Chapter 11 Savannah
Savannah
The morning feels wrong, too bright, too quiet. Quiet like the world is holding its breath and waiting to see if I survive my own wedding.
I wake up before anyone knocks, not because I’m rested, but because my body doesn’t believe in sleep anymore.
Sleep used to be something that came to you.
Now it stalks you. Now it circles. Now it waits until you drop your guard, and then it leaves you wide awake in the dark with memories that don’t ask permission.
The sheets are still too white, too smooth, too perfect. I lie in them like a stain that has not been scrubbed out yet. I stare at the ceiling until my eyes burn, and then I sit up.
My heart is already beating hard, my stomach is already tight, my hands are already shaking. I hate them. I hate how honest they are. I press my palms flat on my thighs, hard, like pressure can pin the tremors down, like pain can make my body behave. It doesn’t stop.
The room smells like expensive soap and fresh linen with a faint trace of cologne that doesn’t belong to me.
Everything here smells like someone else’s.
The air is warm, but my skin is cold anyway.
When I stand, my toes curl against the floor.
Cold keeps you awake. Cold keeps you from floating away.
A knock comes, Then a woman’s voice through the door. “Miss Amato.”
Miss. Not Savannah. Not anything that matters.
My throat tightens as I open the door. Two women stand there with garment bags and cosmetic cases.
Their hair is pinned up tight against their heads.
Their faces are blank and their eyes look to the floor.
One cartel guard stands behind them like a reminder, arms folded, eyes scanning the hall.
The women don’t look at him. They don’t need to. They already know what he can do.
“Come in,” I whisper.
They enter fast, efficient, quiet, like they have done this a hundred times. One of them lays fabric across the bed. Ivory. Soft. Expensive. Not pure white. Of course not. Not a wedding dress. A costume. A pretty lie you wear while men decide what you are.
My stomach rolls.
One woman lifts it carefully. “This is from Mr. Gonzalez.”
Mr. Not Gabriel. Not your husband. Just a man buying a bride and calling it a treaty.
I swallow hard. The other woman starts brushing my hair. The bristles catch on a knot and pull once. My body jerks, not dramatic, just real. My breath catches like someone tightened a hand around my throat. The woman freezes.
“Sorry.”
I nod too fast, too eager, like I am trying to erase my reaction before anyone sees it. “it’s fine,” I lie.
It’s not fine. Everything touches me too loud now. Everything feels like it’s taking something from me.
The dress goes on and it fits like it was made for my body. That makes me feel worse, because it means someone measured me. Someone discussed my waist and my hips and my chest. They lace the back tight, secure, and my chest tightens as the fabric closes around me.
“Breathe,” one woman says softly.
I try. My breath still feels thin, like air doesn’t want to belong to me today. They set a veil on my head, a thin layer of softness pretending it’s protection. The guard in the hall shifts and his boots scrape quietly against stone. Sound is sharper here. Everything echoes inside my head.
Another knock.
This time the door opens without waiting.
Gabriel steps inside like he owns the air. Black suit. Crisp. Perfect. No tie. Just pure dominance. He’s six foot two, muscular and stocky, with black hair cut close to his scalp. His eyes land on me, and the room changes. I feel it in my skin, in my bones, in my lungs.
His gaze moves over the dress, the veil, the stiffness in my shoulders, the way my hands are clenched so tight my nails hurt. He doesn’t smile, but his eyes darken.
He looks at the women. “Out.”
They move immediately, fast, quiet, gone. The door closes. Now it’s just me and him.
My heart pounds against my ribs. Gabriel steps closer, closing the distance like he is closing a deal. He stops in front of me and lifts his hands, adjusting the front of my dress with small, precise movements, like he is straightening his own property for inspection.
My body locks. My breath freezes.
He notices.
His eyes sharpen and his voice drops. “Look at me.”
I force my eyes up. His gaze holds mine like a hand around my throat, just reminding me who decides.
“You will not shake today,” he says.
I swallow. “I can’t help it.”
His mouth tightens as he steps closer, voice lower. “Yes. You can. Because if you shake, they’ll think you’re weak.”
My throat tightens. “They already think I’m weak.”
Gabriel’s eyes flash. “Then we teach them they’re wrong.”
The words hit my chest like something hot. Power. A kind of power that feels dangerous to carry.
He turns his head slightly toward the hall. “Bring her.”
The door opens. The women return. Their eyes stay lowered and their movements are smaller now. They are trying not to move or even breathe wrong.
Gabriel gestures and I walk.
My legs feel like they don’t belong to me. The hallway is lined with men, cartel men. Their eyes watch me like I am a spectacle, like I am entertainment, like they are placing bets in their heads. My skin crawls.
I keep my chin up. I keep my mouth soft. I keep my eyes forward. I don’t look at them. Looking invites them.
Gabriel walks beside me, close. Close enough that his shoulder brushes mine once. My body flinches, not on purpose, a reflex. His hand moves instantly, hovering near my waist, not touching skin but marking territory. A warning to them, not to me.
We don’t go to a church. We don’t go to a chapel. We go to an office inside the estate that smells like ink and old money and decisions that were made without me.
Dark wood. Heavy desk. Two chairs placed too neatly in front of it like someone staged a life. A small cross on the wall that feels like decoration, not faith. Papers stacked in perfect order. A pen waiting.
Cassio is already there. Stone faced. Cold. Sitting back like a judge. He looks at me once. His eyes flicker. Then he goes blank again, like I am not his sister today, like I’m not a person, like I am a package he has already delivered.
Juan stands near the door, arms folded, silent. Witness. Guard. Reminder.
No crowd. No music. No aisle. Just this room. Two men is still an audience when you’re the one on display.
Gabriel guides me forward and positions me where he wants me. Beside him. . Like I’m part of the deal and the proof it’s real.
A man I don’t know stands near the desk with a folder. Not a priest. Not a preacher. A lawyer. A notary. Someone whose job is to turn a signature into a wife and call it lawful.
He clears his throat and starts reading. Italian first. Then Spanish. Then English. Words about unity. Words about honor. Words about peace. Every word sounds like a lie.
I focus on breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
Gabriel’s thumb strokes once over my knuckles. A small touch. It makes my stomach twist, because it feels like comfort, and comfort from men is never free.
The man asks the questions. Do you accept. Do you vow. Do you promise. My throat tightens. The room waits, Cassio and Juan waiting to see if my voice cracks, if my body betrays me, if I make this harder for them than it already is.
Gabriel answers first.
“I do.”
Firm. Deadly. Certain.
Then the man looks at me.
My lips part. My lungs freeze. My mind flashes bleach, a locked door, a voice in my ear saying I belong to him now. My fingers tremble in Gabriel’s hand. His grip tightens, not painful. A reminder.
You are here. You are alive. You will speak.
I force the words out.
“I do.”
My voice doesn’t crack. Relief hits hard. Relief that feels like shame.
The rings come. Gold. Heavy. Shackles disguised as jewelry. Gabriel slides the ring onto my finger, slow and deliberate. His eyes never leave mine, like he is watching for fear, like he is watching for surrender.
Then I slide the ring onto his finger. My hand shakes. I hate it, but I do it.
The man closes the folder like that ends something.
“By the authority vested in me,” he says, voice flat, business. “You are husband and wife.”
The room exhales. Not because it’s romantic. Because the deal is done.
Gabriel turns toward me and my body locks, instinct sharp. His mouth touches mine, short, controlled, for witnesses. His lips are warm. His touch is not soft. Not rough either. Just possession made public in the smallest way possible.
He pulls back and his voice is low enough only I can hear.
“Smile.”
I do. My cheeks hurt.
* * *
Cassio stands first. He steps forward and looks at Gabriel, not me. Men shaking hands over a woman’s body like it’s a contract. Juan watches the door the entire time.
No applause. No cameras. Just the sound of paper sliding back into a folder and the quiet finality of it.
Then Gabriel’s hand is at my back, firm, guiding. We move down a side hall.
He opens a door.
A suite. Candles. Soft light. Fresh linen. Underneath it all smoke and cologne and something sharp that feels like danger.
He closes the door. Clicks the lock.
My body reacts instantly. Breath catches. Gabriel watches me. He doesn’t rush. He sets his jacket on a chair. He loosens his cuffs. Slow. Deliberate. Like he is giving me time.
Time doesn’t help. My heart pounds harder.
“We’re married,” he says.
“Yes,” I whisper.
His gaze drops to my ring, then back to my face. “Tell me what you’re afraid of.”
The question slices. My throat closes. If I answer, the memories come. If the memories come, I disappear.
Gabriel’s eyes narrow. He reaches up and lifts the veil from my hair, slow and careful. My body still flinches. He pauses. His jaw flexes. Then he lowers his hand.
“Look at me.”
I do.
His eyes are dark. But something is there, restraint, focus, like he expected a different kind of bride. He steps close enough that I can smell him. Smoke. Leather. Heat.
“You are my wife,” he says. “You belong to me.”
Belong.
My stomach drops. My skin crawls. Belong is a trigger. Belong is what they said to me when I was ten. Belong is what they said right before they hurt me. My breath turns shallow. My hands start shaking again.
Gabriel sees it. His hand reaches toward me.
My body jerks back instinctively. A full flinch. Not small. Not hidden. A violent reflex.
Gabriel freezes. His hand stops midair. His face changes. Understanding, sharp and dark and immediate.
“You’re not inexperienced because you’re shy,” he says quietly.
My throat closes. I can’t speak. My eyes burn.
Gabriel lowers his hand slowly and steps back one pace.
Then he says the sentence that slams into me like something unreal.
“Nothing happens unless you say yes.”
My chest cracks. Men don’t say that. Men like him don’t say that.
“Do you understand,” he asks.
My throat works. One word fights its way out. “Yes.”
Gabriel nods once. Then his voice drops even lower. “But you will not lie to me,” he says. “Not about this.”
“I” My voice cracks. Shame floods hot.
Gabriel’s jaw flexes. He steps closer again, slower, and reaches for my hands.
I stare at his hands like they’re dangerous. They are. But they are also steady. I place my hands in his. My fingers tremble. He holds them firm.
“I don’t let anyone make me look like a fool,” he says. “But there’s a line I won’t cross. I won’t hurt you.”
That sentence hits a part of me that has been bracing for impact my whole life. I did not realize I was still bracing.
He lifts my hands and kisses my knuckles. A small touch. My eyes burn.
He releases me and picks up a glass of water, holding it out. “Drink.”
Still a command, but different. Softer.
I take it. I drink. My throat hurts. Everything hurts.
Gabriel watches me, and then his voice changes, harder, sharper. “Tell me who touched you.”
My body goes still. My lungs freeze. The room tilts. Bleach fills my nose again. Metal fills my mouth. My hands shake so hard the water sloshes.
Gabriel steps forward, voice tight. “Savannah.”
He says my name like he is forcing me to stay in my body. “Tell me.”
My throat closes. My voice is a whisper. “Bratva.”
One word. A confession.
Gabriel’s face turns lethal, murderous. “Mikhail,” he says, not a question, a conclusion.
I shake my head as tears finally break free. “Not him,” I whisper. “Men. His men.”
Gabriel’s jaw clenches. His eyes stay locked on mine, and in that moment I see it. A silent vow.
He steps closer and cups my face with one hand, tilting my chin up. “You will never be touched again,” he says.
My chest cracks, because I want to believe him, because believing him is dangerous, because hope is the most expensive thing a woman like me can hold.
Gabriel lowers his hand and turns his head toward the door. His voice goes cold. “Juan.”
The door opens and Juan appears. Gabriel doesn’t look away from me. “Double security,” he says. “No one enters this hall. No one.” Juan nods once and disappears.
Gabriel turns back to me. “We’re going to take this slow,” he says. “You hear me.”
I nod. Tears fall. I hate them, but they fall anyway.
Gabriel steps in and wraps his arm around me, holding me tight. My body trembles against him. My brain screams don’t trust, don’t trust, but my body leans in like it’s starving. Gabriel’s mouth brushes my hair.
“Breathe,” he says.
I try.
And for the first time in a long time, I do.
* * *
Dear Diary,
This dress is heavy.
This ring is heavy.
The word wife is heavy.
My body tells the truth before my mouth can.
He promised. He vowed.
Hope is dangerous.
Hope gets people killed.
But I felt it anyway.
If I speak, people will die. If I stay silent, I disappear.
Tonight I spoke.
And I’m terrified of what they’ll take from me for it.