Page 7 of Unworthy Ties
He blinked, his gaze faltering before he refocused on me. “Of course,” he replied smoothly, but I could see the flicker of doubt in his eyes.
Rocco wrapped his arm around my lower back, and I wanted to push it off. But the entire Mafia underworld was watching us tonight. Before I could say anything about it, our fathers turned towards the crowd, glasses of champagne in their hands. Their countenances were festive, oblivious to the tension that hung between Rocco and me like a thick fog.
“Tonight,” began my father in his rich baritone, “We celebrate not just a wedding, but a union—a union of power, of legacy, and of two families,” His eyes met mine with an intensity that matched Rocco’s gaze. “Tonight, we toast to a future built on strength and prosperity.”
The crowd erupted in applause. But it was the cold steel of Rocco’s fingers that reminded me of my cruel reality. I glanced to my side, catching him amid an unreadable expression.
“Our children,” Elio Marchioni continued, “will carry on the legacy we have built.” He lifted his glass towards us. “To Rocco and Gabriella.”
The crowd echoed his toast, their voices merging into a singular chorus that filled the grand hall. Crystal champagne flutes clinked, and sweet laughter sprinkled through the air like tinkling bells.
Yet within this merry cacophony, there was a prickling silence between Rocco and me. His fingers tightened against the small of my back, as if he was forcing himself to hold on. He raised his glass, the corners of his mouth lifted into a roguishly charming smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
My gaze once again fell on Felix, looking for any sign of negative emotion at the toast. Jealousy, heartbreak, devastation. There was nothing but pure happiness for his brother and me. His smile was genuine, his eyes twinkling with happiness. This should’ve been us, but fate had other plans.
“Cheers,” Rocco murmured, his voice barely audible over the bustling crowd. He tilted his glass towards mine with a precision that was almost mechanical. The two glasses met with a cold, precise click that echoed in the emptiness in my heart.
I was ripped back to stage four of the seven stages of grief.Bargaining. If there was a higher power, it wasn’t letting me out of this marriage. There was no turning back.
Chapter 4
Rocco
My life felt like a bad movie.
I had hired movers to bring Gabriella’s things to my penthouse, but on the day of, they called out sick. The entire company had a potluck the night before and someone brought a bad dish, and every single employee had food poisoning.
When I called all the other movers in the city, they were completely booked. Something about this time of year being a busy time for apartment turnover.
So, there I was, hauling boxes of Gabriella’s things out of one of our “work” trucks. The same truck my friends and I had used to transport a dead body the night prior. Of course it had been cleaned, but the smell of bleach still hung in the air, a stinging reminder of my line of work.
“Are you sure you don’t want help?” Gabriella’s voice said from outside the car.
A small smear of blood that someone forgot to clean caught my eye. Definitely not.
“I’ll be fine,” I responded. “It’s not heavy. You can go wait inside.”
“Well… okay,” she said, peering anxiously inside the box I was holding.
An hour later, I finally had all of her stuff on my penthouse floor. And she hada lotof it. A collection of designer handbags, heaps of clothing, more shoes than I knew there were types of, and an overwhelming amount of makeup and beauty products.
I stood in the middle of it all, looking around my once orderly home now turned chaotic.
I frowned, looking at her purse collection spilling out of a box. Reaching down, I picked up two handbags. “Aren’t these the same thing?” I asked, holding up two identical square handbags in black.
She scoffed at me. “No. One has gold buckles, and the other is silver.”
“Of course,” I said sarcastically, rolling my eyes. “How could I possibly have missed that?”
She looked like she wanted to start a fight, but chose not to argue. “Where should I put it?”
“In our closet.”
Our closet.The words felt foreign on my tongue. I had only known about our arranged marriage for a month, and already everything in my life was spinning around like a roulette wheel. I’d never felt so completely thrown off balance, even when life in the mafia had thrown its worst curveballs my way.
My solitary existence, the lone nights in the penthouse with just the drone of the city for company, was coming to an end.
I caught her reflection in the mirror as she started walking away. She glanced back at me. From the steely look in her eyes,I wasn’t able to tell what she was feeling. Discomfort? Anger? Fear, perhaps?
