Chapter 4 #2
My mother said I was too shy. Too sensitive. Too much inside my own head. But Martina noticed the patterns she dismissed. The way I’d stiffen at physical contact. The distress I couldn’t hide when something in my routine changed. The inconsolable panic attacks I was punished for.
It was Martina who took me for a formal evaluation, and when I received my diagnosis, everything started to make sense.
I understood why it felt like I was dropped onto another planet, in a world where I didn’t speak the language or know the culture.
It was a relief to have an explanation—until it wasn’t.
I’ll never forget my parents’ anger when Martina told them. She reminded my mother that I was like my father, who she loved. Angie told her I was nothing like him and never would be, then Michael expressly forbade either of us from ever mentioning the words autism or ADHD in his house again.
They made me feel wrong, and in turn, I spent the rest of my childhood and teens learning to suppress my emotions. I’d foolishly thought that if I did everything right, I’d earn their approval. But it never came.
When Michael glances at me now, glowering at my ballet-pink satin dress, it’s never been more obvious.
“What are you wearing, Gabriela?” His lips press into a thin line. “Are you trying to embarrass me?”
“What’s wrong with it?” I glance down in confusion. It’s a dress Abella gave me, and it’s a designer brand.
My mother looks me over, mirroring Michael’s disapproval, as she usually does.
I shove down the emotion swelling inside my chest, trying to numb myself. I can’t let them make me cry. It will only make things worse.
“Do you want me to go home and change?” I ask.
“There isn’t time.” Michael shakes his head in annoyance. “You better not mess this up tonight, you hear me?"
“Okay.” I force a nod.
“And hand that little yapper over to your guard. You shouldn’t have even brought him.”
Reluctantly, I hand Beppe’s tote to Julian, who’s not even bothering to hide his scowl.
My stepfather doesn’t know that Mariella helped me through her connections with a referral to a psychologist. After an evaluation, I was granted an ESA letter.
It doesn’t give Beppe the same rights as a service animal, but most people don’t mind if I bring him with me, and I always ask first. I checked with Mrs. Venturi before we came here the first time, and she assured me it wasn’t an issue.
Beppe usually stays in his tote and doesn’t bother anyone, and he helps with my anxiety when I’m able to pet him.
Michael can’t be bothered to care about that, and if he could, he’d probably take us both to the pound.
I follow my parents to the door, and Julian trails after us. Typically, my guard would wait outside, but apparently, he didn’t get the memo. Since Michael hasn’t noticed, I don’t say anything, because it will be a relief just to have Beppe nearby.
The door swings open before we can even knock, and we’re greeted by the butler.
While the Venturis are enmeshed with the Mafia, they tend to lean more toward The Society’s old-money aesthetic.
They would never utter the words Cosa Nostra in polite company, but everyone knows that’s where the bulk of their wealth came from.
The butler offers us a formal welcome, then leads us through the house into the drawing room. It’s a grand space, filled with art, expensive furniture, and a chandelier that’s probably visible from Mars.
Mr. and Mrs. Venturi are already seated, awaiting our arrival.
“Please make yourselves comfortable.” Mrs. Venturi gestures to the sofa. “Riccardo will be along shortly.”
We take our seats, and the butler prepares Michael a drink at the bar cart.
A long, awkward moment stretches between us as we all stare at one another, waiting for someone to speak. Naturally, my mother is the first to take a stab at it.
“I just love that painting.” She points a long red claw at the framed piece on the wall. “Is that a Monet?”
Mrs. Venturi can barely hide her horror over the way my mom pronounced it Mow-net, so Mr. Venturi takes it upon himself to answer.
“It’s a Van Gogh.”
“Ahh.” Mom snaps her fingers. “That was gonna be my second guess.”
“You were so close, honey.” Michael pats her thigh. “Wasn’t that the guy who dropped acid while he painted?”
“Actually, some historians think his fascination with yellow may have been xanthopsia,” I say. “It’s a side effect of foxglove treatment that alters color perception.”
“That’s right.” Mr. Venturi nods at me approvingly.
My parents both shoot me a glare, and I shrink into myself. The pressure to perform socially is hard enough, and in their eyes, everything I say is wrong. The situation doesn’t improve when Mr. Venturi studies me, swirling the drink in his hand.
“You know, Gabi,” he deadpans. “They say Van Gogh couldn’t hear criticism.”
I stare at him blankly, failing to read the emotion on his face. That panicky feeling in my chest spreads as I try to think of an appropriate response. The seconds tick by, and I know it’s already been too long. My mask is starting to slip.
“Because of his ear.” He smiles.
It takes me a moment to register that he’s joking. Sometimes it’s hard to tell—especially if I’m not familiar with someone’s tone or expressions.
“Oh, right.” I laugh awkwardly.
“That’s hilarious.” Mom smacks her gum and slaps Michael on the leg. “Isn’t it, honey?”
Michael’s brows knit together as he nods, and I’m fairly certain neither of them understood the joke. But I’m not about to point that out.
The room falls into uncomfortable silence until finally, Riccardo arrives.
My future husband is a cousin of the Vitales, but he wasn’t blessed with the same god-like genetics.
Everything about him is average—from his height to his physique.
His hair is a mousy-brown color, and his eyes are usually bloodshot.
Tonight, he reeks of alcohol, and one of his shirt tails hangs askew from his pants.
“Hey, Gabi.” He tosses me a wink before he spares my parents a glance. “Are we ready to get this party started?”
“Riccardo.” His mother hisses. “Tuck in your shirt.”
He stuffs his hand into his pants, letting it linger there as he raises a brow at me. If this were a National Geographic episode, I suspect they might describe this as the strange mating display of a peacock. Rather than feathers, Riccardo wants me to know he does, in fact, have a penis.
Nobody acknowledges his behavior, but Mrs. Venturi rushes us to the dinner table before it’s even announced.
I have the misfortune of being seated next to Riccardo, and he stares at me throughout the entire first course.
At one point, he shifts closer, and I nearly choke on the perfume wafting from his clothes.
When I steal a glance at his shirt, I also notice a lipstick stain smudged against his collar.
Apparently, he’s been practicing his mating behavior with some other poor soul.
“You look hot tonight.” He leans in, breathing down my neck.
In an effort to avert my gaze, I cast it downward, only to regret it when I see him adjusting the erection in his trousers.
I feel like I want to vomit, and this dinner can’t end soon enough. By the time the second course is served, he’s already downed three glasses of vodka.
His mother gestures for the butler and whispers something in his ear, and I suspect he starts serving Riccardo water after that.
“Gabriela, why don’t you tell us about your final year of school?” Mrs. Venturi suggests.
I shift in my chair, tension winding its way through my body as everyone stares at me.
Design is a special interest of mine, and admittedly, I could talk about it all night.
But I know most people don’t actually want to hear all the details, and what they really expect is a summary.
I do better when I have a chance to mentally prepare my answers, but I try to keep it simple.
“It’s my capstone year, so I’m working on my senior collection.”
“Interesting.” Mrs. Venturi nods politely. “And what does that entail exactly?”
“Well, I’ll need to design an original fashion collection and present it in a runway show before the end of the year.”
“Oh, that sounds fun. I’d love to see what you come up with.”
“You must be taking a light course load,” Mr. Venturi remarks. “Remind me again, you’re in your sixth year?”
“I am. I’ll graduate when I’m twenty-four, but this is a sustainable pace for me.”
I leave out the fact that I vacillate between hyperfocus and burnout because my parents would be angry if I mentioned it.
But I struggle with perfectionism and overwhelm, especially in a class setting where external factors are beyond my control.
Having a lighter course load makes everything more manageable, and I’ve been able to adapt my schedule to accommodate my delayed sleep phase cycle.
“And what about the business side of things?” Mr. Venturi asks. “Do they teach you that as well?”
“Yes, actually. Part of this year’s project is creating a business plan and pitching it. We also study pricing, retail strategy, and supply chain logistics—”
“What’s wrong with this steak?” Riccardo picks it up with his fingers and slaps it against the plate. “It tastes like shoe leather.”
“It’s filet mignon,” his mother corrects him. “And it’s cooked perfectly.”
“Charles!” Riccardo bellows. “Get in here.”
The butler appears a moment later, a grim expression on his face. “Is there a problem, sir?”
“Yes, there’s a problem.” Riccardo spits. “Take this back to the chef and shove it down his throat. See how he likes it.”
“Riccardo!” His mother pales as she shakes her head. “Charles, please get him a cup of coffee. He’s not feeling himself tonight.”
“As you wish.” Charles takes his leave without any further encouragement, and I wish I could do the same.
Somehow, the dinner goes on as everyone pretends Riccardo didn’t just have a child-sized tantrum. After two cups of coffee, he seems to have sobered up slightly, but it does nothing to improve his personality.
His hand grazes the back of my chair, and I stiffen. He’s barely listened to a word I’ve said all evening, and now he’s trying to grope me.
I glance at him, and he doesn’t bother to hide what he’s thinking about. Another wave of nausea hits as I remember that at some point, I’ll have to let this man touch me.
Thankfully, Charles interrupts the moment, quietly approaching Michael.
“Sir, I’m very sorry to disturb you, but I’ve just had a call from your security. They tried to reach you, but kept getting your voicemail. There appears to have been an incident at your home. Apparently, one of your vehicles has been vandalized.”
“What the fuck?” Michael tosses his napkin onto the table. “Which vehicle?”
“A Hummer, I believe.”
“Not the Hummer,” Mom cries out.
“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll fuckin’ kill ’em, whoever they are.” Michael rises from his seat. “We have to go.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Venturi exhales a visible sigh of relief. “Please don’t let us keep you.”
I slip out of my chair without any decorum, scuttling after my parents as they make a quick escape.
“Thank you!” I call out over my shoulder.
“See you again soon,” Mr. Venturi responds.
Yeah, hopefully in the next century.