Chapter 19
19
GIANNA
It’s a strange feeling, waking up on a strange bed, in a strange house, knowing it’s your wedding day to a stranger— no matter how devastatingly attractive he is. Not that looks matter in the grand scheme of things when he basically delivered me to my uncle on a silver platter.
I roll onto my side, blinking at the framed painting of flowers on the wall. Tulips. A huge, delicate arrangement of them. Weirdly enough, it comforts me.
After my conversation with Michael yesterday—after agreeing to marry him—I told him I needed my own space. That I would not be sleeping in his room. He argued, of course, but in the end, he grudgingly brought me here.
Did he do so knowing the painting is in here and that seeing something that reminds me of my parents—since my middle name literally means tulips—would give me some comfort?
Or am I just reaching?
What the hell am I even doing trying to see Michael in a good light?
He’s forcing me to marry him, security or not. And for what? Why the hell does he want this marriage? No matter how hard I think about it, I can’t seem to come up with a good reason.
I sigh and roll off the bed just as a gentle knock sounds on the door.
“Who is it?” I call, frowning. I know we’re getting married today, but I’m not nearly ready to see Michael yet.
“It’s Gracie. Can I come in?”
I let out a breath of relief. During dinner last night, I learned that Mrs. Monti—Gracie—is Michael’s housekeeper and was his father’s housekeeper too, back when Michael was a teenager. So she’s been with him for years.
I glance down at my wrinkled clothes—the same slacks and top I wore to meet Uncle Aldo in his office yesterday, before my entire world flipped upside down—and just shrug. “Of course, Mrs. Monti. It’s unlocked.”
The door opens, and the friendly woman peeks in before fully walking inside. “Hi.” She gives me a warm smile, holding up a black dress bag in one hand and a box in the other. “Are you excited?”
Excited? There’s nothing to be excited about. It’s just a random Wednesday that I happen to be getting married on. No big deal. I keep my face carefully blank as I say, “Sure.”
What the hell did Michael tell her anyway? That we’re madly in love?
Her smile dims a little, but she quickly recovers, wiggling the dress bag. “This came in for you this morning.” She hands it over, and I hesitantly accept it. Did Michael actually order a wedding dress for me?
I unzip the bag, and sure enough, a fluffy cloud of white fabric spills out. My heart sinks as reality hits. This is really happening. I’m getting married. And I’ve never felt more alone and scared in my life.
A warm hand covers mine, and I glance up to see Mrs. Monti watching me with a concerned frown. “I understand this isn’t a love match, darling, but you could do so much worse than Michael. I’ve known that boy since he was an unruly teenager. He’s weathered tremendous hardship, and he’s none the worse for it. He’s not cruel like many of the men in our mafia, and trust me, he had plenty of horrible examples he could’ve followed.”
What does that mean? That his dad was a cruel man? The men around him?
She continues, “I know there are rumors about him, and I can’t say they’re not true. But one thing I know for sure: he’s a fair master and fiercely protective. You’ll be safe with him.”
She’s trying to comfort me. I don’t know if it works, exactly, but some of my anxiety fades as I realize one thing—I’m not completely alone. I give her a small smile. “Thank you.”
She is right. It could be worse. It could be Carlo.
Michael did betray me, and it will take a long time—if ever—for me to trust him the way I did before. But before everything fell apart, I did try to seduce him into falling for me because I knew he was a fair man.
Even though he hasn’t actually said the words, I know he’s sorry for the way things turned out with my uncle. Maybe this marriage is his way of trying to make it up to me.
What if it doesn’t end up being horrible? He did say I’d be free to pursue my dreams. And with him, I wouldn’t have to be on the run anymore. This doesn’t have to be a death sentence.
Mrs. Monti takes the dress bag from my hand. “Why don’t you take a long bath while I make arrangements for you here?”
“Arrangements?”
She just winks and steers me towards the ensuite. “Go on.”
I surrender to her gentle nudging and close the door behind me.
Even though I’ve let go of my fears—mostly—I still find myself lingering in the bath, stretching out the last moments of being Gianna Cabello. But at the same time, I’m anxious to get this over with. The faster we get through the ceremony, the sooner I can talk with Michael about what comes next. When do I get to start pursuing my dreams? What does he expect from me? What do I expect from him?
I have no clue what the ceremony will be like, but I hope it’s short and to the point. This is no fairytale romance, after all. I certainly know there won’t be anyone on my side of the aisle. But what about Michael’s?
Mrs. Monti hinted that he had a rough childhood. Does that mean he isn’t close with his parents? Now that I think about it, I really don’t know anything about my husband-to-be. I need to change that. Later.
When I finally drain the tub and step out, I wrap a towel around myself and return to the bedroom. Mrs. Monti is waiting for me, holding up a soft robe.
As I slip into it, she gestures to a covered tray on the side table. “I brought you some breakfast.”
My stomach growls shamelessly, and I place a hand over it, a little embarrassed, but the housekeeper just smiles and waves me towards the food. “Eat up. It’s only right for a bride to be well-fed before making one of the biggest decisions of her life.”
Her words tug at something in my chest, but she simply turns away, fussing over something on the dresser, giving me space.
Perching on the edge of the bed, I lift the tray onto my lap. A full plate of bacon, eggs, sausages, and pancakes stare back at me. And they smell divine.
“Mrs. Monti, this is?—”
“ Not too much ,” she cuts in “And please, child, call me Gracie. ‘Mrs. Monti’ makes me feel ancient.”
I smile a little as I dig in. One might think such a life-altering day would kill my appetite. But apparently, my stomach didn’t get the memo.
When I finish my food, she waves me over to the chair in front of the dresser. “I don’t know how you youngins like your makeup done these days, but I can style your hair for you. I always wanted a daughter, but the good Lord called my husband home before blessing us with children.”
I’m not sure how to respond to that, and she doesn’t seem to expect me to. So I just wordlessly take the seat she offers.
She pulls my hair out of its bun, and as the strands fall past my waist, she lets out a pleased hum. “You have such pretty hair. Healthy too.”
“Thank you,” I murmur.
We lapse into silence as she works, the whir of the curling wand the only sound in the room. I try not to overthink what comes after this. No use in spiraling when it’s happening no matter what.
The minutes pass quickly, and she’s just about done running the hot wand through the last section of my hair when there’s a short knock on the door.
“Don’t come in!” Mrs. Monti immediately calls out. She sets the wand down and walks over, cracking it open just enough so I can’t see outside. Michael’s deep voice rumbles something to her, but I can't make out his words.
They exchange a few short sentences before she greets someone new. Then, steps back from the door, allowing a woman to slip inside.
I tense.
She’s around my age—maybe even a little younger. Her flaming red hair is pulled up into a ponytail, though tiny curls frame her sharp chin. Cute freckles dust her nose and cheeks, and she has the prettiest hazel eyes I’ve ever seen. She’s stunning .
A spike of unease shoots through me as I glance past her towards the now-closed door, where Mrs. Monti still hovers. Who the hell is she? How does Michael know her? And what the hell is she doing here?
My gaze snaps back to the woman, who’s scanning the room like she’s taking everything in. Then, her eyes land on me, our gazes clashing. She flashes a bright smile, one that has her eyes twinkling, the green shining more prominently. It’s a genuine smile.
I don’t smile back. I just frown, watching her carefully. What’s her deal? Does she know the truth? That Michael and I aren’t really together? That this wedding is happening for reasons that have nothing to do with love? That’s the only reason she wouldn’t see me as a threat, right? The pressure in my chest builds, my stomach twisting uncomfortably.
I want her out of here.
Like she can read my thoughts, her smile slowly dims. But her gaze stays locked on me. Her eyes trace over my face, emotions flickering in her look like an open book. Anxiety. Anger. Worry. She’s so… guileless.
But then I realize—she’s noticed the bruises. That’s why she’s looking at me like that. A prickle of heat crawls up my neck, but I force myself to stay still. My hands clench into fists on my lap so I don’t fidget with the hair Mrs. Monti just spent several minutes on.
“Hi, you must be Gianna.” Her voice is soft, almost musical. “I’m Elira.”
She tucks a stray curl behind her ear, and I catch the glint of a large rock on her finger. My breath catches. She’s married. And Michael can’t marry me if he’s already married to her, which means?—
She’s married to someone else.
The tightness in my belly unfurls a little. “Hello,” I greet cautiously.
She glances back at Mrs. Monti. “I’m sorry, can I have a moment alone with the bride?”
Mrs. Monti raises a questioning brow at me, and I nod. “Give us thirty minutes, please.” I’m curious about what the redhead has to say—I get the feeling she has something important to discuss.
As soon as the door closes behind Mrs. Monti, the rest of Elira’s smile vanishes, and unexpected steel appears in her eyes. “Do you need me to help you escape?” She asks, matter-of-factly.
My jaw practically unhinges. “W–what?” Didn’t Michael bring her here?
She drops to her knees in front of me, bringing us eye to eye, and grips my hands like we’re old friends. “I mean it, Gianna. I know we’re strangers and you have no reason to trust me, but if you want out, I’ll do anything in my power to help you.”
I blink at her, thrown completely off balance. Is this a test? A trap Michael set up? But no—she looks genuinely concerned . “Shouldn’t you be on Michael’s side? He brought you in here, didn’t he?” I finally manage.
“Maybe. But I know how these Nightshade men are. Did he kidnap you? Is he threatening you? What does he have over you?” Her eyes go all over my face again, and she frowns.
My heart kicks up a notch.
She thinks Michael did this to me.
This really isn’t some kind of twisted loyalty test Michael came up with. She actually cares. About me .
I shake my head slowly. “No, he’s not threatening me. He’s helping me actually. This—” I wave my hand over my face. “—is not from him. He rescued me from my… cousin.”
Her frown deepens, and she slowly lets go of my hands. “Are you sure?” She lowers her voice to a whisper, glancing around. “Is this room bugged? Are we being watched? Is that why you’re saying that?”
I didn’t realize anything could amuse me today, but a genuine laugh escapes me as I glance around as well. “I have no idea if there’s a bug here, but I swear, Michael didn’t do this to me. He wouldn’t .”
I don’t know why I’m so sure about that, but I am. He might be ruthless, cold, and dangerous, but no matter how angry he gets, he would never lay a hand on me. “Who are you?" I ask, studying her. Is she Michael’s sister or something? She’s pretty ballsy. I like her.
“I’m Elira Leonotti, Maximo’s wife. You could say I’m Michael’s sister-in-law? My husband considers him a brother and trusts him with his life.” She glances up at me through pretty eyes that shift from brown to green as the light reflects in them. “I trust him, too—to a certain extent—but… I think I might have been in your shoes before; that’s why I reacted that way. Did I misjudge the situation?”
“What did you think was happening? That Michael hurt me and is threatening me to marry him?” She’s not far from the truth. I am marrying Michael because my existence is being threatened. But he isn’t the one doing the threatening.
She gives a sheepish shrug. “I mean, the guys have a code—no hurting women or kids—but one can never be completely sure with Michael. You have to understand, he’s a bit… unstable .”
She isn’t the first person to say that about him, but I frown because, to me, he seems pretty stable. “You said you’ve been in my shoes before. Did your husband hurt you?”
Her eyes widen like I just suggested the sun rises in the west. “No, Maximo would never, ” she says emphatically. “He’d rather chop off his own fingers, one by one, before he lays a hand on me.”
Maximo. That’s her husband, I think. So then… what? “He threatened you to marry him?”
She chuckles, nodding. “Oh, yeah. The motherfucker had a gun trained on my brother and father and threatened to kill them if I didn’t marry him.”
My lips part slightly. And she’s laughing about it? Maybe she’s the unstable one, and she might need help. “Do–do you need help?” I ask carefully.
She laughs harder. “No, darling, it’s fine. He wouldn’t have killed them, but I didn’t know that at the time. We’re fine—we’re in love.”
Right. Because nothing screams romance like a forced marriage at gunpoint.
She sighs, waving a hand like this is all just a funny little misunderstanding. “Anyways, sorry about my assumption. I just couldn’t bear it if you were being threatened and I could have helped but didn’t. You know how awful that would feel? Like, imagine finding out later that someone was suffering, and you just went about your day, totally oblivious? I’d never forgive myself.”
She keeps talking, but I barely hear her. They’re in love. She’s in love with a man who kidnapped her and threatened to kill her family? She says he wouldn’t have killed them, but how sure is she really? I wonder if I should introduce her to the word ‘Stockholm syndrome’.
“…but hey, congratulations!” Elira’s voice breaks through my thoughts, and I blink back to the present just in time to see her clapping her hands together, as if that somehow erases the absolute insanity she just confessed. “And I’m not just here to toss around accusations, you know. Michael brought me here to give you some moral support—that’s why I was suspicious. I mean, I’ve never seen that man look worried about someone before. It’s kind of impressive, honestly.”
She reaches for the bag slung over her shoulder and starts rummaging through it, still chatting like we’re discussing wedding plans instead of literal hostage situations. I should probably say something, but my brain is still catching up. Not that she’s giving me a chance, though…
“But now that I know you’re doing this of your own free will—for whatever reason,” she grins, finally pulling something out, “congratulations. And here, this is for you. Gifts .”
I accept the bag with a small frown, getting a bit overwhelmed. She’s like a little tornado. I unzip it and take out a small box. Inside, a pair of diamond earrings glisten under the light.
“I got them last night after Michael called Maximo and told me about you. I figured if you made the decision to go through with this marriage yourself, you should at least get to do some of the traditional things I never got to do for my own wedding. It can be your ‘something new’.”
My lips part in surprise. “This–this must have cost quite a fortune, I can’t accept it.” I close the box and toss it back into the bag, suddenly afraid to check what else is in there. She did say gifts, plural.
“Of course you can,” she says easily, her tone both reasonable and sweet. “I just told you, I’m like a sister to Michael, which means you’re going to be my sister-in-law. And friend, I hope. So you could even say I’m trying to bribe you. Hell, I’m turning into Maximo.” She mutters the last part under her breath like she’s only just realizing.
I let out a breathy laugh despite myself.
“Look, I don’t really know the situation between you and Michael,” she continues, “but I do know what it’s like to have a wedding ceremony that feels more like a transaction than a celebration. And I remember how overwhelmed and alone I felt. So yeah, I admit, I’m trying to buy your friendship—but not for some nefarious reason, I swear. I genuinely want to be your friend. And this—” she waves at the bag in my hand, “—isn’t much. You’re getting married to Michael, so you’ll see what I mean. Money isn’t a problem for us.”
Before I can reply, the door opens and Mrs. Monti pops her head in. She glances at Elira—who’s still on her knees before me—and raises a curious brow. Elira gets to her feet swiftly. “Come on, check the other contents of the bag.”
I sigh and do as she says. Reaching inside, I pull out a long, silky bridal veil with pearls beaded across the delicate fabric.
“It’s from my second wedding a few weeks ago.” Elira grins. “It can be your ‘something borrowed’ and ‘old’.”
Mrs. Monti steps fully into the room, nodding approvingly. “Perfect. I have something blue for you here, Gia.” She takes two light blue dove-shaped hair clips out of her apron, each bird surrounded by tiny pearls, and holds them up. “Michael asked me to give these to you.”
I inhale sharply as I study the pretty clips. Dove . I can almost hear him calling me that. My fingers curl possessively around them, a little tenderness welling in my chest. Is this his way of showing he’s thinking about me?
A lump rises in my throat, and I blink rapidly to push back the tears. This isn’t a real wedding. It isn’t.
“It’s beautiful,” Elira murmurs, breaking the silence. “And the pearls go perfectly with your veil.”
I give her a small, grateful smile as Mrs. Monti gets behind me and carefully pins the clips into my hair, pulling part of it back into an elegant half-up, half-down style.
“Thank you. Both of you,” I manage in a whisper.
Mrs. Monti steps back, studying her work with satisfied little tut noises, while Elira pats my hand with a warm smile.
“I need to go check on my husband before he storms in here, but I’ll see you out there.” She winks. “I know you’ll make a beautiful bride. Good luck!”
After she leaves, Mrs. Monti picks up the garment bag from the bed and takes my dress out. And for the first time, I see the full thing.
It’s a short, white dress that will fall right below my knees. The bodice is corseted, with thick shoulder straps and a delicate, sparkly belt around the waist— gorgeous . And even though I didn’t choose it and this isn't a real wedding, I love it . Since the ceremony is taking place at the back of Michael’s house for reasons only he knows, he’s included a pair of white strappy sandals to match.
With Mrs. Monti’s help, I slip into the dress, then put on my new diamond earrings. She carefully fixes the veil Elira lent me into my hair, and just like that, we’re done.
It’s a casual look but at the same time elegant. Perfect.
“Michael will swallow his tongue when he sees you,” she murmurs. And shit , my heart flutters at the thought. No. No fluttering, heart.
I clear my throat. “Thank you, Mrs. Monti.”
She hesitates briefly, then, “Are you sure you don’t want me to do some makeup for you? Even something light to cover up those bruises?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s fine.” I want them visible. A reminder of what Dario did to me.
She sighs but lets it go, and together, we walk out of my room and down the hallway.
As we descend the stairs, I thank her again. I don’t know what I would have done yesterday and today without her kindness.
“No, thank you . There’s a new light in Michael’s eyes, and I know it’s because of you. So thank you .” Then she wags a finger at me. “And for the love of God, call me Gracie.”
I don’t believe a damn word about any light in Michael’s eyes, but I smile softly anyway. “Thank you... Gracie.”
Outside, a golf-cart-style car is waiting for us. The man in the driver’s seat nods as we get in, then drives us around the back of the house, past a small garden shed, and the moment I see where we’re heading, my breath catches.
So this is why he chose this spot.
Just beyond the house, a row of towering palm trees lines the white shores of a pretty beach. And there beneath them stands Michael in a tux, looking effortlessly dashing as he waits for me.
His gaze arrests mine, and my heart starts pounding as the car pulls to a stop. I can’t look away. Not as I step out. Not as I whisper to Mrs. Mon–Gracie to walk with me.
Not as I get closer and closer.
Sweat trickles down my spine. My heart pounds harder. Then, just before we get under the broad leaves of the palm tree, he moves forward and gently takes my hand from Gracie’s.
“You look stunning as always, Gianna.” His smile is slow, warm, and for a brief moment, I forget how to breathe . Damn him for being so hot. He tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow and leads me the rest of the way under the trees.
That’s when I finally notice the other people waiting there.
Elira stands next to a tall man who has his arm slung possessively around her waist—Maximo, I assume. Another man, dressed in crisp black, stands beside them. Michael introduces him as the clergyman officiating the ceremony, but my nerves drown out most of his words.
My throat goes dry as the man goes straight to the point.
“Are you here of your own free will?” he asks me.
“Yes,” I answer with a nod.
“Good.” He picks up a briefcase I hadn’t even realized was there, takes out a pair of documents, and then right there in the windy morning, we sign the marriage licenses.
Maximo and Elira sign as our witnesses. Then the man folds the documents neatly, clears his throat, and declares, “With the power vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”
Oh shit.
I swallow hard as Michael's arms drape around my back, and with the slightest pressure, turns me to face him. Those electric blue eyes search mine as his head slowly lowers.
And then… A kiss. Closed-mouthed. Chaste. Nothing like the fiery, consuming one we’ve shared before. But it doesn’t stop my heart from going into overdrive and my core from clenching.
Everything after that becomes a blur.
We return to the main house, where a long table overflowing with food awaits. But I’m still too stuffed from the breakfast Gracie gave to eat anything. So instead, I reach for the sweet, bubbly drink in front of me, sipping quietly as the conversation flows around me.
One glass. Then another.
Someone refills it. Then again. And again.
At some point, I lose track of how many glasses I’ve had. And—inevitably—I get drunk.
Michael notices, of course, and gets to his feet. “Thank you for witnessing our wedding, but it’s time for my bride and me to retire,” he says, addressing Maximo and Elira—who instructed me to call her Lira since we’re basically sisters now.
I snort. “Retire.” The word rolls off my tongue, then gets tangled somewhere. “Such an arctic–arcrum–achric word.”
“You mean archaic?” Michael asks, blue eyes gleaming with amusement.
I nod solemnly, then puff out my chest and deepen my voice to mimic him. “My bride and I are going to retire now.” I reach for my glass again?—
But Michael beats me to it, plucking it right out of my grasp.
“I think you’ve had enough, love.”
Something about the way he says it—soft, amused, maybe even fond—has me melting into his side, my head resting on his shoulder.
My fingers drift lazily up his chest. “Now that we’re married, will you get a tattoo for me on your body?” I pause, frowning dramatically. “Wait, never mind. You don’t have any space left on your skin. That’s so unfair.” I pout up at him, and he chuckles.
“I’ll make space for you.” There’s a double meaning in his promise, but I can’t grasp it right now—too distracted by Lira and her husband getting up. They say their goodbyes, and suddenly, it’s just me and my husband.
My husband . A thrill zips through me.
“Why did you marry me, Michael?” I ask him as he gets to his feet. He offers me a hand, and the second I take it, the room tilts sweetly around me, sending me crashing straight into his chest. “Oops,” I giggle, clinging to him like that was totally intentional.
“What do you mean, why did I marry you?” His hands slide under my knees, lifting me effortlessly into his arms.
“I mean…” I loop my arms around his neck. “I know what I’m getting from marrying you—protection. But what about you ? What are you getting?”
He meets my eyes with a quiet certainty, like the answer is the most obvious thing in the world. “You.”
My head spins, but it has nothing to do with the alcohol, and my heart stutters, pounding in slow, heavy beats. Before I can stop myself, I lift my chin and kiss him.
He stumbles.
I tighten my grip around his neck, steadying us both. “Are you okay?” I ask, my lips brushing his as I pull back.
“I’m fine.” He clears his throat. “You just… surprised me, is all.”
I smirk, toying with the lapels of his shirt before resting my head on his chest with a satisfied sigh. He adjusts me in his arms, carrying me up the stairs and down the hallway.
Then I notice.
“You passed my bedroom,” It’s not a complaint—just an observation. Because truthfully, I want to go to his room.
“Yeah,” he says, shifting me slightly so he can punch in a door code. “I have something for you.”
Curiosity sparks through my drunken haze as he shoulders the door open and carries me straight to his bed, carefully lowering me onto the plush mattress. Then, he opens his bedside drawer and takes out a small box.
“Ohh, is it jewelry?” I perk up instantly. “I love jewelry. Can you see my earring?” I turn my neck to show off my ear. “It’s all bling-y and sparkly and pretty.”
Michael smiles as he hands me the box and gently tugs on my earlobe. “It’s not as bling-y and sparkly and pretty as you are.”
That’s funny, so I laugh. But as I open the box, the laughter catches in my throat.
Inside, lying neatly on a cushion of black velvet, is my mom’s necklace. The broken clasp— fixed .
Michael’s voice drops to a soft murmur. “Gracie mentioned wedding traditions, so I got you the blue doves. Is it too late to give you something old?”
The haze fades as I look up at him, my heart suddenly so full and tight it hurts a little to breathe, words choking the back of my throat. “This…” I swallow. “I put it in my bedside drawer last night so I wouldn’t lose it today.”
“I know. I, uh… borrowed it. Had it fixed for you.”
I stare at him, speechless.
He scratches the back of his neck. “I wanted to get you something new, too, but I wasn’t sure what you’d like.” Then, with a teasing smirk, he adds. “But now I do—jewelry. Noted.”
A wobbly laugh escapes me as I trace the shield pendant. Slowly, I lift it from the box. “Thank you so much, Michael.”
His expression softens. Taking the necklace from my trembling fingers, he leans over me, carefully fastening it around my neck. “I’m going to take care of you,” he murmurs. “And spoil you. You won’t regret marrying me.”
Something inside me melts at the promise in his voice, and before I can think better of it, I throw my arms around him, hugging him fiercely.
I don’t know if I’ll regret marrying him or not.
But right now, I don’t think I will.