Page 12 of Unworthy Ties
Gabriella
R occo was gone when I woke up the next morning. A pang of hurt shot through me. He had just taken my virginity and then left without saying goodbye?
Was I insane? I let him make out with me once, and the minute he said “I need you” I just let him between my legs. Maybe not insane, but definitely stupid.
I sat up in bed, clutching the sheets to my chest, trying to calm my racing heart.
The room still smelled like him—that intoxicating blend of expensive cologne and raw masculinity.
My body ached in unfamiliar places, a delicious reminder of how he’d claimed me last night.
My cheeks flushed as memories flooded back—his strong hands gripping my hips, his lips traveling down my body, the way he’d whispered my name like a prayer when he finally entered me.
A note on the pillow caught my attention. I hadn’t noticed it before. With trembling fingers, I unfolded the crisp paper.
I’m sorry I couldn’t be there when you woke up. Early meeting that couldn’t be rescheduled. I’ll be back by noon.
I stared at the note, tracing my fingers over his elegant handwriting. Last night wasn’t just an impulse or conquest for him. He was coming back.
My heart fluttered as relief washed over me. I hugged the note to my chest, breathing deeply, letting the tension drain from my shoulders.
I checked the clock—9:30 AM. Two and a half hours until he’d return.
I slipped out of bed, wincing slightly at the unfamiliar soreness between my thighs.
In the bathroom, I caught my reflection in the mirror.
My lips were still swollen from his kisses, my neck dotted with faint marks from his passion, and my hair was a mess.
I needed to freshen up before Rocco got back.
I didn’t want him to see me in this state.
After a long shower, I wandered towards our kitchen. Admittedly, I hadn’t been using it much—I grew up with maids doing all the cooking and had never learned how to cook. I felt like I should learn for my husband, but I knew he’d never expect that of me.
Rather than risk burning down the kitchen, I made myself a cup of coffee. My thoughts wandered as I drank, thinking about the whirlwind that had become my life.
Suddenly, I felt a spark of inspiration. My creativity had been stifled since I had ended up in this arranged marriage, but now I felt it flowing again. I abandoned my cup of coffee and walked into the closet, trying to remember which box I had seen my camera equipment in.
After rummaging through two boxes, I finally found it—my beloved Canon that had accompanied me since my 18th birthday, capturing moments I’d deemed worthy of preservation. I ran my fingers over the familiar surface, remembering the seemingly endless amounts of photos I had taken.
The newfound inspiration flowing through my veins had me desperate to take a photo of anything.
I set up my camera on the tripod by the window, adjusting the settings while glancing occasionally at the clock.
The light streamed through the curtains, casting a golden glow across our bedroom.
Perfect lighting conditions. I started with simple shots of the rumpled sheets, capturing the subtle indent where his body had lain.
The twisted fabric told a story of its own—one of passion and discovery.
Time slipped away as I lost myself in the art I’d neglected for too long. I experimented with different angles, adjusting the aperture to capture the play of light and shadow across our intimate space. Each click of the shutter felt like reclaiming a piece of myself.
“Enjoyed it so much you wanted to document it?” Rocco’s amused voice startled me. I spun around to find him leaning against the doorframe, his eyes dancing with curiosity as they took in the camera setup.
“I-I”,” I sputtered, embarrassed to have gotten caught. I hadn’t realized how much time had passed.
“It’s not what you think,” I finally managed, my face flushing hot. “I just... I used to take photos. Before.”
Rocco pushed away from the doorframe and walked toward me, his movements fluid and deliberate. He studied the camera, then me, with an intensity that made my pulse quicken.
“Before me, you mean,” he said softly, no accusation in his tone. “Why did you stop?”
I lowered my gaze to the camera in my hands. “Everything happened so fast. The arrangement, the wedding, moving here... I guess I just forgot about this part of myself.”
He closed the distance between us, his fingers gently lifting my chin until our eyes met. “I’d like to see your work sometime. If you want to share it.”
The sincerity in his expression caught me off guard, and Felix’s words suddenly came to mind. He’s got a good heart.
I swallowed hard, trying to organize the chaos of emotions swirling inside me. “You really want to see my photos?”
“Of course I do.” Rocco’s thumb traced my jawline, his touch feather-light. “Perhaps we need to rewind. We haven’t really done the whole ‘getting to know’ each other thing very well.”
“I just assumed you weren’t interested in who I am.” My voice came out quieter than I intended, vulnerable in a way I hadn’t planned.
“What if I want to know everything?” His eyes held mine, unwavering.
My heart stuttered in my chest. The intensity in his gaze made it impossible to look away, even as vulnerability crawled up my spine. This wasn’t part of our arrangement—this genuine interest, this desire to know me beyond the confines of our marriage contract.
“I’m not sure you’d like everything you’d find,” I admitted, setting the camera down on the bedside table. It felt like a confession, like peeling back a layer I’d carefully maintained.
Rocco’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “That’s the risk with people, isn’t it? The messy parts are part of the package.”
Something shifted in the air between us, a door cracking open that I hadn’t noticed was there.
“Is that why you keep everyone at a distance?” I asked before I could stop myself. “To avoid the messy parts?”
His expression faltered, a flash of something vulnerable crossing his features before his mask slipped back into place. But I’d seen it—that momentary crack in his armor.
“I’ve found it’s easier that way,” he finally said, his voice measured. “In my world, people usually want something. They have agendas, expectations.”
I nodded slowly, understanding washing over me. “And with me? What do you expect?”
Rocco’s hand fell away from my face, and I immediately missed his warmth. He took a step back, creating physical distance that mirrored the emotional wall he was carefully reconstructing.
“I expected a mutually beneficial arrangement,” he said, his business tone creeping back in. “But I’m finding it’s not that simple.”
As Rocco’s words hung in the air, a heavy silence settled between us, laden with unspoken truths and unexplored emotions. I could feel the weight of his expectations, the cracks in his carefully constructed facade, and the vulnerability that lingered beneath the surface.
In that moment, I realized that we were both navigating uncharted territory, treading the delicate balance between the roles we had agreed upon and the unexpected connection that had blossomed between us.
Rocco took me out on a date two days later.
Apparently, there was a giant flower market on the outskirts of the city, something I’d never known about despite living here for years.
He had mentioned it over breakfast casually, as if suggesting we take a walk around the block rather than embark on what felt suspiciously like a real date.
But, before we could make it to the flower market, he had to stop by one of his friends houses and drop something off. I knew Maximo, his friend, vaguely; he was to be the next Don for the Salvaggio family.
Whatever mafia business Maximo and Rocco had, I wasn’t privy to listening to it. I was waiting in our car, watching vans take a shipment of boxes from Maximo’s estate.
I drummed my fingers against the leather seat, curiosity gnawing at me. The men moving the boxes worked with military precision, their movements efficient and practiced. Shipments of illegal things was business as usual for mafia families, but something about this felt off. I tried to pinpoint why.
From what I could see, the boxes were unmarked—unusual for typical shipments. Most contraband, even illegal goods, had a labeling system, codes that meant nothing to outsiders but everything to those in the know. These were completely blank, pristine white cardboard with no identifying features.
But I could be wrong, and that was just how Maximo Salvaggio transported his cargo. Frustrated, I unzipped my bag and took my camera out. I’d just look at the situation again later, and see if I was being paranoid or if there was something sketchy with the shipment.
It was probably the former. I hadn’t left the house much since getting married and was turning into a wannabe detective; trying to find something to occupy my time.
I adjusted the lens, zooming in on the nearest van. Click. Another shot of the men carrying boxes. Click. One of the boxes had been set down at an angle, and through the viewfinder, I could see a small tear in the cardboard. Click.
I quickly shoved my camera back in my bag when I saw Rocco exit through the front door. His expression was neutral, but there was a tightness around his eyes I’d come to recognize. Whatever business he and Maximo were talking about hadn’t gone smoothly.
“Everything okay?” I asked as he slid into the driver’s seat beside me.
“It’s fine,” he responded. His tone was level, although his face told another story.
“Okay,” I said, not wanting to press the issue.
“Let’s head to the flower market,” Rocco said, starting the car. “I know you wanted to pick something out for the dining room.”
We chatted about flowers and home décor on the drive, a normal conversation that would seem strange to anyone who knew what we’d just witnessed. But that was life with Rocco—seamlessly transitioning between the underworld and everyday activities like they were equally mundane.
The flower market was bustling when we arrived, filled with locals buying fresh bouquets and tourists snapping photos of the vibrant displays. Rocco kept his hand on the small of my back as we weaved through the crowd. I still wasn’t used to these small gestures of possession, of protection.
I paused at a stall overflowing with white lilies, their heady scent drawing me in. “These would look beautiful on the dining table,” I said, running my fingers along a petal.
Rocco nodded, his eyes scanning the crowd rather than the flowers. Always vigilant, always aware of our surroundings. I wondered if he ever truly relaxed.
“I think so, too,” he responded, quickly gazing at the lilies. “We’ll take two dozen,” he told the vendor, who beamed at the large order.
“I don’t know if two dozen lilies will fit on our dining table,” I said to Rocco as the vendor wrapped our order.
He shrugged, his expression softening slightly. “Then we’ll put some in the living room. And maybe the bedroom.” There was a hint of suggestion in his voice that made my cheeks warm despite myself.
As we walked back to the car, Rocco carried the bundle of lilies in one hand while his other hand remained firmly on my back. The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting a warm golden glow over the streets.
I couldn’t help but steal glances at him as we walked, his normally firm features softened by the fading light.
Although his usual aura was formidable, intimidating even, there was something about the way he looked now—carrying flowers while keeping me close—that made my heart flutter.
This man, who had shown me such darkness, was also capable of moments of unexpected tenderness.
As we approached the car, Rocco turned to me, his eyes meeting mine with a softness that caught me off guard. “I know I’m not the easiest person to be with,” he began, his voice tinged with a touch of uncertainty. “But thank you for trying.”
“I’m not trying,” I said softly. “I’m here because I want to be.”
As I spoke those words, I saw a flicker of something vulnerable pass through Rocco’s eyes before he quickly masked it with his usual stoicism. He nodded slowly, processing my response.
The silence between us felt charged with unspoken emotions, the weight of our shared experiences hanging heavy in the air. With a sigh, Rocco reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle yet hesitant.
As we stood there in the fading light, surrounded by the quiet hum of the evening, I felt a sense of peace settle over me.
In that moment, I knew that despite the shadows of the past, there was a glimmer of light ahead, guiding us towards a new beginning filled with unexpected tenderness and the promise of something more.