Page 37 of Unworthy Ties
“I am not a snob,” I protested, but even as the words left my mouth, I knew they weren’t entirely true. “I just prefer things that don’t have someone else’s... essence all over them.”
Fiorella rolled her eyes dramatically, the heavy black eyeliner making the gesture even more pronounced. “Their ‘essence’ is what makes it special! Besides, this dress has barely been worn. Look at the condition.”
She was right. The emerald fabric was pristine, with the stitching intact. Against my better judgment, I took the hanger from her.
The dressing room mirror fogged with my nervous breath as I stepped into the emerald folds. Cool silk whispered against my skin like a secret, the cut somehow hugging my curves in ways my expensive department store clothes never did.
“Come out already!” Fiorella’s combat boots thumped impatiently outside the curtain.
I emerged tugging at the hem, half-expecting her to laugh. Instead, her eyes widened. “Holy shit, you look like a river nymph who moonlights as a jazz singer!”
A surprised laugh bubbled out of me. The dress did feel strangely alive, the way the skirt swirled around my body. Fiorella whipped out her phone, snapping photos before I could protest. “See? Vintage magic! Now help me find something that makes me look like a Victorian widow who dabbles in arson.”
We spent the next hour unearthing treasures—a leather jacket with constellations hand-stitched on the collar, Doc Martens painted with daisies, a prom dress that shimmered like dragon scales. With each discovery, Fiorella spun wild backstories about the previous owners until we were giggling so hard an elderly couple shushed us.
“Last stop,” Fiorella announced, dragging me to a rack of fur coats. She disappeared into a mammoth silver fox number, only her hair visible above the collar. “I’m naming him Reginald and taking him home.”
As we left clutching our bags, golden hour light gilding the thrift store windows, Fiorella bumped my shoulder. “Admit it. You had fun.”
I pretended to examine a loose thread on my dress. “It wasn’t completely terrible.”
“So, how’s the marriage?” Fiorella asked as we climbed into the back seat. “Surviving being married to the wrong Marchioni brother? Felix? Or was it Rocco?”
The limo’s AC hummed as I plucked a stray piece of lint from my Versace sweater. “Rocco,” I said, too quickly. “And he’s not wrong, just… unexpected.”
Fiorella snorted, peeling a sticker off her new boots. “Unexpected like a tarantula in a tiara. You were in love with Felix for half your life.”
I glanced at the bodyguard in the front seat, whose mirrored sunglasses gave nothing away. “Rocco’s different. He notices things. Like how I like my coffee, or which constellations I point out when we’re on the balcony.”
Fiorella paused mid-sticker peel. “Okay, that’s disturbingly sweet. Did he get you one of those tacky star projectors too?”
“Tch. No.”
I couldn’t mention that Rocco had killed three men to protect me. That would get back to Dad, who would be very upset to hear they made their way into the penthouse.
Fiorella’s smirk softened into something resembling approval. “Okay, Tarantula-Tiara’s growing on me. But if he hurts you, I’m hexing him.”
I cackled and felt lighter, the laughter unfurling my worries like the petals of a blooming flower. “Deal.”
As the SUV glided through the bustling city streets, the familiar scent of jasmine mixed with the subtle undertone of danger that always seemed to linger around the Marchioni family. Fiorella leaned back in her seat, her eyes scanning the passing buildings with a mix of curiosity and wariness.
“So, what’s the plan now, mafia princess?” She asked, her tone shifting from playful banter to genuine concern.
I sighed, staring out the window at the twinkling lights of the skyline. “I don’t know, Fi. Learn to do wife things, I guess. I still can’t cook for shit.”
Fiorella chuckled. “Well, he’s got enough money to hire someone. I say screw wife things. Do what you like and make him adjust.”
As the SUV slowed to a stop in front of the building Rocco and I lived in, I felt a surge of gratitude for Fiorella. With a final shared smile, I stepped out of the limo, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.
I had always thought the penthouse was way too large. Even for the two of us, the size was excessive. I had wandered the halls multiple times, pulling on doors that were locked or near empty, wondering what was inside of them.
Today, however, something tugged at my curiosity. I had never paid much attention to the intricacies of the penthouse; it was merely a lavish shell that housed our lives. But as I strolled through the opulent marble foyer, an idea sparked in my mind: perhaps there was more to uncover—more stories hidden within these walls.
With renewed determination, I began my exploration. Each door seemed to whisper secrets, but my heart raced as I approached the one that had always been sealed shut. Tucked away at the end of a dimly lit hallway, its ornate handle gleamed like a beckoning invitation against the rich mahogany of the doorframe.
Taking a deep breath, I grasped the handle and turned it slowly. To my surprise, the door creaked open with an almost playful reluctance, revealing an expansive greenhouse. Rather, what should have been a greenhouse. It was mostly empty, with only a few dead plants in pots that looked older than I was.
But the moment I stepped inside, a wave of vibrant energy washed over me. Sunlight filtered through the dusty glass panes, illuminating motes of dust that danced like tiny fairies. In stark contrast to the dilapidation, I noticed an intricate mosaic tile pattern on the floor, depicting a sprawling garden scene in hues of green and gold.
