9. Gabriella
9
Gabriella
April
M arriages within crime families are often motivated by politics and alliances rather than genuine love or affection. An old tradition, but an effective one. Because nothing ties two families together more than a child produced from the marriage.
There was a time when dad tried to enter me into such a marriage with a family in Italy. I was sixteen at the time and the boy was only a few years older than me. I had no desire or interest in him or the idea of a future marriage. So I’m not ashamed to admit that I did everything in my power to make the boy miserable during his stay. So well, in fact, that he cried and went home right away. That was the last time Dad tried marrying me off.
Mom probably had something to do with that. She’s against the idea of arranged marriages more than anyone else. Dad and her have an epic love story. She came over from Italy to help care for his newborn twin sons, Michael and Raphael, after their mother died from complications of childbirth. Elena was her name and from the photos I’ve seen, she was a beautiful woman also. She was the daughter of the previous Russian Pakhan and in an arranged marriage to Dad. Granted, Dad says they were long-time friends before their marriage and while there was affection between them, it was never love. Not like the love he shares with Mom.
So when Dad made the marriage arrangement between Michael and Sophia Mikailhov, Russian Bratva leader Sergei's only child, it created such a tense atmosphere at home that I had to go on an extended vacation until Dad won back Mom’s forgiveness and love.
My phone beeps and I pull it from my clutch to look at the message.
Mom: We just got to the church. Where are you?
I glance out the windshield at the old stone church and the crowd of people gathering outside for the wedding.
Me: Five minutes out.
I secure my phone in my clutch, take a deep breath, and lean my head back on the headrest, sighing softly. Being at a wedding is the last thing I want after a long day of clinical rotations and classes, but the O’Learys are an allied family.
But that’s not the only reason I need the moment of quiet. Dimitri will be inside. I haven’t seen him since last month at the Playground where he spanked me for disobeying him and then fingered me into the most intense orgasm of my life. Since then…crickets. And it’s not for lack of trying. The day after, a new phone was delivered to my house with only one number programmed in it.
D
I’ve done my fair share of texting him but have gotten nothing since his first reply.
D: I will be in touch.
After a week of silence, I went to the Playground hoping to rile some kind of action from him but was turned away at the door. After two weeks, I threw the phone into the ocean. Only the very next day, a new phone appeared on my doorstep. So I took a hammer to it, boxed the tiny little pieces up and slapped a return to sender label on it. A week later, another phone showed up, this one in a gift box which was clearly not sent by a delivery service, and a note to keep this one or the punishment would be far worse than a spanking. I haven’t even bothered turning it on out of pure spite. But I have kept it. Until today, that is. Because today I intend to shove that phone in his hands and deliver an ultimatum of my own.
By the time I step inside, most of the guests have already gathered in the church’s main room. I turn to a mirror and quickly fix my hair and smooth out any wrinkles in my dress. Opening my clutch, I glance down to find my lip gloss—when I hear a voice I’ve only heard in my dreams for the past few weeks.
“You look lovely, angel.”
I lift my eyes to the mirror and freeze. Dimitri stands in the doorway of a hall and we’re alone.
Jesus, it should be a crime to look that ridiculously handsome in a suit. Has he always been this handsome? I’ve had plenty of time to think about that over the last few weeks. When did I first notice him? And when did the notice develop into attraction? It’s difficult to identify a specific moment because perhaps it wasn’t just one moment, but a series of small ones that eventually led to the nights at the Playground .
“What do you want, Mr. Volkov?” I’m proud of how little my voice shakes as I lean in toward the mirror to swipe gloss over my lips.
“You haven’t responded to my message.”
I snort lightly, pausing long enough to toss him an incredulous look in the mirror. “You mean the one message you sent to me last month?”
His icy eyes flash at my sarcasm, my attitude not lost on him. “I sent one last night.”
At this, I spin around, my dress twirling with the quick motion to glare at him. “Bullshit.”
“Language,” he warns.
“No. You don’t get to tell me to watch my language after ignoring me for a fucking month.” I lash out, ignoring the way his eyes burn this time, or how he closes the distance between us in three powerful steps.
“Do you need a reminder of what happens when you disobey me?”
I refuse to back down and meet his fiery gaze with one of my own. “That’s all I’ve wanted for the last month, but you have ignored every message, every attempt I’ve made to see you. So no, you don’t get to say something affectionate like ‘you look lovely angel’ and then expect me to fall to your feet when you claim you sent me a text last night after weeks of silence. I don’t deserve to be lied to.” I shove at his chest, but he barely moves an inch. The bastard. “Go fuck yourself, Dimitri.”
If ever there was a more dangerous way to stoke a fire, it would be with my words. It's throwing gasoline on the damn blaze.?
Dimitri stares at me with an intensity I feel everywhere. The emotions swirling in his eerie ice-blue eyes are so erratic, it’s hard to define one before another takes its place. It feels like I’m suffering from whiplash. My breath catches in my throat when I’m finally able to identify one emotion.
Grief.
And it takes me by surprise.
“Believe it or not, Gabriella, but I would never lie to you.” He trails off like he meant to say something more, but then stops himself. Like he’s at war with himself and the grief transforms into pain. The sight extinguishes the fiery tension between us, leaving only remnants of smoldering embers behind.
I open my mouth to say his name, but he’s already turning away. Panic fills me, like if he walks out of this room, that’ll be it. Like whatever this is between us will be over. Funny. I came in here intent on doing that very thing, but now I want to fight for it. Because the thought of losing the chance to explore this thing between us is heart wrenching.
Rushing after him, I grab his arm, tugging hard enough until he stops and turns around. His eyes drop to my hand and then back up to me. The pain from before is gone, replaced now by anger. I pull my hand away immediately, like his skin is suddenly on fire.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Dimitri, please.” My voice is soft as I try to plea with him. “I haven’t even turned the new phone on. I swear.”
His face remains hard, but the honesty in my words seems to break through a little of his anger. “Turn it on and decide.”
Poor Grace O’Leary. On her wedding day, her younger sister disappears. It’s still unclear whether she was taken or escaped on her own. I’m not a betting woman, but if I was, I’d definitely bet on the latter. If I was being forced to marry a man three times my age, I would have run, too.
I only met her younger sister, Rosaleen, once. At their mother’s wake, of all places. I remember seeing a little girl about my age run upstairs in tears. She had the most brilliant red hair that I thought looked like fire. And I was jealous. At that age, I thought my brown hair was dull and wanted something cool like red hair, even purple too, at one point. Mom indulged me with hair extensions of fun colors, but as I grew older, I learned to appreciate the natural beauty of my dark hair and have never colored it once.
I followed her up the stairs and to a bathroom, where she locked herself away inside. When I knocked, she yelled at me to go away. Her attitude for such a small person impressed me. I wish she had stuck around instead of going to stay with her uncle in Dublin. I think we would have been great friends.
It’s late in the evening by the time I make it home. These functions are exhausting no matter the reason for it. Personally, I’m surprised the wedding went on. If my sister disappeared one hour before I’m due to walk down the aisle, I would have been unable to get married. But my father isn’t a bastard like Grace’s. Patrick O’Leary is only interested in what Patrick O’Leary wants, and he wanted to see his eldest married to his second-in-command today.
Grace put on a brave face during the reception, and I wanted to comfort her, but we’re not the best of friends. We’re more like acquaintances who greet one another pleasantly at family events, but we’re not the pair to go get coffee casually. No matter though, I still whispered my congratulations and prayers for her sister in her ear before I leave. My only desire after that was to hurry home and switch on the phone, but as a DiAngelo, I had no choice but to remain for the family’s sake.
However, the moment I step inside my home, I hurry into my bedroom and then the nightstand. I open the drawer and take out the black phone. For a long second, I hold it in my hands and just stare at the dark screen. Am I a fool to hope there’s a message waiting for me when I turn it on? He said he would never lie to me. Am I a fool to hope that was true, too?
Feeling like the cat in the Schrodinger experiment, I won’t know either way until I turn it on. Pressing the power button, I watch as the screen lights up and the phone goes through its usual startup routine, finally revealing the generic home screen.
I wait with bated breath for the truth to reveal itself. Am I a fool? Or was he telling the truth?
A second later, a message appears with the familiar dinging alert sound.
Without hesitation, I click on the message.
Unknown: Yes or no?
I frown at the three words. Yes or no? What the fuck does that mean? Yes or no to what?
It could mean anything.
It could mean everything.
Dimitri said to decide.
So I do.
Me: Yes.