Three months later, Sofia told me the truth about Elena’s father.
We were sitting on the terrace after dinner, watching the sun set over the hills.
Elena was inside with Carlo, learning to play chess.
“His name was Viktor,” Sofia said quietly. “He was one of the men who ambushed your father. After I saved you, they found me. Took me. Kept me locked in a basement for eight months.”
Her voice was steady, but her hands were clenched in her lap.
“When I found out I was pregnant, I knew I had to get out. So I waited. I planned. And when Viktor came down one night, drunk and careless, I killed him.”
She looked at me.
“I used a piece of broken glass. I cut his throat. And then I ran.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I’ve never told anyone that,” she continued. “Not even Elena. She thinks her father died in an accident.”
“She doesn’t need to know,” I said.
Sofia nodded slowly.
“I thought you should know. Because you’ve given us everything. And I didn’t want there to be secrets between us.”
I reached over and took her hand.
“You did what you had to do to survive,” I said. “There’s no shame in that.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I was so scared you’d hate me.”
“I could never hate you.”
She let out a shaky breath and squeezed my hand.
We sat there in silence as the sky turned gold, then pink, then deep violet.
That night, I made a decision.
I called my lawyer the next morning.
“I want to adopt Elena,” I said.
He blinked.
“Sir?”
“Elena Marchetti. I want to adopt her. Legally. I want her to have my name and my protection. I want her to be my daughter.”
He stared at me for a long moment.
“Does her mother know?”
“Not yet.”
“You’ll need her consent.”
