“Sof, baby. What’s wrong?” I reached over and turned her face toward mine, forcing her gaze to lock with mine.

She panted in small, shallow breaths—she had to be seconds from hyperventilating. Seeing me helped pull her out of whatever nightmare she’d slipped into, which resulted in a flood of emotion. Her eyes darted around my face, and she reached a shaking hand out like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. An instant later, she launched herself at me, lips colliding with mine. She didn’t just kiss me, she devoured me, hands pulling me close like I was her last meal and she couldn’t get enough.

As much as I wanted to lose myself in her touch, I knew something was horribly wrong, and I needed to address the issue. When her frenzy eased, I delicately pulled myself away, holding her face gently in my palms. “What’s going on, Sofia?” I asked softly.

Her eyes drifted shut, and a look of devastating pain crossed her shadowed features. “They killed him … I just watched, and they killed him.”

What the hell is she talking about? I slid my seat back and lifted her into my lap. She settled easily in my arms, nestling her head beneath my chin.

“Ladybug, I need you to explain,” I pressed, feeling my frustration growing. It wasn’t easy keeping my cool, but right now, helping her was more important than losing my shit. “Who was killed?”

“Marco.” The single word held a lifetime of heartbreak.

It was sorrow and remorse weighed down with a heavy dose of longing.

Though I’d only heard mention of him a few times, I knew Sofia’s brother was named Marco. Considering her despair, I had no doubt that was who she was referring to. Her brother had been killed when she was little, but I had no idea she’d witnessed it.

“Did you see your brother get killed?” It was a heart-wrenching question to ask, but I needed to know.

She sat utterly motionless as my heart pounded in my ears, making each second seem to stretch out interminably. Had I not been so hyper focused on her, I might have missed her tiny nod against my chest.

Jesus fucking Christ.

How had I not known? She’d been wrecked as a child after her brother’s death, but I had always assumed it was her way of grieving. I had no clue she’d been subjected to the trauma of watching her brother die. I tried to remember how it had happened, but I’d been too young, and the incident was rarely discussed.

Then it hit me—she said they killed him.

Had she meant Preacher and Dutch? The kid had died years ago, but it was entirely possible. I hated to push for more information, but I had no choice. I had to know what she’d seen. If she could identify the killers, Enzo needed to know.

Had she been unable to describe them as a child? Surely, Enzo knows she witnessed the incident.