Page 3 of Unworthy Ties

Gabriella

C omputers only had so much storage. I didn’t know if it was gigabytes, terabytes, or megabytes, but they all had a cap on how much information they could store.

That was how my brain had been feeling these past couple of days.

I had reached the maximum number of bytes in my brain, and there was no more room left.

Rocco had kissed me. And before I had time to say anything about it, he stood up and walked away like nothing had happened.

After it had happened, I went through the seven stages of grief. Not because he had kissed me, but because I might have liked it. My seven stages of grief looked like this:

Step 1: Shock. At the moment, I wasn’t able to comprehend that he had actually kissed me.

Step 2: Denial. There was no way that I could have liked it. It was probably because he looked exactly like Felix.

Step 3: Anger. Why the fuck did I (maybe) like it?

Step 4: Bargaining. Maybe a higher being would let me turn back time for a re-do, and I could dodge the kiss.

Step 5: Depression. I had spent the past few days locked in my room, mulling over the incident constantly.

Step 6: Testing. I talked to my stuffed cat—I should probably get a therapist, but that was a problem for another time—and had worked out how life might be now that I had to be married to Rocco.

I actually hadn’t reached step seven yet. Acceptance. Acceptance of my upcoming new reality or that kissing my future husband might not actually be terrible.

“No, no, it’s going to be terrible,” I said to Giuseppe, my stuffed cat, staring expectantly at him as if he could respond. “I was supposed to get married to Felix.”

His button eyes were non-judgmental, a silent reassurance that at least someone (or rather, something) was not about to ridicule me for my bizarre predicament.

“Are you talking to your stuffed animal again?” Fiorella said from the other side of my bedroom door.

“N-no!” I said, stuffing Giuseppe under my pillow. “I was on the phone.”

She didn’t bother masking her scowl as she walked into my bedroom. Tonight was my engagement party, and Fiorella hated dressing in ‘fancy’ attire. Her gown was black, of course, and it could double as funeral attire.

“Whatever. People are arriving to your engagement party, and Dad is pissed you’re not downstairs.”

My palms were sweaty, my pulse erratic. The prospect of descending into the throng of well-wishers nauseated me. I didn’t want this arranged marriage, but it was non-negotiable.

“Yeah…” was all I could say.

Fiorella walked through my room and over to my bed. “I knew it!” she said triumphantly, holding Giuseppe up by his leg.

“Put him down!” I said, reaching for my stuffed cat, but even though my sister was younger than me, she was much taller.

“Only if you go downstairs,” she said, lifting him even higher out of my grasp.

“Ugh! Fine.”

She set Giuseppe back down on the bed, and I took a moment to straighten his little bow tie before she hustled me out of the room.

My heart pounded in my chest as my gaze fell on the grand staircase leading down to where the party was taking place.

Already, I could hear the melody of classical music and the indistinct chatter of guests.

“This is terrible,” I said as we approached the party.

“For once, I agree with you.”

I was quickly whisked away and greeted with congratulations and well-wishes from a sea of faces, both familiar and unfamiliar.

Many were relatives I’d met only once or twice; others were influential business associates of my father.

After the fifth time, I had developed a default response I would give to them.

I took a deep breath and walked away from the latest round of people.

“Overwhelming, huh?” Luciana Catucci smirked at me, a wine glass in her hand.

Wait, that name wasn’t right. She had gotten married to what’s-his-face Renzetti. Oh. She understood exactly what I was going through.

“Definitely,” I sighed, standing with her and another girl I’d never met before.

“I offer you my required congratulations,” Luciana said, and I laughed in response.

“Luciana!” the other girl said, and tapped her arm before turning to me. “Congratulations,” she said sincerely.

“Thank you,” I paused, waiting for her to offer her name.

“Liria,” she responded. “Liria Moretti.”

I almost choked on my spit. AKA Hilaria Alto, this girl was Leone Alto’s daughter who he kept hidden from the world for years. I might as well be looking at a unicorn.

Before I could mull over the thought too long, Luciana started talking again. “But really, arranged marriages aren’t so bad. Everything works out!”

Maybe that would have been possible if I wasn’t obsessed with the groom’s brother.

“Maybe—” I started, before I felt a firm hand clasp against my shoulder.

Even though they were identical, I knew it was Rocco. The right hand on my shoulder was a dead giveaway—Felix was left handed. The touch sent a jolt of anxiety through my veins, but I turned to face him all the same.

“Our fathers are going to give a toast soon,” he said. “They want both of us at the front.”

“Right.”

I said goodbye to Liria and Luciana and followed Rocco. The man didn’t bother making conversation with me as we navigated through the crowd, his gaze distant and aloof. The touch of his hand never left my shoulder, a constant presence that reminded me of our impending fate.

As we continued through the crowd, my gaze fell on Felix, who was chatting with my two brothers.

His smile was radiant, lighting up the room more than all the chandeliers combined.

He was laughing at something my youngest brother had said, throwing his head back and letting out a deep, hearty sound that reverberated through the ornate hall.

I tried to get his attention on the way over to say hello, but he was too engrossed in the conversation. Rocco and I approached our fathers, and they started talking about something, but I wasn’t listening.

My heart ached as I watched Felix from a distance. Felix. The one I wanted to be with. Yet, fate had other plans, and I was damned to a life without him.

I felt a heavy gaze on me and tilted my head to the left. Rocco was staring at me with an intensity that startled me. His eyes, the same dark green as Felix’s, were filled with something I couldn’t quite decipher.

Everything I wanted to say to him was snide. But in this moment, surrounded by family and guests, I had to play nice.

“Are you alright?” I asked, my voice kept neutral despite the surge of emotions within me.

He blinked, his gaze faltering before he refocused on me. “Of course,” he replied smoothly, but I could see the flicker of doubt in his eyes.

Rocco wrapped his arm around my lower back, and I wanted to push it off.

But the entire Mafia underworld was watching us tonight.

Before I could say anything about it, our fathers turned towards the crowd, glasses of champagne in their hands.

Their countenances were festive, oblivious to the tension that hung between Rocco and me like a thick fog.

“Tonight,” began my father in his rich baritone, “We celebrate not just a wedding, but a union—a union of power, of legacy, and of two families,” His eyes met mine with an intensity that matched Rocco’s gaze. “Tonight, we toast to a future built on strength and prosperity.”

The crowd erupted in applause. But it was the cold steel of Rocco’s fingers that reminded me of my cruel reality. I glanced to my side, catching him amid an unreadable expression.

“Our children,” Elio Marchioni continued, “will carry on the legacy we have built.” He lifted his glass towards us. “To Rocco and Gabriella.”

The crowd echoed his toast, their voices merging into a singular chorus that filled the grand hall. Crystal champagne flutes clinked, and sweet laughter sprinkled through the air like tinkling bells.

Yet within this merry cacophony, there was a prickling silence between Rocco and me. His fingers tightened against the small of my back, as if he was forcing himself to hold on. He raised his glass, the corners of his mouth lifted into a roguishly charming smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

My gaze once again fell on Felix, looking for any sign of negative emotion at the toast. Jealousy, heartbreak, devastation. There was nothing but pure happiness for his brother and me. His smile was genuine, his eyes twinkling with happiness. This should’ve been us, but fate had other plans.

“Cheers,” Rocco murmured, his voice barely audible over the bustling crowd. He tilted his glass towards mine with a precision that was almost mechanical. The two glasses met with a cold, precise click that echoed in the emptiness in my heart.

I was ripped back to stage four of the seven stages of grief. Bargaining . If there was a higher power, it wasn’t letting me out of this marriage. There was no turning back.