Chapter 13 Savannah
Savannah
The lock clicks, and my body believes it. Not fully, but enough that my lungs relax for one second. One second is a gift.
I lean my forehead against the door. The wood is cool, smooth, expensive. Too solid. My breath fogs it for a second, then vanishes fast, like even air isn’t allowed to stay here.
I breathe in. The room smells like linen and new paint and something sharp underneath it. A chemical sharpness, like a place that gets wiped down even when there’s no blood. My throat tightens at the thought. I breathe out.
My hands are still shaking, but the shaking is less now. Less than last night. Less than this morning. Like my body is listening even when my brain refuses to.
I turn and face the bed. The sheets are still too clean, too white, too perfect. They look untouched in a way that makes me feel dirty just by standing near them.
But there’s something different in the air now.
Gabriel is on the couch in the other room. I can hear the faint shift of fabric when he moves, the smallest sound. Cotton against leather. A slow inhale. The quiet weight of a man who doesn’t sleep like normal people sleep.
The sound should terrify me. It does.
But it steadies something too, because he’s there. Because he didn’t follow me into this room. Because he didn’t touch me without asking. Because he said, tell me yes.
No one ever asked me that. Men told me. Men took. Men decided. Choice wasn’t for girls like me.
I sit on the edge of the bed again, still dressed in pieces of the wedding dress because I don’t know what to do with myself without armor. The fabric scratches at my skin in small, constant reminders that this wasn’t about love. This was about a treaty.
The ring on my finger glints in the low light. I stare at it.
A shackle. A shield. Both.
My throat tightens as the thought hits. The moment I spoke about the Bratva, the war moved. An attack. A route hit. A rumor.
My life isn’t just mine. it’s a weapon pointed at everyone around me.
* * *
The bedroom door opens quietly.
I jerk, my whole body snapping upright, heart punching hard enough to hurt. My hands go cold. My mouth tastes like metal.
But it’s only one of the cartel women. The one with the emotionless face. She keeps her eyes down.
“Mrs. Gonzalez,” she says.
The word makes my stomach flip. Mrs. Like I’m a wife. Like I’m normal.
She holds up folded clothes. Simple. Soft. Sweatpants. A long shirt. No lace. No silk.
“Mr. Gonzalez said for you to change,” she adds. “And eat.”
I swallow hard. My throat feels raw like I’ve been swallowing screams all night. “Okay,” I whisper.
She sets the clothes on the bed and backs toward the door. Before she leaves, she hesitates. Her eyes flick up for half a second.
She looks at me like she’s curious, like she’s judging, like she’s trying to decide if I’m a threat or a problem that will get someone killed.
Then she looks away again and exits. The door closes.
I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since yesterday.
I peel off the wedding dress like it’s a skin that doesn’t belong to me. The fabric slides down and pools on the floor.
It looks like a ghost.
I stare at it for one second too long, because it’s not just a dress. it’s a signature in fabric. it’s a deal. it’s a pretty lie you wear while the world decides what you are.
Then I step away from it.
* * *
I pull on the sweatpants and shirt, and my body relaxes a fraction when I’m in something that feels real.
I go to the bathroom and splash water on my face. Cold water makes my skin prickle. My eyes burn.
My fingers tremble as I grip the edge of the sink. I look up. My eyes are red, my skin pale. I look like someone who has been living in fear far too long.
I hate that too.
* * *
When I go back into the sitting room, Gabriel is still on the couch.
He’s on his back, one arm behind his head, the other resting over his chest like he isn’t even pretending to sleep.
His eyes open the moment I enter. Instant. Alert. A predator that never fully sleeps.
His gaze lands on me, on the clothes, on my bare neck now that the veil is gone, on the way my shoulders are still rigid like the world might hurt me if I move wrong.
Something shifts in his eyes. A quiet, possessive focus.
He sits up slowly.
“Come eat,” he says.
Not please. Not would you like. A command that somehow doesn’t feel like a trap.
I nod and sit at the table. The food is still there, but now there’s more. Soup, bread, fruit, eggs.
He’s feeding me like I’m a responsibility. Like I’m his.
He sits across from me.
I pick at the bread because my stomach is tight. Fear makes you forget hunger until it hurts. Gabriel watches me.
“You didn’t eat enough,” he says.
My throat tightens. “I’m not hungry.”
He holds my gaze like he’s pinning me in place. “Yes, you are.”
I look down. I hate being seen like this. I hate being read. I hate that he’s right.
I tear off a piece of bread and force myself to chew. it’s warm, soft, real. It tastes like something that belongs in a normal life, and that thought punches me in the chest because normal is gone.
Gabriel’s voice cuts through my spiral. “There was a hit.”
My hand freezes mid-chew. My heart spikes. “Because of me,” I whisper.
His eyes sharpen. “No.”
His voice stays steady, but it’s harder now. “Because they want to break the treaty,” he says. “And you’re the easiest way to do it.”
My throat tightens as I swallow bread that suddenly tastes like sand.
He keeps going, voice flat like it’s a fact. “They’ll try to make you look like a weakness. Like proof I can’t protect what I promised.”
My fingers curl into the table edge. “They already think I am,” I whisper.
Gabriel leans forward slightly, voice dropping. “They don’t decide what you are,” he says. “I do.”
The words should terrify me. A man deciding what I am. A man deciding my worth. A man deciding my body.
But the way he says it isn’t mocking or dismissive. It doesn’t come out light. It lands heavy, like a vow. A dangerous one.
My eyes burn again and I hate them for it. Gabriel watches my face like he’s taking notes.
Then he asks, quieter, “Do you want to know what my men are saying?”
My stomach twists. Part of me wants to say no. Part of me needs to know, because information is survival.
“Yes,” I whisper.
His jaw flexes. “They’re saying you’re Italian,” he says. “They’re saying you’ll bring trouble. They’re saying I’ll go soft.”
I swallow hard. “And,” I ask.
His eyes go colder. “They’re saying worse things too.”
My throat closes. My fingers tremble. I force my voice steady. “What things.”
Gabriel holds my gaze for a long moment, then says it without flinching. “They’re saying I shouldn’t have married a woman who’s already been touched.”
Heat floods my body. Shame slams into my chest, old and familiar and poisonous.
I flinch like he slapped me. My breath catches. My hands shake. I drop my eyes to the table because if I look at him, I might break.
Gabriel’s voice turns sharp. “Look at me.”
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
He stands, and my body tenses instantly. I hate that too.
His chair scrapes lightly as he walks around the table.
He stops beside me and doesn’t touch me yet. He waits.
Then he speaks low. “That shame is not yours.”
My throat tightens. My mouth opens but no sound comes, because if I speak I might confess too much, and if I confess I might collapse.
He crouches beside me, so I can see him, so my body feels less trapped. He tilts his head slightly.
“Tell me yes,” he says again.
My chest tightens. My fingers clutch the table.
Yes. A simple word that feels like stepping off a cliff.
I swallow and whisper, “Yes.”
His hand lifts slowly. He touches my chin with two fingers, gently, and tilts my face toward his.
I look at him.
His eyes are dark, focused, there’s something inside them that wasn’t there yesterday. Possession. And something else. Anger. Anger for me. Anger at what was done to me.
It terrifies me, because if a man like him is angry for you, the world bleeds.
“My men don’t get to speak about you like that,” he says.
My breath stutters.
He continues, quiet but lethal. “And no one gets to punish you for what was taken from you.”
Taken. The word cracks something open.
My eyes burn. A tear slips, then another, and I hate myself for it.
Gabriel’s thumb wipes it away once, a single stroke that makes my whole body tremble.
He stands again but stays close, looking down at me. “You’re going to eat,” he says.
I nod quickly.
He steps away to the bar, pours water, brings it back, and sets it in front of me like he’s placing something important.
* * *
Then he says the sentence that makes my heart stop.
“After you eat, you’re coming with me.”
My breath catches. “Where,” I whisper.
His eyes turn cold. “To a meeting,” he says. “With my men.”
My stomach drops. My hands go numb.
No. No, no, no.
A room of cartel men who already hate me. A room of men who will stare and judge and test. A room where hands might reach and laughter might cut and mouths might decide I deserve it.
I shake my head before I can stop myself.
Gabriel’s gaze sharpens. He leans in slightly. “You will go,” he says. “Because hiding makes you look weak.”
My throat closes. “I can’t,” I whisper.
His voice drops lower. “Yes, you can,” he says. “And you will. Because I’ll be there.”
My heart pounds.
I want to believe I’ll be there means safety. I know better. Men being there doesn’t always stop things. Men being there sometimes causes them.
I stare at him, my lips trembling. He watches my fear.
Then he surprises me.
He reaches out slowly and places his hand on the back of my neck. Warm. His thumb strokes once, small, and his voice softens by the smallest fraction.
“I won’t let them touch you,” he says.
My throat tightens and a sob threatens. I swallow it down and nod once, because what else is there.
If I refuse, he might take away what little freedom I have. If I agree, at least nothing surprises me.
I eat. I force food down until my stomach stops twisting as much. Gabriel watches every bite like he’s measuring my strength.
When I finish, he stands and offers his hand.
I stare at his hand, my fingers trembling, then place my hand in his.
His grip closes around mine, firm and possessive, and he leads me down the hallway.
* * *
Men line the walls again. Their eyes sharpen when they see me with him. Some smirk. Some glare. Some look away quickly.
Because he is beside me. Because his grip is tight. Because his presence is a warning.
We reach a large conference room.
Men inside. Lieutenants, guards, hard faces and hard eyes.
The room goes silent when we enter.
Every gaze lands on me and it feels like knives scraping across my skin.
Gabriel doesn’t pause. He walks me to the head of the table and pulls out the chair beside his.
He looks down at me, voice low. “Sit.”
I sit, hands shaking in my lap, face blank, chin high.
Gabriel turns to the men, and his voice cuts through the room like a knife.
“This is my wife.”
He lets the words hang, then adds the part that freezes the air.
“And if you disrespect her, you disrespect me.”
Silence. Heavy, thick.
One man shifts. Gabriel’s eyes snap to him. “Say it,” Gabriel orders.
The man swallows. “Respect, Jefe.”
Gabriel’s gaze stays cold. “Louder.”
The man’s voice shakes. “Respect, Jefe.”
Gabriel turns his gaze across the room. “Again.”
Men repeat it one by one. “Respect, Jefe.” “Respect, Jefe.” “Respect, Jefe.”
Each time the words sound drier, more forced, like they’re swallowing gravel.
Gabriel’s hand rests on the back of my chair, not touching my skin but close enough that everyone sees he can, close enough that everyone knows I am under his shadow.
A man near the end of the table speaks, voice tight. “With respect,” he says, “this marriage…”
Gabriel’s gaze turns lethal and the man stops mid-sentence.
Gabriel leans forward slightly. “Finish.”
The man swallows hard. “It makes us look owned.”
Owned. The poison word again.
The room holds its breath and my stomach twists.
Gabriel moves slowly, gripping the back of the man’s chair and yanking. The chair screeches back. The man stumbles.
Gabriel’s voice is low, deadly. “Do I look owned to you.”
The man’s eyes widen. “No, Jefe.”
“Do I look weak.”
“No, Jefe.”
Gabriel’s gaze narrows. “Then you will not speak that word again,” he says. “Not in my house.”
The man nods fast.
Gabriel releases the chair and turns back to the table. Back to me.
His gaze flicks to my face for half a second, a check. Are you holding, are you breathing, are you breaking.
I keep my chin high. I don’t cry. I refuse.
Gabriel turns back to the men. “Bratva hit our routes,” he says. “Someone leaked information.”
The room quiets.
Now it’s business. Now it’s blood. Now it’s war again.
But the damage is done, because I was the first message, the first display, the first test.
And I survived it. Barely.
Gabriel’s voice sharpens. “We find the source,” he says. “We cut it out.”
Men nod.
Gabriel’s hand slides down and for one brief second his fingers brush my shoulder, a small touch that feels like private reassurance hidden inside a public threat.
It makes my chest ache.
And I hate that too, because aching means I’m starting to care.
And caring is the fastest way to die.
* * *
Dear Diary
I feel sick. I feel small.
I feel hope.
I feel danger.
I feel him. Just him being here.
I feel danger with every breath I take.
He lifts my chin. He wipes my tears.
The shame is mine. The shame is not mine.
I hate him. I don’t hate him.
His hands feel like safety.
I feel hope.
I feel danger.
I stopped counting the exits.
Respect.
Respect.
Respect.
I want to vanish when their eyes are on me.
Danger. Danger. Danger.
I feel sick. I feel small.
He touched my shoulder.
I feel hope.
I didn’t break today.
He saw it.