Page 34 of Unworthy Ties
She turned to face me, a playful challenge glimmering in her eyes. “Pft. I can be tough when I need to be.”
“I’m sure you can,” I said, unable to resist the urge to pull her closer, the warmth of her body pressing against mine. “But you also like daily showers, cell service, and plumbing.”
Her laughter danced between us, lightening the heaviness that had clung to us since that night. I looked into her eyes, where the fear had started to fade, replaced by a warmth I’d kill to protect.
“Mmm?” she said, breaking away from me. “Family photos?”
I nodded, guiding her toward the rustic shelves that held our family’s memories. Each photograph told stories of our summers spent playing in the woods, fishing by the river, and roasting marshmallows under the stars.
“Ha! Look at you and Felix,” she said, pointing to a smaller photo on the wall. We were both covered in mud, standing in a crater where a flower bed used to be. “Felix looks pleased. You… not so much.”
“Tch,” I said, crossing my arms. I still remembered that day. “We told our parents we were going outside to play catch. Then Felix got the bright idea to dig a tunnel under the house.”
I relayed the story of that summer afternoon, the mischief and laughter weaving a thread of nostalgia between us. Gabriella leaned against me as I recounted Felix’s wild ideas and our shared shenanigans, her laughter bubbling over at the absurdity of our childhood antics.
“Hm. Most pictures have both of you—why is it only Felix in this one?”
I was surprised she could tell the difference between us when we were younger. Even our parents got us mixed up half the time. Maybe she’d always been able to tell. Maybe that was what happened when you spent years looking at someone the way she used to look at my brother.
The sting of jealousy flared briefly, only to be cooled by the warmth of her presence beside me. Yet, as I glanced at her, my mind shifted focus. I could see Gabriella’s eyes sparkling with admiration for the memories, and a surge of affection bloomed within my chest, overwhelming any bitter thoughts.
“Because Felix likes attention,” I said. “Doesn’t matter if it’s from the camera, the neighbors, or random squirrels. Now let’s go to bed. We’ve had a long night.”
She nodded in response as she turned, her gaze drifting back to the window one last time. The moonlight cast a silver glow over her features, accentuating the softness of her expression.
As Gabriella turned away from the window, a sense of tranquility settled over the room. The memories we had shared that evening seemed to linger in the air, weaving a blanket of familiarity around us. I followed her lead, feeling a sense of contentment wash over me.
We made our way to the bedroom, the night enveloping us in a comforting embrace. The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated the room in a warm amber light, casting gentle shadows across the walls.
As we settled into bed, the rustling of the sheets a soothing lullaby, Gabriella turned to me with a smile that lit up the room. In that moment, all the playful banter and shared memories faded into the background, leaving only the quiet understanding between us.
“Thanks for taking us out here,” she murmured, her voice a delicate whisper in the stillness of the room.
“You are mine to protect.”
And with that, we settled into the quiet comfort of the night, the weight of our past blending with the promise of what was to come.
Chapter 17
Gabriella
Growing up, my dad had done a pretty good job at sheltering me from the dark side of the mafia. Sure, I saw him have his business associates over for dinner, heard hushed conversations that would abruptly end when I entered the room, witnessed him take mysterious phone calls that required him to leave the house at odd hours. But I never saw the violence. Never knew about the bodies.
Until now.
After the night at Rocco and I’s penthouse, I had fallen into a fitful sleep. The sound of men cleaning up the bodies haunted my dreams. The wet sound of mops on marble floors. The hushed, professional voices discussing blood splatter patterns like they were talking about a wine stain at a dinner party.
I jumped out of my sleep, my heart hammering against my ribs like it wanted to escape my chest. Sweat drenched my nightgown, the fabric clinging to my skin as I gasped for air.
I reached out to Rocco’s side of the bed, expecting to find it empty, but instead, my fingers brushed against warm skin.
His arm slid around my waist before I could pull back, dragging me against a chest that smelled like gunpowder and bergamot. “Easy, Piccola,” Rocco murmured into my hair, his sleep-rough voice fraying the edges of my panic. The hand not pinning me to him found my cheek, calloused thumb sweeping away tears I hadn’t realized I’d spilled.
“You’re shaking.” The observation came wrapped in a slow kiss pressed to my trembling lips, lingering longer than necessary for comfort.
Rocco’s fingers began untying the delicate bow of my nightgown as he continued to kiss me—first on my neck and then down to my collarbone. With each gentle tug of his lips on my skin, anxiety subsided and was replaced by a growing heat inside me. When the last knot was undone, he slowly peeled the fabric off my shoulders, exposing my naked skin to the cool night air.
As he rolled on top of me, I could feel the hardness of his muscles against my soft flesh, the ridge of his abs press into my stomach before lowering his head to take one pert nipple into his mouth. I cried out, not from pain but from the sudden wave of pleasure that shot through me. His tongue flicked and teased, making me squirm beneath him.
