Chapter 4 #2
The sound was satisfying—a clean rip through heavy paper—so I did it again. And again. Smaller and smaller pieces until the elegant handwriting was nothing but confetti in my palms. I walked to the bathroom, dropped the pieces into the toilet, and flushed.
The water swirled them away. Gone. Like they'd never existed.
Good.
The flowers were harder. The vase was heavy, the lilies stubborn, their stems thick and their petals soft.
I carried the whole arrangement to the bathroom trash can—the largest one in the suite—and shoved it in.
The vase hit the bottom with a thunk. The lilies crushed against the sides, their funeral sweetness releasing in a final rush as stems snapped and petals bruised.
I pushed them down harder. Broke more stems. Watched the pristine white flowers crumple into something ugly and ruined.
By the time I was done, my hands were steady.
Small victory. But it was mine.
I washed my hands—twice, three times, until the pollen stains were gone and the smell of lilies had faded from my skin. Then I walked through the suite, checking locks, drawing curtains, making sure every entry point was secured.
He would not get to me. Not tonight. Not ever again.
But later—much later—when I was lying in the too-large hotel bed with the city lights bleeding through the curtains and the silence pressing against my ears like something alive, I couldn't stop my mind from circling.
Enzo's hungry gaze across the reception hall.
Dante's shuttered face when I offered condolences.
The wedding that waited for me in three days like an open grave.
Sleep, when it finally came, was thin and full of shadows.
My father's text arrived at seven-fifteen, the message as economical as the man himself: "Breakfast. 8am. We need to discuss the timeline."
No greeting. No question mark suggesting I had a choice.
I showered, dressed, and armored myself with the same care I'd taken before the funeral.
Cream blouse, silk, conservative neckline. Tailored trousers in navy that my stylist in New York had assured me read as "professional but feminine"—whatever that meant. Pearl studs again, because I didn't own jewelry that wasn't appropriate for meetings with disapproving patriarchs.
Hair pulled back. Makeup subtle. The costume of a daughter who knew her place.
I arrived at his suite at precisely eight o'clock. Not a minute early, not a minute late. My father respected punctuality the way he respected useful things—noted, appreciated, never rewarded.
The door was propped open. I knocked once and entered.
His suite was twice the size of mine, the living area dominated by a dining table that could seat six but currently held only my father and his breakfast. Eggs.
Toast. Coffee in a china cup that the hotel probably kept specifically for guests like him—the kind who would notice if the tableware wasn't up to standard.
He was reading something on his tablet, his reading glasses perched on his nose, his attention fixed on whatever quarterly reports or intelligence briefings or acquisition documents occupied his morning. He didn't look up when I entered.
"Sit. There's coffee."
I sat. Poured myself coffee I didn't want. Wrapped my hands around the cup because it gave them something to do.
"The wedding has been moved to Saturday."
The words landed like stones in still water. I felt the ripples before I processed the meaning.
"Saturday." I kept my voice level. Neutral. The voice of a woman receiving information, not protesting it. "That's three days."
"The Carusos want to present a united front quickly.
" He still hadn't looked up from his tablet, his finger swiping through pages, his attention clearly elsewhere.
"Show the other families that the alliance is solid despite Vito's death.
The sooner you're married, the sooner everyone stops wondering if the deal is still good. "
The sooner I'm sold, I didn't say. The sooner the transaction is complete.
"I understand."
Three days. Seventy-two hours to prepare for a wedding I'd been dreading since I was twelve years old, to a man I'd exchanged exactly one sentence with, in a city where I knew no one and nothing and had no allies.
"What's he like?" The question escaped before I could stop it—the one thing I actually wanted to know, the information my father had never bothered to provide. "Dante. What should I expect?"
My father waved a dismissive hand, still not looking up. "He's a good man. Honorable. His father raised him right." A pause while he read something on the screen, his brow furrowing slightly at whatever it said. "You'll be safe with him."
Safe.
The word sat between us like a joke no one was laughing at.
"That's not really an answer," I said. Pushing, for once. Testing the edges of what I was allowed to ask. "Does he have expectations? For the marriage, for the—"
"Your expectation." He looked up at me finally, his eyes flat and assessing, the way they always were when he was calculating cost versus benefit. "Is to be a good wife."
I waited.
"Support him. Give him children when the time comes. Don't embarrass the family." He said it like a checklist, like he was reading off requirements for a job posting. Support. Children. Don't embarrass. "That's what you were raised to do. That's what you'll do."
I opened my mouth—to ask what, I wasn't sure. What if I'm not happy? What if he's cruel? What if this marriage destroys me the way Enzo almost did?
But my father had already returned to his tablet, his attention sliding off me like water off glass.
"Sofia will arrive this afternoon to help you prepare. I've arranged for a dress fitting at three." He swiped to a new page. "The dress came from Milan—Valentino, I'm told. Very appropriate. You'll wear your grandmother's pearls for the ceremony."
"Papa—"
"That's all, Gemma." He said it without looking up, the dismissal as casual as if I'd been a servant asking if he needed anything else. "I have calls to make. Close the door on your way out."
I sat there for a moment longer, staring at the top of his head. The silver threading through his dark hair. The liver spots beginning to show on his scalp. The way his jaw moved slightly as he read, chewing on thoughts the way he chewed on his enemies' weaknesses.
This was my father. The man who'd promised me away before I could read. The man who'd watched Enzo humiliate me at sixteen and calculated the damage to his reputation instead of the damage to his daughter. The man who saw me as a bloodline and a bridge and nothing more.
Something inside me calcified.
It wasn't new—this hardening, this turning to stone.
I'd been doing it in pieces since I was old enough to understand what I was to this family.
But sitting here, dismissed from my own future, told to be a good wife without being given any information about what that meant or who I'd be married to, I felt the last soft edges crystallize into something cold and sharp.
I stood.
"Thank you for the update." My voice came out smooth. Polite. The voice of a good daughter accepting her father's wisdom. "I'll be ready for the fitting at three."
Iescaped to the hotel lobby with the excuse of needing air, though what I really needed was to be somewhere my father's expectations couldn't find me.
The Peninsula's lobby was all marble floors and muted elegance, the kind of space designed to make wealthy people feel like they belonged while subtly reminding everyone else that they didn't. I found an armchair in a quiet corner—high-backed, angled away from the main flow of traffic—and settled into it with a magazine I had no intention of reading.
The pages were glossy. The articles promised insights into fall fashion and Chicago's best new restaurants. I stared at photographs of women in expensive clothes and saw nothing.
I turned a page without registering what was on it.
My phone buzzed in my lap.
I glanced at the screen automatically—expecting Sofia confirming the dress fitting, or my father with another directive disguised as information—and felt my brow furrow at the unfamiliar number.
A Chicago area code. No contact name.
For one terrible second, I thought: Enzo.
I opened it anyway, my thumb hovering over the screen.
"Hi Gemma - this is Donatella Caruso. I got your number from my brother (don't worry, I threatened him until he handed it over).
I know this is weird and you probably have a million things to do, but you're about to become my sister-in-law and you don't know anyone in Chicago and that seems like it sucks.
Coffee tomorrow? I know a place that makes these ridiculous lavender lattes that will either change your life or make you question my taste completely.
No pressure. But also yes pressure because I'm annoying and I'll just keep texting until you say yes. ??"
I read it three times.
The first time, I was looking for the threat. The subtle dig disguised as friendliness. The agenda hidden under the warmth.
The second time, I just read. Letting the words sink in without my defenses dissecting them.
You don't know anyone in Chicago and that seems like it sucks.
It did suck. It sucked enormously.
But here was this woman—this stranger who happened to share a last name with my future husband—reaching out because she'd noticed.
Because she'd thought about what it might feel like to be me, in this place, at this moment.
Because she'd decided, for no apparent reason, that I shouldn't have to face it alone.
I waited for the suspicion to crystallize into certainty. For my instincts to flag the danger, the manipulation, the angle she was playing.
Nothing came.
Just warmth. Just chaos. Just a purple heart emoji and a promise to be annoying until I said yes.