Chapter 17 Viviana
VIVIANA
Time is running out. It slips through my fingers like sand in an hourglass. All I can do is watch it flow without mercy or regard for my wishes.
Ever since I met Tristan, I held no power whatsoever over the heart he claimed, over the body he turned into his plaything, and over my unfair situation.
It’s been six months, and this weekend is the last time I’ll be with him before my engagement is announced. I can’t do anything to stop that either.
I have no idea how I will manage being with someone else when the idea is so repugnant to me that bile rises in my throat. I can taste the acidic bitterness on my tongue, permanently stuck to my taste buds.
I’ve fallen so deeply in love with him that nothing can rip him out of my soul. He carved his name into my being with bold letters—unerasable.
Nothing hurts more than misleading the man I love. But Tristan is not a man willing to understand my precarious situation, accepting that I have no say, even less.
For him, us ending up together is a done deal, as easy as him putting a stamp of ownership on my body and heart, deeming me his. Not that I am not.
“Deep in thought over there,” Evie says as she watches me pack my suitcase.
For the last time.
Tears prickle my eyes. A vicious current traps me, threatening to drown me.
She notices my disheveled state and rushes to my side. “It’s going to be all right,” she says, tone gentle.
I sigh, the sound ringing of destitution. Nothing will ever be the same.
How could it be?
Not being with him will kill me, agonizingly slowly, like an incurable sickness. It eludes me how people deal with an arranged marriage while their hearts yearn for someone else.
She hugs me in silent support, and I take comfort from her, needing it.
I’ve debated with myself for weeks in a row. Nights lying wide awake, considering how to tell him the truth. How to break up with the man I love and crave because I am arranged to marry another.
Every time someone has tried to talk to me about my fiancé, I shoot it down.
Dario did his best to get me out of my impending marriage by even suggesting we marry instead. I knew he would try. But the decision has been made. The merger happened. Women in the mafia are nothing but bargaining chips.
The only one overjoyed was my father, who said I’ll marry a man who has amassed astounding power. His not being Italian didn’t seem to matter. For my father to respect another man, he must be a formidable businessman and a proficient criminal.
That’s the thing with men in the mafia. The business only appears legit. Behind the prim and proper exterior hides an entire operation that demands blood and is built on the ashes of your enemies.
I’ve been surrounded by killers all my life. What’s one more to be married to? Violence is men’s amorphous mistress in our world in case they don’t have others.
My phone rings, and when I see Dario’s name, dejection ripples through me.
He proposed saying that we’re so deeply in love that we want to be together.
His suggestion didn’t work. My friend can charm like no one else, but behind the facade lurks something else, making me wonder who my future husband is, that not even Dario could have stopped the marriage.
Even if I considered the solution at some point, it’s another form of settling–accepting. Marrying him would feel like a betrayal—to my heart and to Tristan. That’s another reason I postponed finding out more about my official fiancé.
“Hi, you,” I say, putting him on speaker so I can continue packing for the weekend.
“I could kill the fucker,” he grits out.
Evie snorts beside me. “Hi, Dario.”
“How are you?” he asks her, genuinely interested.
He has been a friend to Evie as well. Their relationship developing during our college years.
“Just want to be done with college and move to New York.”
“I have little influence over there, so don’t do anything reckless,” he informs her.
We exchange secret glances. “Don’t worry. New York will be my playground.”
It’s his turn to snort.
“See you next weekend,” I say, hanging up.
I refuse to call it an engagement, even when it’s only a few days away.
I need one more weekend with the man I love, and hopefully by Sunday, I will have the guts to tell him we must stop seeing each other. That the secret relationship lasted so long borders on a miracle. I’ve risked too much, including his well-being. I can’t continue being selfish and reckless.
Powerful men are driven by colossal egos with narcissistic tendencies. They don’t want their fiancée to fuck someone else. If my future husband is what people whisper about him, he won’t have any issue killing my lover to prove a point.
In the Mafia, feelings don’t matter. It’s all about duty and responsibility.
“I don’t want to lose him. I don’t know what to do.”
Looking at me through glassy eyes, her voice cracks. “Everything happens for a reason. Remember that. Besties forever?”
“Besties forever.”
Tristan is never late, so I roll my small suitcase, the wheels turning with a destination clear in mind.
Sucking in a lungful of air to fortify myself, I allow myself a moment simply to contemplate him.
I’ve been doing that more and more lately as if to memorize him in every posture.
Replaying in my mind every stolen moment, reliving every enthralling feeling, and how my entire being lit up the moment I’d see him.
No one will look at me like he does, making me feel all kinds of things until I am dizzy on my feet, breath hitching from the sheer intensity—a mix of passionate love and raw adoration, sprinkled with unapologetic obsession staring back at me.
I believe him when he says he’s mad about me.
The end of spring boasts a full bloom, painting the landscape in lush pastels, but my inner world is dying.
Such a contrast to last fall. Even as everything around me was decaying, love blossomed.
When winter broke, passion kept me warm, overshadowing the icy temperatures.
Yet once the season of rebirth rolled in, I faced a merciless end.
I could run away with him. That thought has taken center stage in my brain. Go away where no one could find us, but it’s just a beautiful dream, a fantasy.
Love would switch to survival. I could never relax with someone hunting us down. The pressure would strain our relationship, chew up every beautiful feeling and spit them out.
Desire would switch to remorse. He would upend his life for me, but he needs stability, his work. Without his coping mechanisms, his demons would devour him. At some point, I’d miss my family.
Our situation is hopeless.
Doomed before we even began.
He climbs out of the car, yanking me out of the mental trap and kicking my legs into action.
I run to him as if I sprout wings, knowing in his arms I will find heaven—a fragile bird soaring.
He catches me with ease, twirling me before he places me down. Framing my face, he kisses me breathless.
That’s so him—tender yet demanding, gentle yet consuming.
“I love you, Tristan,” I whisper, overcome by raw emotion, needing him to believe the absolute and irrefutable truth of my life. Our love should be enough, not forbidden or catastrophic.
“Promise me you’ll love me, regardless,” he says, his tone urgent. “That you trust me. My love. That—”
I cut him off, aware of his need, our hearts speaking a common language, honoring their sacred connection. “I do. I will. Nothing would change my love for you. I am yours.”
Something dark flashes in his deep brown eyes that only thrills me. “You promised.”
“I’m your good girl like that.”
“You tease,” he grins and grabs my suitcase. With his palm on my back, he urges me into the car.
For a few moments, I don’t move. Just stare at his silver, one-of-a-kind car, and gulp. This is the last time it will bring me to the beach house.
He places a kiss on my forehead; the sweet gesture frees me from despair’s clutches.
Inside the car, I buckle myself in and watch as he drives—assured, like in everything else. If I only had a smidge of his confidence, I could run the world.
I hate every woman who will come after me.
I hate that he will be with someone else.
I hate. Hate. Hate.
“What is it, mo run? You look pretty keen for violence,” he says, sounding worried.
I sigh, my heart deflating. “Just thinking about you with someone else.”
“That’s what you’re thinking when I am literally with you?” he asks, incredulity thick in his voice.
“It sounded more rational in my head.”
His palm envelops mine before he brings it to his chest. “Your jealousy is cute, but I don’t see other women. I don’t want other women. I won’t be with someone else. Only ever you.” He says it like an oath.
“You still love me?”
He chuckles, but his tone is etched in stone. “I’ll never stop loving you.”
The assurance should soothe me, but we’re together, and he gave me no reason to doubt his faithfulness. I picture that happening in the future, and I can’t change the outcome. I won’t have a say in that, and there’s no reason to be jealous.
“I never spent an entire night with someone else, Viviana.”
I wiggle my brows, going for some much-needed levity. “I’m the only one? Lucky me.”
His eyes bore into mine, tugging at my heartstrings. “I wouldn’t consider that luck.”
I swat his arm, giggling, but it sounds dim, echoing with defeat. The cloud of knowledge hangs over my head, pouring cold realization on me.
I don’t want to talk about our impending separation, but I must ease him into it.
“I have to go home next weekend.”
He nods, a noncommittal sound rumbling in his chest.
I stare at him as if he grew a new head. His simply agreeing without negotiating takes me by surprise.
Just to be sure, I palm his forehead, checking for a fever. “Are you all right? The last time I said we can’t meet on a weekend, you weren’t as agreeable.”
“I can be reasonable.”
I pin him with a knowing look. “Right.”
He jerks his chin at me, staring at me with sharp conviction. “And you’re nervous. Why?”