Page 16 of Unworthy Ties
I felt stupid the minute I said it. There was no way he would be; I was just his arranged wife, a mere entity, a contract fulfilling the formalities of a family alliance, nothing more. The thought of him being jealous was incomprehensible.
He simply stared at me, those green eyes deep and unreadable, the silence around us thickening.
“Am I?” His voice was low, almost a whisper. The question hung in the air between us, adding to the tension.
I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I was unsure if it was because of his proximity, his sudden change in demeanor, or both. His gaze never left mine, his emerald eyes shimmering with an emotion I could not decipher. Yet, there was a glint in them that hadn’t been there before.
“I-” I began, but suddenly found my voice stuck in my throat. He was watching me with an intensity I had not seen before, making the room feel smaller and stifling. “I need to shower!” I blurted out, pulling away from him and standing up on my good foot.
Without saying another word, I hopped to the shower, my heart still pounding in my chest.
Chapter 8
Rocco
Gabriella was unraveling something within me. Something I had wanted to keep locked away forever, never to see the day of light. Each promise we made, every stolen glance, chipped away at the armor I had built around my heart. The way her smile lit up a room felt like the first rays of sun piercing through a bitter winter, warming the cold corners of my soul I’d forgotten existed.
It was something I needed to stop immediately. I couldn’t have these feelings interfering with mafia business and clouding my judgment. Yet, each time I accidentally brushed against her at night, a jolt of electricity coursed through me, igniting a fire that threatened to consume my resolve. I had always prided myself on my rationality, my ability to keep personal entanglements at bay, but Gabriella was different.
The gallery’s white walls felt sterile compared to her warmth. I adjusted my cufflinks for the third time, black wool suitconstricting my shoulders as we stood before a photograph of decaying roses.
Gabriella tilted her head, studying the image with an intensity that made it seem as though she could almost breathe life back into the petals. “Isn’t it beautiful? Even in decay, there’s a story to tell.”
Funny thing about decay—people only called it beautiful when it wasn’t happening to them.
I glanced at her, drawn to the softness in her eyes as if they were windows opening to realms I longed to explore. “Every story has an end,” I murmured, hoping my voice didn’t betray the tumult within.
“What if the end is just a new beginning?” She countered, her gaze unwavering. It was as if she could see right through my carefully constructed defenses, peeling back layers of doubt and fear that I had allowed no one to touch for years.
“That’s poetic,” I said, not wanting to continue the conversation. “I didn’t know you were so into photography.”
“I—” she hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty shadowing her features. “Not really. My mom just liked it, and I’d go with her to galleries. But I always thought there was something magical about capturing moments,” she added, her voice softening. “Like freezing time, even just for an instant.”
“Some moments shouldn’t be frozen in time,” I muttered, thinking back to all the things I had done. They were dark, bloody memories, moments that clung to my skin like a second layer, necessary for survival and business.
I looked around and saw Pablo, my contact at the gallery. Being here with Gabriella was just a guise—I was actually here to conduct business.
Ettore had a lot of money that needed to be laundered, and there was no easier way to do it than expensive art. Yet, as I scanned the room, Gabriella’s presence dulled the edge ofmy intentions. Her laughter floated through the air like an ethereal note, drawing me back into her orbit against my better judgment. I forced myself to focus.
“I need to check in with Pablo.” I turned, feeling the weight of her gaze on my back as I walked away, a tether pulling me closer to her even as I tried to sever it.
The gallery buzzed around me, vibrant yet dulled by the gravity of my thoughts. I approached Pablo, who was deep in conversation with a wealthy art collector, his hands gesturing animatedly.
I didn’t interrupt, instead casually choosing to look at a piece of art like I knew what I was doing while my mind was elsewhere, the chaos of my life swirling like the colors on the canvas before me. It was a riot of reds and blues, each stroke telling a story that felt maddeningly familiar—one of passion, betrayal, and inevitable loss.
I shifted my gaze, stealing a glance at Gabriella across the room. She was now animatedly discussing the photograph with another guest, her hands dancing through the air as she painted her words into the atmosphere. The sight made something within me tighten—a mix of admiration and a desperate need to pull away from it all.
“Looks like you’re lost in thought,” Pablo’s voice broke through my contemplating, and I turned to face him, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes.
“Just appreciating the art,” I replied, my tone flat. “Here to buy somepaintings.”
Pablo glanced around to double check there was nobody around to overhear our conversation. “How much would you like to spend on these paintings?”
What he was really asking was,“How much money are you trying to launder?”
“10.4 million.”
Pablo’s eyebrows shot up, momentarily breaking the cool facade he often maintained. “That’s... ambitious.”
