Chapter 55

Chapter 55
Sophia's POV
Why did he say that? Does he suspect me?
The question hammered through my mind as I stood there, watching Vito's face for any telltale sign of suspicion.
Was his chest pain real, or was it just another test?
My heart raced as I replayed the last few minutes. The way he'd clutched his chest, the slight tremor in his voice—it had seemed genuine enough to send me rushing to his side. But now, seeing how quickly he'd recovered, how intently he was watching my reaction, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd just been played.
The silence stretched between us, loaded with unspoken questions and carefully concealed truths. I could feel the weight of his scrutiny like a physical thing, pressing against my chest until it was hard to breathe normally.
"Why aren't you saying anything?" he asked again, his voice carrying that dangerous edge I'd learned to recognize.
Time for another performance.
I let my face crumple with carefully calculated vulnerability, throwing myself against his chest with what I hoped looked like genuine distress. His wheelchair didn't budge under my weight, but I felt his body stiffen in surprise at my sudden movement.
"You terrified me, Vito," I whispered against his shirt, allowing my voice to tremble just enough to sell the act. "Do you have any idea what went through my mind when I saw you in pain like that?"
Not bad, Sofia. Maybe you really could replace Isabella in art school and go for that Oscar.
The thought almost made me smile, but I forced myself to maintain the facade of a frightened wife. I could feel Vito's confusion in the way his hands hesitated before settling on my back, awkward and uncertain. He wasn't used to this version of Isabella—the clingy, vulnerable one who sought comfort in his arms.
I pressed closer, letting my body language speak the words I couldn't say aloud. See how much I care? See how devoted I am? There's no deception here, just a wife worried about her husband.
"Hey," he said softly, his voice gentler now as one hand moved to stroke my hair. "I'm fine, Isabella. I'm right here."
Isabella. Every time he said that name, it was like a small knife twisting in my chest. But I'd gotten used to the pain, learned to transform it into fuel for my performance.
I pulled back just enough to look at him, letting my eyes fill with the kind of tears that Isabella would shed—delicate, feminine, utterly helpless. "Even though we fight sometimes," I said, channeling every ounce of fragility I could muster, "you're still my husband. I don't want anything to happen to you."
The words tasted like ash in my mouth. Not because they were lies—God help me, I was starting to care about this infuriating, dangerous man more than I should—but because I had to deliver them as someone else.
"I'm fine now, aren't I?" he said, and I caught something almost tender in his voice.
"But what was that about?" I allowed myself a small pout, the kind Isabella might give when she wasn't getting her way. I even managed to put some playful petulance into my voice as I lightly tapped his chest with my fist. "Did you fake that chest pain just to mess with me?"
"It wasn't fake," he said, and now there was something darker threading through his tone. "I really did feel like someone was squeezing my heart when I watched you dancing with David."
Oh.
The admission hit me like a punch to the stomach. For a moment, I forgot all about maintaining Isabella's character, forgot about the careful game we were playing. The raw honesty in his voice, the way his jaw had tightened when he said David's name—this wasn't manipulation or testing. This was genuine jealousy, and it was directed at me.
Not Isabella. Me.
Even if he didn't know it, even if he thought he was falling for my sister, some part of him was responding to the woman I actually was. The realization was both thrilling and terrifying.
But I couldn't let myself get lost in that revelation. I had a role to play, and Vito was still watching me with those sharp, analytical eyes that missed nothing.
"You were jealous?" I asked, letting a note of feminine satisfaction creep into my voice. Isabella would be pleased to know she had that kind of effect on her husband. "Of David?"
"The man had his hands all over you," Vito said flatly. "You were smiling at him like he'd hung the moon. What exactly was I supposed to think?"
That your wife is a better actress than either of us realized.
But I couldn't say that. Instead, I smiled with what I hoped looked like innocent confusion. "He's just a friend, Vito. We were talking about medicine because he offered me a job, and then we danced because the music was beautiful and you were busy with your phone call."
"A job?" His eyebrows shot up. "What kind of job?"
Careful. This is dangerous territory.
"Some kind of hospital administration thing," I said with a dismissive wave, channeling Isabella's general disinterest in anything medical. "I told him I wasn't interested. My place is with you now."
The lie came so easily it almost scared me. But this was survival—mine, David's, Alfonso's. I couldn't afford to let Vito see how much David's offer had meant to me, how desperately I wanted to return to the medical world where I belonged.
Vito studied my face for a long moment, and I held my breath, wondering if he could sense the deception. But finally, he nodded, apparently satisfied with my explanation.
"Good," he said simply. "I don't like sharing."
"Come here," he said, pulling me closer until I was forced to perch on the edge of his wheelchair. "Let's not talk about tonight anymore."
I settled against him carefully, hyperaware of every point of contact between our bodies. Even through the expensive fabric of his suit, I could feel the warmth of his skin, could smell that intoxicating mixture of cologne and something uniquely him that always made my head spin.
"When we get back to New York," he continued conversationally, "I want to see that rehabilitation plan you've been working on for Alfonso."
The words hit me like a bucket of ice water.
No. No, no, no.
Every muscle in my body went rigid with panic, but I forced myself to stay still, to keep breathing normally even as my mind raced with implications. The rehabilitation plan was sitting in a folder in our hotel room, pages and pages of detailed medical terminology, treatment protocols, and specialized knowledge that no art history student would ever possess.
If Vito read that plan, if he saw the level of medical expertise it represented, my cover would be blown in seconds. He'd know immediately that the woman he'd married wasn't Isabella Cohen, sheltered art student, but Sofia Cohen, medical student with enough knowledge to create comprehensive treatment plans for complex neurological conditions.
"Of course," I managed to say, though my voice sounded hollow to my own ears. "Though I should mention, I pulled a lot of the technical language from medical websites. Some of it might not make perfect sense."
"I'm sure Alfonso's doctors will appreciate the research you've put in," Vito said, and I could hear genuine warmth in his voice. "It means a lot that you care enough about him to go to such effort."