Page 18 of Unworthy Ties
Gabriella
F iorella and I were finally able to meet up after months of being apart. And I hated to admit it, but I missed my little sister. I teared up when I saw her waving at me from the car, for once finding her goth look endearing rather than obnoxious.
I just wish she had chosen a different activity.
“Why do you like these places? I feel like I’m going to get bedbugs,” I said, shrinking away from the aisles of clothing.
They were packed too closely together, each garment having a history that I didn’t want to imagine. But Fiorella was already diving in, her black-painted fingernails flipping through hangers with practiced expertise.
“That’s the whole point!” She grinned, the silver stud in her lip catching the fluorescent light.
Not only was the clothing questionable, but I felt out of place, to say the least. I was dressed in clothing that cost more than the monthly rent on the building, and my bodyguards weren’t exactly discreet.
I gingerly touched a piece of clothing that might have once been white, now faded to an uncertain beige. “The whole point is potential disease transmission?”
“No, silly,” Fiorella laughed, holding up a vintage band t-shirt with genuine excitement. “The point is stories! Look at this—someone wore this to concerts, made memories in it. Every piece here has lived a life.”
Despite myself, I found her enthusiasm infectious. She pulled out a flowing emerald dress that actually looked stunning, the fabric catching the light in unexpected ways.
“Try this on,” she insisted, thrusting it toward me.
I checked the tag and crinkled my nose. “It looks like it came from a department store.”
“You’ve always been such a snob, you know that?”
“I am not a snob,” I protested, but even as the words left my mouth, I knew they weren’t entirely true. “I just prefer things that don’t have someone else’s... essence all over them.”
Fiorella rolled her eyes dramatically, the heavy black eyeliner making the gesture even more pronounced. “Their ‘essence’ is what makes it special! Besides, this dress has barely been worn. Look at the condition.”
She was right. The emerald fabric was pristine, with the stitching intact. Against my better judgment, I took the hanger from her.
The dressing room mirror fogged with my nervous breath as I stepped into the emerald folds. Cool silk whispered against my skin like a secret, the cut somehow hugging my curves in ways my expensive department store clothes never did.
“Come out already!” Fiorella’s combat boots thumped impatiently outside the curtain.
I emerged tugging at the hem, half-expecting her to laugh. Instead, her eyes widened. “Holy shit, you look like a river nymph who moonlights as a jazz singer!”
A surprised laugh bubbled out of me. The dress did feel strangely alive, the way the skirt swirled around my body. Fiorella whipped out her phone, snapping photos before I could protest. “See? Vintage magic! Now help me find something that makes me look like a Victorian widow who dabbles in arson.”
We spent the next hour unearthing treasures—a leather jacket with constellations hand-stitched on the collar, Doc Martens painted with daisies, a prom dress that shimmered like dragon scales.
With each discovery, Fiorella spun wild backstories about the previous owners until we were giggling so hard an elderly couple shushed us.
“Last stop,” Fiorella announced, dragging me to a rack of fur coats. She disappeared into a mammoth silver fox number, only her hair visible above the collar. “I’m naming him Reginald and taking him home.”
As we left clutching our bags, golden hour light gilding the thrift store windows, Fiorella bumped my shoulder. “Admit it. You had fun.”
I pretended to examine a loose thread on my dress. “It wasn’t completely terrible.”
“So, how’s the marriage?” Fiorella asked as we climbed into the back seat. “Surviving being married to the wrong Marchioni brother? Felix? Or was it Rocco?”
The limo’s AC hummed as I plucked a stray piece of lint from my Versace sweater. “Rocco,” I said, too quickly. “And he’s not wrong, just… unexpected.”
Fiorella snorted, peeling a sticker off her new boots. “Unexpected like a tarantula in a tiara. You were in love with Felix for half your life.”
I glanced at the bodyguard in the front seat, whose mirrored sunglasses gave nothing away. “Rocco’s different. He notices things. Like how I like my coffee, or which constellations I point out when we’re on the balcony.”
Fiorella paused mid-sticker peel. “Okay, that’s disturbingly sweet. Did he get you one of those tacky star projectors too?”
“Tch. No.”
I couldn’t mention that Rocco had killed three men to protect me. That would get back to Dad, who would be very upset to hear they made their way into the penthouse.
Fiorella’s smirk softened into something resembling approval. “Okay, Tarantula-Tiara’s growing on me. But if he hurts you, I’m hexing him.”
I cackled and felt lighter, the laughter unfurling my worries like the petals of a blooming flower. “Deal.”
As the SUV glided through the bustling city streets, the familiar scent of jasmine mixed with the subtle undertone of danger that always seemed to linger around the Marchioni family. Fiorella leaned back in her seat, her eyes scanning the passing buildings with a mix of curiosity and wariness.
“So, what’s the plan now, mafia princess?” She asked, her tone shifting from playful banter to genuine concern.
I sighed, staring out the window at the twinkling lights of the skyline. “I don’t know, Fi. Learn to do wife things, I guess. I still can’t cook for shit.”
Fiorella chuckled. “Well, he’s got enough money to hire someone. I say screw wife things. Do what you like and make him adjust.”
As the SUV slowed to a stop in front of the building Rocco and I lived in, I felt a surge of gratitude for Fiorella. With a final shared smile, I stepped out of the limo, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.
I had always thought the penthouse was way too large. Even for the two of us, the size was excessive. I had wandered the halls multiple times, pulling on doors that were locked or near empty, wondering what was inside of them.
Today, however, something tugged at my curiosity.
I had never paid much attention to the intricacies of the penthouse; it was merely a lavish shell that housed our lives.
But as I strolled through the opulent marble foyer, an idea sparked in my mind: perhaps there was more to uncover—more stories hidden within these walls.
With renewed determination, I began my exploration.
Each door seemed to whisper secrets, but my heart raced as I approached the one that had always been sealed shut.
Tucked away at the end of a dimly lit hallway, its ornate handle gleamed like a beckoning invitation against the rich mahogany of the doorframe.
Taking a deep breath, I grasped the handle and turned it slowly.
To my surprise, the door creaked open with an almost playful reluctance, revealing an expansive greenhouse.
Rather, what should have been a greenhouse.
It was mostly empty, with only a few dead plants in pots that looked older than I was.
But the moment I stepped inside, a wave of vibrant energy washed over me.
Sunlight filtered through the dusty glass panes, illuminating motes of dust that danced like tiny fairies.
In stark contrast to the dilapidation, I noticed an intricate mosaic tile pattern on the floor, depicting a sprawling garden scene in hues of green and gold.
“I’m not sure how it got unlocked,” Rocco’s voice said from behind me.
“Eep!” I jumped and turned, my heart racing. Rocco leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed and an indifferent expression on his face.
“You should have just asked for a key.”
“I thought there might be…illegal things in here,” I stammered, still half in awe of the room. “Official Mafia business.”
Rocco pushed off the doorframe and stepped inside, his eyes scanning the empty pots before landing on me. “Hardly. I’d never take that home. We’re on the top floor; it came with the penthouse.”
“And you just,” I said, my arms flailing around. “Ignore it? It could be amazing!”
I sighed, thinking about all the photos I could take of the plants if they existed.
Rocco shrugged, the flicker of amusement in his eyes betraying his usual stoic demeanor. “I prefer the view from the balcony. No maintenance required.”
“That’s a shame,” I murmured, kneeling beside a pot that held the remnants of what might have once been a flourishing fern.
“I thought you’d comment on how I was home early,” he mused as he leaned against a nearby table, arms still folded.
“Right,” I said. I dropped the subject of the greenhouse as he was clearly not interested in it. “What’s the special occasion?”
“Just thought I’d surprise you with dinner. I know you had a long day with Fiorella.”
The corners of my mouth turned upward. “Dinner? What did you order?”
He shrugged casually. “Let’s just say the finest chef in the city is in our kitchen right now.”
The mention of a chef stirred excitement in my chest, but it was the way Rocco looked at me that truly captured my attention. There was something tender beneath his brusque exterior, something meant only for me.
“Figured you deserved a treat after all that thrift store digging,” he replied, his lips curling into a faint smile. “What’d Fiorella put you through?” His hand wrapped around my waist, and he guided me out of the greenhouse.
“Oh my God,” I said as he pulled me closer, warmth radiating from his body. “You have no idea. She goes through those racks like there’s a guarantee of finding a pirate’s treasure.”
“She has always been… different.”
“That’s a very politically correct way of saying it,” I said, stifling a laugh. “Oh, and persuasive. She even got me to buy something.”
“You? You’re the biggest clothes snob I’ve ever met,” he teased me, giving me a light pinch on my side.
“That’s the second time I’ve been called a snob today,” I whined.
Rocco chuckled as he led me out of the greenhouse and back into the expanse of our penthouse. “Well, maybe you’re evolving,” he said, his voice teasing yet warm. “The princess of the Marchioni family embracing the wonders of vintage fashion.”
As we made our way out of the greenhouse and through the warmly lit dining room, the aroma of herbs and spices filled the air, teasing my senses and making my stomach growl in anticipation. Rocco released his hold on my waist but stayed close, his presence comforting and familiar.
“Fiorella has a way of making even the most skeptical shopper believe they’ve struck gold in a pile of rags,” I defended, moving to the table where an array of appetizers awaited us.
“She’s a force to be reckoned with, that’s for sure.”
I nodded, reaching out to touch his hand lightly. “Thank you for this,” I said, feeling a rush of gratitude for his thoughtfulness after a hectic day. “It’s the perfect end to a crazy day.”
His gaze softened even more, and he stepped closer, closing the distance between us.
“Anything for you,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
And in that moment, surrounded by the warmth of the kitchen and the scent of our meal, I knew that even in the midst of chaos, there was a sense of peace when I was with him.
As we sat down to enjoy the meal prepared by the elusive chef, the evening unfolded into a moment of connection and quiet joy, a reminder that even amid life’s challenges, there were pockets of happiness waiting to be savored.
And so, in the glow of the kitchen lights and the company of the man who had found his way into my heart, I knew that no matter what the world threw at us, we would face it together, with laughter, love, and a good meal to fortify us.