2. Gianna
Chapter 2
Gianna
I sit on the edge of my bed, the thick velvet comforter bunching beneath my fingers. Across the room, a high-backed chair looms in front of the bay window, and beyond that, the night stretches out over the Lucatello estate—acres of gardens, hedges trimmed into precise shapes, and floodlights that sweep the grounds on a rotating schedule. It all looks so neat and perfect, a theatrical facade for the rot underneath.
I learned earlier today that my father plans to marry me off. It shouldn’t shock me—I’ve known for years it would happen eventually. He’s always hinted at it, reminding me that I’m precious merchandise to be leveraged when the time is right. For all his talk of protecting me from the world, I know it’s never really been about love. It’s about control. His control.
He didn’t give me a name, only a timeframe: “Soon, Gianna. You will be a wife soon.” The image of my father’s face flickers in my mind, those cold eyes fixed on me like I’m a valuable commodity. My stomach turns.
A part of me always hoped that if I just obeyed him long enough, he would set me free—or maybe I’d get lucky, and he’d find a suitable husband who at least had a shred of decency. But I’ve heard rumors about some of these mafia families, whispered conversations between the housekeepers when they thought no one was listening. Stories of wives who disappear behind mansion walls, of bruises hidden beneath designer clothes. No matter who I’m married to, it’ll be another cage. One I’ll enter wearing white. One I’ll never escape from. One that trades my father’s iron grip for golden handcuffs that shine just as cold.
I take a slow breath, tasting the air laced with the faint fragrance of old roses from a bouquet on my nightstand. My bedroom is a gilded prison: polished marble floors, ornate tapestries, and antique furniture that belonged to my grandmother. Everything is meticulously arranged, just like my life. Any freedom I once dreamed of has been systematically snuffed out.
Until now.
I rise from the bed, crossing to the closet in a flurry of sudden motion. My father left for a meeting in his study hours ago, and I know he’s likely to stay there until past midnight. My cousin, Allegra, told me once about the nights she crept away from her own father, attending parties and speakeasies I’ve only read about in stolen magazines. She said it felt like stepping into a dream—loud music, cheap whiskey, and the press of a crowd that doesn’t care who you are.
One night. That’s all I want. One night of living like a real person, one night to taste freedom and realize there’s a world outside these walls. If I’m doomed to marry some unknown man and become his property, then I want to ruin myself first—make sure I’m not a pristine little treasure for him to unwrap. If I cross that line, if I give away the only thing my father prizes, then maybe, just maybe, they’ll deem me too tarnished to be worth marrying. But at least I can say I made a choice for myself for once.
My hands shake as I flip through the hangers. I settle on a simple black dress—long-sleeved, hits just above the knee, tight enough to remind me that I have a body beneath all this decorum. The first time I ever wore it was for a fundraiser, and I remember Father’s disapproving glare and how he said it was too form-fitting. But now that’s exactly what I want: something that says I’m not the sweet little daughter he can lock away.
I pull the dress on, the fabric sliding over my skin in a quiet whisper. My heart pounds so loud it’s a drumbeat in my ears. There’s a pair of heels I’ve never worn outside these walls—black, strappy, with a thin silver clasp at the ankle. I step into them and test my balance. Standing in front of the mirror, I barely recognize myself. The woman staring back has the same dark hair and the same nervous eyes, but there’s steel in her spine that I’ve never felt before.
I swallow the lump forming in my throat and slip my phone into a small clutch. The bag is barely big enough for the essentials, but that’s all I need tonight. I can do this. I have to.
Easing open my bedroom door, I peer down the long corridor. The house is quiet, and the only sound is the distant ticking of a grandfather clock in the foyer. Light spills from a crack in Father’s study door. Good. He’s occupied. I force myself to keep my pace slow and even, heels clicking softly on the gleaming floor. My palms sweat around the clutch, the lace of my dress itching at the back of my neck.
I head down the sweeping staircase and see a guard standing by the front door with his arms crossed over his chest—a broad man I vaguely recognize as Angelo. He’s newish, or maybe just a replacement from Father’s rotating cast of watchmen. It doesn’t matter. I need to get past him, and the only way is to pretend I’m not trembling inside.
As I approach, Angelo steps forward with a slow smile. He has that lazy confidence of a guy who thinks he’s got all the power. “Evening, Miss Lucatello.” His voice drips with implied authority. “Going somewhere?”
My stomach twists into intricate knots. “Yes,” I say, lifting my chin. “I need some fresh air.”
He snorts, a dismissive sound that sets my teeth on edge. “Your father said you weren’t to leave without permission.” His gaze wanders over my dress, lingering in ways that make my skin crawl. His eyes move with deliberate slowness from my neckline to my shoes like he’s appraising merchandise instead of guarding a door.
I swallow the disgust that rises in my throat. “And if I told you I had his permission?”
Angelo barks a laugh. “Right. I don’t think so, Miss. Unless,” he pauses, a smirk tightening his face, “there’s something in it for me.”
He leans in, close enough that I can smell the faint stench of cigarettes on his breath. My pulse thunders. “What do you want, exactly?” I ask, forcing my voice to remain steady, even as a flash of fear runs through me.
Angelo smirks. “I’m sure you can guess. One good turn deserves another, right? If I let you get some fresh air … you let me get something later.”
I can’t stand the way his sleazy insinuation sounds. My skin crawls at the thought, yet survival means compromise. “Fine,” I lie, summoning a brittle smile that feels like shattered glass on my face. “We’ll figure something out. Now, let me by.”
He arches a brow but steps aside, sweeping his arm out in a mocking gesture. “As you wish.” A leer curls his lips. “I’ll hold you to that, principessa .”
My cheeks burn as I brush past him. The door opens onto the expansive front steps, the night air cool and thick with the tang of impending rain. The adrenaline coursing through me is almost dizzying. With one last glance over my shoulder—Angelo is still watching me, a smug grin plastered on his face—I descend the stairs into the courtyard. The wrought-iron gate stands closed at the end of the driveway, but I know the code.
I step beyond the estate’s walls, and the rush of freedom hits like a shot of pure oxygen. My father’s domain looms behind me, floodlights and manicured hedges. He has no idea I’m leaving. My breath trembles. This is the first time in years I’ve left on my own. I can almost taste the exhilaration on my tongue.
I order a ride with the car service app Allegra recommended. The city lights blur past the tinted windows as the driver takes me through the various business districts in town, a kaleidoscope of neon and streetlamps painting abstract patterns across my face. I wait for something to leap out at me, for a bar to call my name. When it does, it’s a simple, unassuming neon sign lit up with a single word: Finn’s. The blue-white glow feels like a beacon in the night. It’s not fancy, nothing like the upscale lounges my father’s associates frequent. It’s loud, chaotic, and perfect for disappearing into a crowd. That’s exactly what I need.
By the time we pull up, the drizzle has turned into a light rain, droplets glimmering under the streetlights. I thank the driver and step out, the sidewalk slick beneath my heels. Smoke wafts from a group of patrons clustered near the door, their laughter cutting through the night.
I inhale, ignoring the spike of nerves in my gut, and push inside.
The immediate hit of warm, stale air wraps around me like a foreign embrace. Finn’s is dimly lit, the walls scuffed, the floor a patchwork of old tile and spilled drinks. Music—some pounding bass with an electric guitar whining behind it—reverberates in my chest, a raw pulse that feels alive. The bar stretches along one side of the room, its top battered from use, ringed with a motley collection of stools. People crowd around small tables, their voices a cacophony of arguments and flirtations. There’s a faint smell of old leather, cheap perfume, and fried food.
My heart flutters, half in terror, half in anticipation. I’ve never seen a place like this, never stood in a space so unrefined and gloriously unguarded. No one looks up to see who I am; no one bothers to judge my dress or my posture. They’re all lost in their own nights, their own problems, their own victories. The anonymity is liberating in its simplicity. Here, the usual social protocols that have governed my every breath seem to dissolve into the haze of cigarette smoke and clinking glasses.
I make my way to the bar, dodging a tipsy man who winks at me as he stumbles past. My nerves jangle.
A bartender with a weathered face and a shaved head wipes a glass with a rag, raising an eyebrow when I approach. “What can I get for you?”
I freeze a moment. What do normal people order? A drink from Allegra’s stories surfaces. “Lavender gin fizz?” It comes out uncertainly, my voice barely audible over the din.
He laughs but nods. “Fancy. Sure thing, sweetheart.”
Heat prickles my cheeks, half embarrassed, half amused by his casual address. But I don’t bristle. I’m not sure if it’s the adrenaline or the thrill of finally doing something unapproved . Maybe both. While he prepares my drink, I glance around, my eyes adjusting to the low light. The bar stools are mostly taken by men leaning in to whisper at women with smoky eyes and half-empty glasses. Two of them at the far end watch me for a moment, then return to their conversation.
I catch my reflection in a smudged mirror behind the bar. My hair’s slightly damp from the rain, framing my face in dark waves. There’s a flush in my cheeks I’ve never seen before. I look alive. The thought sends a ripple of excitement through me.
The bartender slides over a pinkish-purple glass garnished with a sprig of lavender. “Here you go. That’ll be?—”
I fumble with my clutch, half expecting him to refuse my money or ask me for a membership card or something insane. But this isn’t my father’s world, with its mahogany-paneled country clubs and strict dress codes. People pay, people drink, people forget. That’s all. No secret handshakes or family connections required. I hand over the bills, careful not to show how little I actually know about bar etiquette, trying to mimic the casual confidence of the women around me. He takes the cash without question, already turning to the next customer.
“Thank you,” I murmur, lifting the glass to my lips. The first sip is cool, floral, and pleasantly fizzy. A quiet gasp escapes me—there’s a faint bitterness of gin beneath the flowery sweetness. It’s good . Better than any wine I’ve sipped at Father’s formal dinners.
A woman bumps into my shoulder as she squeezes in to order, tossing an apologetic glance my way. I smile, sipping again. I’m here, I’m safe, and I’m free. My mind flickers to the note on my pillow—just a single line, “I’ll be back soon,” though I’m not sure if I mean it. Could I run away for good? The idea thrills and terrifies me. On one hand, I hope Father finds the note; on the other, I hope no one notices I’m gone.
I slip onto an empty stool, crossing one leg over the other, and let my senses drink in everything at once: the thud of music, the tang of spilled beer, the brush of a stranger’s sleeve against my arm. It’s overwhelming but in the best possible way. I half-wonder if my father has any idea what I’m doing. He’d be apoplectic. Oh, God, if he finds out… A shiver traces my spine. I force myself to swallow it down. Just one night.
Closing my eyes for a moment, I imagine a thousand possibilities. Maybe I’ll meet someone nice, someone who’ll take me to a motel for a few hours. Then I can return to my father’s house, “ruined.” No mafia man would want me then. I wouldn’t be a pure, virgin princess to dangle in some power exchange. That’s the plan, I remind myself. Give away the only thing Father cherishes—my virtue—so he can’t sell me off like livestock. It’s not exactly the romantic first time I’d dreamed about as a teenager, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Besides, anything has to be better than being traded away like a prized breeding mare to cement some criminal alliance.
Still, my chest tightens. Is this really what I want? Just to be rid of the burden of my father’s demands, no matter the cost? My reflection in the mirror catches my eye again. Yes. I can’t deny the relief at the idea of not belonging to whoever Father has chosen.
The fizz in my veins grows with each sip, bubbles dancing on my tongue and warming my blood—a little liquid courage to chase away the last of my doubts. I set the half-empty glass on the bar, fiddling with the lavender garnish as condensation drips down the side. My gaze flits over the crowd, seeking someone who looks interesting—someone with enough edge to excite but not enough to terrify. Safe enough, but not too safe. Desperate enough not to ask any questions about why a woman like me is here alone.
That’s when I notice him.
He stands near the far corner of the bar, broad-shouldered and clad in a dark jacket that clings to him like a second skin. He’s not chatting or smiling; instead, he’s hunched over a drink, his posture coiled and vibrating with tension. Even from here, I can feel something radiating off him—anger, heartbreak, barely concealed restraint. He downs a shot of whiskey, slamming the glass onto the counter with more force than necessary. He draws side-eyes from a couple next to him, but he doesn’t apologize or acknowledge them. He just rakes a hand through his dark hair, expression twisted as if he’s fighting off demons no one else can see.
My heart stutters and then trips into an uneven rhythm. There’s a danger about him, a crackling energy that raises the fine hairs on my arms. I should look away; I should pick someone else, anyone else , but I can’t tear my eyes away from him. There’s something about him that resonates with the hollow ache in my own chest, like recognizing a reflection in dark water. The same desperation, perhaps. The same need to escape. My gaze lingers on the line of his jaw, the flex of his fingers around his empty glass, the way his shoulders bunch beneath that fitted jacket. Everything about him screams trouble.
And yet, for some reason, I want to step into his storm and let his dangerous current pull me under.