Page 51 of Unworthy Ties
Chapter 26
Gabriella
Rocco had disappeared on some mysterious errand, leaving me to rot in this gilded cage. I paced the marble floors, glancing at my watch every few minutes, desperate for any distraction. The hulking shadow by the door—Marco or Mario or whatever his name was—tracked my movements with dead eyes, making it abundantly clear that my Saks Fifth Avenue therapy session wasn’t happening today.
I had already done my gardening and photo editing for the day, and had absolutely nothing to occupy my time. So, I made myself and Marco/Mario a salad and, surprisingly, he accepted it with a grunt of appreciation. Now we ate at the dining table in silence, the crisp greens a welcome distraction from the awkwardness in the room.
A loud rumble broke the silence in the room, so loud it seemed to echo through our vaulted ceilings. I looked at Marco/Mario and his face looked pale.
“Was there milk in this salad dressing?” he asked.
“Probably… it’s creamy avocado.”
He froze, fork halfway to his mouth. Then, slowly, he set it down as if it was a live grenade. “I’m lactose intolerant.”
“Oh.” I blinked. “Like mildly, or—?”
Before I could finish my sentence, Marco/Mario had already shoved his chair back with the force of an earthquake and was sprinting toward the bathroom like an Olympic athlete.
The echo of slamming doors carried down the hallway. I sat there, fork in hand, staring at the sad little salad like it was the smoking gun in a murder mystery.
“…Guess that’s a no, then.”
I leaned back in my chair, chewing slowly. Out of all the ways I thought I might bring down Rocco’s scary bodyguard,death by creamy avocado dressinghad not been high on the list.
The sounds coming out of the bathroom were somewhat alarming and definitely not the sophisticated ambiance I had envisioned for my afternoon. Every groan, splash, and muffled curse word made the creamy avocado salad in front of me look less like lunch and more like a biohazard.
I set my fork down with a grimace. “Well, that’s ruined,” I muttered to myself, pushing the bowl away as if it, too, might explode at any moment.
With nothing left to distract me but the soundtrack of lactose-induced suffering, I decided a walk around the penthouse was my best option.
The penthouse glimmered with extravagance, each corner bursting with the kind of elegance that made even the mundane feel luxurious. I wandered toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, taking in the breathtaking view of the city below. The sun painted the skyline in shades of gold and crimson, giving me an unexpected surge of optimism.
As I traced my fingers along the sleek railing, my gaze drifted toward the hall, and something unusual caught my eye. Rocco’s office—always closed, always a fortress of secrets—stood ajar.
My curiosity prickled like static electricity. Normally, I wouldn’t dare, but the small crack in the door seemed almost like an invitation. I hesitated, heart skipping, before letting my feet carry me closer. The faint scent of leather and old paper drifted out, and I couldn’t help but peek inside.
Inside, the office was an unexpected haven of warmth, a stark contrast to Rocco’s intimidating persona. Shelves laden with books and artifacts from around the world lined the walls, each telling stories of far-off places and adventures I could only dream of. I stepped in, my heart racing with the thrill of discovery.
A desk sat in the center, an impressive structure of dark wood that gleamed under the soft glow of a desk lamp. Papers were strewn about haphazardly, and a large globe, its colorful continents inviting my touch, rested beside a collection of framed photographs. I leaned in closer and froze.
One frame held Rocco and Felix, standing side by side with that uncanny twin resemblance, grins matching perfectly. Their shoulders brushed, casual yet protective, a silent bond captured in a single moment. It was a rare glimpse of Rocco outside the calculated, controlled exterior—seeing him like this, connected to Felix, made the space feel both intimate and uncomfortably revealing.
I blinked, torn between admiration for the rare, unguarded moment and the insistent pull of curiosity gnawing at me. My fingers hovered over a stack of papers near the photo, and before I could stop myself, I began rifling through them.
Each sheet whispered fragments of a life I’d only glimpsed from the outside: notes, receipts, lists—mundane details at firstglance, but the way they were organized, the subtle annotations in the margins, hinted at a mind always several steps ahead.
I told myself I was just curious, that it was harmless to peek. But as I sifted deeper, the nagging sense that I was trespassing only fueled the thrill. Each page made the office feel more like a secret world I wasn’t supposed to see, and I couldn’t resist stepping further inside.
I should have stopped. Rocco deserved privacy, didn’t he? A part of me insisted I was crossing a line, a boundary that should never be breached. But with each paper I turned, the thrill of discovery wrestled with the weight of guilt, and I found myself entangled in the snare of my curiosity.
I hesitated as I pulled a thick, manila folder from the stack, its label simple and nondescript. The moment I opened it, a wave of unease washed over me. Inside were pages filled with meticulous notes: girls names, ages, health records, IQ scores, family connections—every detail scrutinized, measured, ranked.
My pulse quickened as I realized the pattern. These weren’t just random dossiers; they were the files of every girl ever considered for an arranged marriage to Rocco. And at the bottom of the page, circled in red ink, was my name.
I blinked, stomach knotting. My life—my worth—had been reduced to numbers on a sheet. The thrill of discovery twisted into something heavier: betrayal, helplessness, and a searing sense of violation.
I threw the folder back onto the desk; the contents flying everywhere as I stumbled back, my heart pounding like a war drum in my chest. This place, this sanctuary I had just entered, felt more like an execution chamber now.
