it's not me specifically. Unless it's just that this man is dangerous to everyone and Marco doesn't want me caught in the crossfire of whatever is about to happen.

Sixty people in two days.

The number keeps echoing in my head. How do you kill that many people in such a short time? And more importantly, why? What could possibly warrant that kind of violence?

I think about the way he laughed when Marco called him careless. Like it was funny. Like killing people was just something that happened, no big deal, just another Tuesday.

What kind of person thinks like that?

And why does his voice sound so familiar?

I close my eyes finally and try to force my mind to quiet. Try to think about nothing. But all I can hear is that voice, deep and rough and somehow known to me, saying things that should terrify me but instead just make me curious.

I heard you got married recently. It seems poking around in other people's business runs in the family.

What did that mean? Why did he say it like that?

Too many questions. Too many things I don't understand.

I roll onto my side, facing away from the wall, and try to breathe slowly. In and out. In and out. Like the therapist taught me years ago when I was pregnant and scared and convinced my entire world was falling apart.

It worked then. Sort of. It kept me functional at least. Got me through the wedding, through the birth, through all the hard days after when I realized what I'd signed up for.

Maybe it'll work now too.

In and out. In and out.

But even as I breathe, even as I try to calm down, I can't shake the feeling that something big has shifted.

There's a stranger in the house. A dangerous stranger. And Marco is more afraid than I've ever seen him.

Tomorrow night, the Arena. Whatever that means. Whatever Marco has planned.

And after that? After that, I have no idea.

I just know that nothing feels safe anymore. Nothing feels certain.

Marco said to trust him. Said he's trying to protect me.

But I've spent seven years in this house learning that trust is a luxury I can't afford. Learning that protection comes with conditions. Learning that nothing is ever what it seems.

So no. I don't trust him. Not really.

But I also don't have a choice.

I'm trapped in this house with a man who doesn't love me and a stranger who kills people like it's nothing. I'm going to the Arena tomorrow whether I want to or not. And I have to pretend that everything is fine, that I'm fine, that this is all perfectly normal.

Because that's what I do. That's what I've always done.

My eyes are definitely swollen now. I can feel them, puffy and sore. I'll look terrible in the morning. Marco will probably be annoyed. But he didn't care about that when he came in here to yell at me, so why should I care?

But even at that, I pretend.

I survive.