The Don’s Secret Obsession

Sofia’s POV

“If you don’t tell me right now whether there was a boy in London I will drive this car into that barrier and we will both die and it will be your fault.”

I grabbed the dashboard with one hand and turned to stare at Valentina Virelli — my sister, my best friend, the single most dramatic human being currently operating a vehicle on Italian soil.

“There was no boy,” I said.

“Liar.”

“Valentina—”

“Your left eye does that thing when you lie. It always does that thing.” She demonstrated, squinting one eye in an exaggerated twitch that bore absolutely no resemblance to anything my face had ever done. “There was a boy. Was he cute? Was he terrible? Were they both? Those are the only three options, Sofia, I need specifics—”

“Watch the road.”

She watched the road. Barely.

“His name was Daniel,” I said finally.

The shriek she produced made me genuinely concerned for my hearing.

“I knew it. I knew it. Daniel. Is he Italian? Please tell me he’s not Italian, Italian men are exhausting, I would know, I live with three of them—”

“He was British.”

“Even better. Details. Now.”

“There are no details.” I looked out the window to hide the smile pulling at my mouth. “We went on four dates. He was kind. It didn’t go anywhere.”

“Why not?”

Because somewhere between the first date and the fourth I had sat across from a perfectly nice British man with perfectly nice blue eyes and found myself thinking about dark ones. Because Daniel had laughed at something I said and leaned across the table toward me and all I could think was wrong.

“It just didn’t,” I said.

Valentina made a sound of profound dissatisfaction but let it go. That was one of the things I loved most about her — she pushed until she understood you and then she knew exactly when to stop.

She reached across the console and grabbed my hand instead.

“I missed you,” she said. Simply. No performance in it.

My throat did something inconvenient.

“I missed you too,” I managed. “Every single day.”

She squeezed my hand once and then released it and immediately ruined the moment completely.

“Okay but were there other boys after Daniel because eight years is a long time and you are gorgeous and I need a full accounting—”

“Valentina.”

“A general overview—”

“Eyes on the road.”

“A summary—”

“Valentina Virelli so help me—”

She laughed. Loud and completely unself conscious the way she had always laughed, the way that had made me feel safe in this family from the very first week, and just like that four years of distance collapsed into nothing and I was simply here. Simply home. Simply hers.

Rome moved past the windows golden and indifferent and I felt something loosen in my chest that I hadn’t realized had been held tight the entire flight.

I was back.

The Virelli estate appeared at the end of its long gated drive the way it always had — quietly enormous, making no apologies for itself.

I had forgotten, somehow, in eight years of London flats and university corridors and rooms that belonged temporarily to me — I had forgotten what it felt like to see this place and know I was allowed inside it. Not as a guest. Not as a charity case, though there were years I had worried I was. But as someone who belonged here.

Romano and Elena Virelli had made sure of that.

From the moment they had walked into Saint Catherine’s orphanage and crouched down to eye level with a seven year old girl who had long since stopped expecting anyone to come — they had made sure of that.

“You’re doing the face,” Valentina said.

“What face?”

“The one where you get emotional and then pretend you’re not getting emotional.” She pulled through the gates as they swung open, nodding at the guard. “It’s fine to be emotional, Sofia. You’re home.”

“I’m not emotional.”

“You’re literally blinking very fast right now.”

“I have something in my eye.”

“Both of them?”

I said nothing. She smiled and said nothing either and we drove up to the house in the kind of comfortable silence that only exists between people who have known each other long enough to share it.

The front doors opened before we even reached them.

Elena Virelli appeared at the top of the entrance steps and for a moment she simply stood there — dark haired, elegant, with the kind of quiet beauty that had nothing to do with effort — and looked at me. And then she came down the steps faster than I had ever seen her move and her arms were around me before I had fully stepped out of the car.

She smelled like home. There was no other word for it. Warm and floral and so specifically her that something in my chest cracked open quietly.

“Mia bambina,” she murmured against my hair. My baby. “Let me look at you.”

She pulled back and held my face in both hands the way she had done since I was seven years old and examined me with the focused intensity of a woman conducting a full medical assessment.

“You’re thin,” she announced.

“Mamma—”

“Don’t Mamma me, you’re thin. Was nobody feeding you in London? Did they not have food? Valentina—” she turned briefly to her daughter— “she’s thin.”

“I told her on the way from the airport,” Valentina said agreeably, having produced nothing of the sort.

“I’m not thin,” I said. “I’m exactly the same.”

“You’re not exactly the same, you grew.” Elena’s eyes went slightly soft. “You grew and I missed it.”

I was absolutely not going to cry in the driveway.

“Mamma—”

“Come inside. I made your favorite. I started yesterday when you confirmed your flight—”

“SOFIA.”

The sound that came from inside the house was less a name and more a natural disaster.

Matteo Virelli appeared in the doorway approximately two seconds before he was standing directly in front of me, and then I was off the ground entirely, lifted in a hug that compressed approximately three of my ribs and involved a great deal of enthusiastic back-patting.

“Put her down,” Elena said. “She’s not a dumbbell, Matteo.”

“She’s back,” Matteo said, as if this explained and justified everything, which in his world it probably did. He set me down but kept both hands on my shoulders and looked at me with the broad open grin that had always made him look younger than he was. “Look at you. London made you fancy.”

“London made her thin,” Elena corrected, already heading back inside.

“You look great,” Matteo said loyally, which earned him a look from his mother that he cheerfully ignored. “How was the flight? Did you eat on the plane? Are you tired? Do you want—”

“Matteo.” Dante’s voice came from somewhere behind his brother. Quiet. Unhurried. “Let her breathe.”

Matteo stepped aside.

Dante Virelli stood just inside the doorway with his hands in his pockets and an expression of calm amusement that was entirely characteristic of him. Of the three brothers he had always been the still one. The one who watched. The one who somehow always knew what was happening in a room before anyone said a word.

He looked at me now the way he always had — like he was reading something just below the surface — and then the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Welcome home, Sofia,” he said quietly.

Simply. No fanfare. No performance. Just those three words delivered like they meant exactly what they said.

They hit harder than the hug.

“Thank you, Dante,” I said, equally quiet.

He stepped forward and embraced me briefly — warm and steady — and then stepped back and that was it. That was Dante entirely.

Romano appeared last.

He came from the direction of his study, silver haired and broad shouldered, filling a doorway the way men like him always filled doorways — completely and without trying. Former Don of the Virelli family. The most quietly commanding person I had ever known in my life.

He stopped a few feet from me and looked at me for a long moment.

Then he opened his arms.

I walked into them without hesitation.

Romano Virelli’s hugs were rare enough that receiving one felt like being handed something precious. He held me with the careful particular firmness of a man who was not accustomed to expressing things in words and had learned to say them differently.

“Benvenuta a casa,” he said quietly against the top of my head. Welcome home.

I closed my eyes.

I was seven years old again for just a second. Standing in a cold corridor in Saint Catherine’s with everything I owned in a bag that wasn’t even mine. Watching this man crouch down to my level and say in that same quiet voice — you’re coming home with us, little one. You won’t be alone anymore.

I had believed him then.

Sixteen years later I understood I had been right to.

“Thank you, Papà,” I whispered.