Page 99 of Out of Control

That makes me feel like a real winner.

“Cruz won’t tell anyone,” she murmurs.

At least she finally said something.

“So you talked to Cruz then? About us? About me? About what?”

“Everything. I . . . I stood my ground.”

“Huh. And?”

“And I did.” She shrugs and moves out of my grasp to slide a crate to yet another position, as if she’s mentally imagining them on the walls. “But don’t worry, he won’t tell anyone about us.”

I twist my lips. How am I supposed to take that? “And is that what you want?”

“No.” A nervous laugh as she flits from one place to the next. “Of course not. It’s just . . . wouldn’t that make life easier for you? No team drama. No Stavros bullshit to deal with. No anything. Just us living our life how we want.”

“Living our life as we want—behind closed doors.”

“For now. Right?”

I stare at her. At this gorgeous woman who fuck if I haven’t fallen for and yet the revelation is tainted. The feeling stained. “Yep. Right,” I say, clipped.

They’re my words but there’s no heart behind them. No conviction.

Just an emptiness that almost matches the way this conversation has made me feel inside.

“Sofia, I . . .”

“What?” She looks up from her clipboard, eyes wide and lips in a pout.

I love you.

Jesus Christ. I almost said it. I almost laid every card on the fucking table and made myself the most vulnerable I’ve ever been.

Blair accused me of always wanting the limelight, of needing the attention and adoration from my fans—from everyone. And right now I couldn’t give a fuck about any of that so long as I have Sofia.

Hers is the only attention I want or need. She fills a void in me that I never really grasped was missing.

She’s my anchor. My confidante. My fucking everything.

But as she stands across the gallery shutting me out from whatever happened at the villa, telling me this is better if it’s kept private, I’m wondering if I’ve ever been those three things for her.

If it’s ever even possible.

And that brings a sense of loneliness I’ve never felt before.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Rossi

The knock on the door is as unexpected as the person standing on the other side of it when I open it.

“Babbo?” I stare at my dad as he shifts awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable, but on my doorstep nonetheless.

He’s worrying his ballcap between his hands, his face is clean shaven, but his eyes . . . his eyes tell me he’s nervous.

“Oliver.” He clears his throat. “May I come in?”