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SEVEN

G ina

“No,” I cut in sharply, my voice slicing through the thick tension like a blade.

The sound carries enough weight to halt their murmurings mid-sentence.

Vittorio’s lips press together in a tight line, his jaw flexing as if bracing for an argument.

Leone flinches ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing in surprise before darting to Milo, who looks caught off guard, his mouth half-open as if he might speak only he can’t quite find the words.

The air grows heavier, the kind of silence that hums with anticipation and discomfort.

“It started with a betrayal. Don’t dress it up like it was some noble move to protect a legacy.” My gaze sweeps to my husband.

“You have some fantasy in your head that you’d have been better off with him than me! A child’s dream!”

“Exactly, Vittorio, I was a fucking child. You stole me. That’s the truth.”

Vittorio stiffens, his finely tailored suit doing little to mask the tension rippling through his frame.

His hand twitches at his side, fingers flexing as if grasping for control—or perhaps an excuse.

Leone blinks rapidly, his usually composed expression faltering under the weight of my accusation.

Milo shifts uncomfortably in his chair, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that screams unease.

“You left out the part where I was the competition you took out.” He says nothing but shifts his weight subtly, his shoulders tense as he avoids meeting my gaze head-on.

“I saved you!” Vittorio says still unable to meet my gaze.

“You destroyed me!” I scream, losing my temper.

“I’ve given you a good life. You’ve been able to do as you please. You would not have had those luxuries with Romanov,” he sneers.

“We don’t know that.”

“What was there to know. Either way, you were being married off. Either way, you had no choice!”

“I was seventeen,” I continue, my voice rising slightly as anger coils tighter in my chest. “Seventeen. And you didn’t just court me—you stalked me and kidnapped me.”

Existentialism fades into the background as I feel myself being sucked back to that day, a day when my life ended as a Morretti and began as Pressutti, neither of which I’d have chosen for myself.

I step out of the lecture hall into the crisp Paris evening, my boots crunching on gravel as Adrien falls into step beside me.

The campus lights flicker on one by one, casting long shadows across the courtyard.

I’m babbling about the professor’s ridiculous toupee when I spot it—a sleek black car idling at the curb.

My words die in my throat, and my feet halt against the pavement.

Every muscle in my body tenses, ready to bolt, because I know exactly who stands leaning against that car.

“You okay?” Adrien nudges my shoulder, his French accent wrapping around the English words. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I almost laugh. A ghost would be preferable to what I’m actually seeing.

“I’m fine,” I lie, tightening my grip on my bag where my escape fund is hidden, forty thousand euros I’ve been squirreling away for months. Two more weeks and I’d have been gone. Vanished. New name, new life. Just me and Adrian.

So why is he here?

Vittorio Pressutti leans against the car like he’s posing for some Italian fashion magazine, all tailored suit and sharp angles.

At twenty-five, he’s old enough to know better than to be lurking outside an almost eighteen-year-old’s school, yet men like him don’t care about things like social norms or, you know, basic human decency.

My stomach knots. My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to punch its way out of my chest.

“Come, we’ll go this way,” Adrien says, pointing in the opposite direction. He follows my gaze to Vittorio. “Friend of yours?”

I grab his arm, my fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. “Keep walking. Don’t say anything.”

It’s too late. Vittorio’s seen us. He pushes off the car with casual grace and starts toward us, moving with the confidence of a man who’s never had to fear anything in his life.

“Gina.” My name in his mouth sounds like an order. “There you are, I was wondering when your class got off. I made dinner reservations for us.”

I force myself to breathe. In. Out. The chill air burns my lungs. “Maybe another time. It’s a school night.”

As if I’m some normal teenager worried about homework and curfews. As if he’s just some guy asking me out. We turn when his hand locks onto my arm, and I’m spun back around to face him.

His eyes—dark and calculating—slide to Adrien, sizing him up like he’s appraising livestock.

“Who’s he?” There’s a dangerous edge to his voice that makes my skin crawl.

“Friend from class,” I say, the words tumbling out too quickly. “We were just heading to the library to study.”

Adrien shifts beside me, confused but smart enough to stay quiet. I can feel him watching my face, trying to piece together what’s happening.

Vittorio smiles. “Your father sends his regards.”

The mention of my father makes my throat tighten. I haven’t spoken to him in three months, not since I convinced him to let me finish school here before he married me off, ever since I’ve been planning.

“I’m sure he does,” I say, my voice steady despite the storm in my chest.

“He agreed I could have one last chance to win you over.” Vittorio steps closer, close enough I can smell his cologne, something expensive and suffocating. “So this is my last effort to convince you.”

Translation: My father decided selling me off to the highest bidder wasn’t working, and wants me home, so now they’re trying a different tactic.

Though I thought my hand was already spoken for, so why is Vittorio allowed one last attempt to win me over?

What has happened back home for this turn of events?

Only my father knows my whereabouts; Vittorio wouldn’t be able to find me unless my father sent him.

I think about the money hidden in my apartment under the floorboards. The apartment I won’t be able to return to now. The escape plan that’s crumbling before my eyes if I don’t find a way out of this.

“I have class early tomorrow,” I say, as if that matters, as if I have any power here.

Vittorio’s smile widens. “I’ll have you back at a reasonable hour.”

Adrien clears his throat. “Gina, we should ? —”

“It’s fine,” I cut him off before he can say something that’ll get him hurt. Men like Vittorio don’t leave witnesses. “I should catch up with my... friend.” The word tastes like ash.

Adrien’s face falls. I can see the questions forming, the concern in his eyes. We’ve been dating for a year now, he’s sweet. But if my father finds out about him, he’ll be dead in a ditch by morning. Adrian is normal. Patient, and everything I wanted in this new life I was trying to build.

“You sure?” he asks quietly.

No, I want to scream. I’m not sure. I want to run. I want you to grab my hand, and we’ll sprint until our lungs burn and our legs give out. I nod instead, knowing it would get him killed.

“See you in class tomorrow,” I say, trying to sound casual, trying to convince both of us there will be a tomorrow where I’m sitting next to him in a lecture, arguing about French cinema and stealing kisses between classes.

Vittorio opens the car door, gesturing me inside with mock chivalry. I force myself to move, to walk past Adrien without looking back. My legs are numb, disconnected from my body. I slide into the leather seat, the interior of the car dark and cold despite the warm spring evening.

The door closes with a soft, final click. Through the tinted window, I catch a glimpse of Adrien standing frozen on the sidewalk, his figure growing smaller as Vittorio slides in beside me and the car pulls away from the curb.

Vittorio climbs in telling the driver where to go, and I peer out the window, furious that my father would agree and also wondering what it is Vittorio Pressutti has offered this time.

As far as I remember, Anatoly won, and I was to marry him after graduation.

Not that I was planning to; he is just as bad as this man.

We drive to a restaurant that screams old money, and Vittorio leads me inside—crystal chandeliers hanging like frozen waterfalls, velvet banquettes in deep burgundy, waiters gliding between tables silently.

I sit across from Vittorio, the white tablecloth between us like no-man’s-land in a war zone.

He orders wine I can’t legally drink, food I don’t want, smiling at me the whole time like we’re on some romantic date instead of what this really is: a hostage situation with fine china that my father helped orchestrate.

“You’ll love the foie gras here,” he says, like I give a shit about goose liver when my life is imploding.

I scan the restaurant for exits. Front door: too far. Kitchen: will cause a scene. Bathroom: maybe my only shot. My throat feels tight, like someone’s slowly tightening a belt around it.

“Your father seemed quite adamant in Anatoly, I bet you’re glad I convinced him otherwise,” Vittorio continues, unfolding his napkin with meticulous precision. “Though I’m hoping to convince you to come back with me, you’ll have no need for… what is it you’re studying?”

I say nothing. The less I engage, the better. I’ve learned that lesson from years of watching my father’s business associates disappear after saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

“Art, that’s right. I remember you mentioning it at the gala with your father last summer.

” I shrug, not caring for small talk. My father isn’t here to scold me for bad behavior, and right now all I care about is finding an excuse to get away from this man.

Vittorio leans forward, elbows on the table.

His eyes—deep brown, almost black—fix on mine.

“I’ve flown all the way from Italy to find you, Gina. The least you could do is speak.”