Page 8 of Unworthy Ties

Rocco

G abriella was unraveling something within me.

Something I had wanted to keep locked away forever, never to see the day of light.

Each promise we made, every stolen glance, chipped away at the armor I had built around my heart.

The way her smile lit up a room felt like the first rays of sun piercing through a bitter winter, warming the cold corners of my soul I’d forgotten existed.

It was something I needed to stop immediately.

I couldn’t have these feelings interfering with mafia business and clouding my judgment.

Yet, each time I accidentally brushed against her at night, a jolt of electricity coursed through me, igniting a fire that threatened to consume my resolve.

I had always prided myself on my rationality, my ability to keep personal entanglements at bay, but Gabriella was different.

The gallery’s white walls felt sterile compared to her warmth. I adjusted my cufflinks for the third time, black wool suit constricting my shoulders as we stood before a photograph of decaying roses.

Gabriella tilted her head, studying the image with an intensity that made it seem as though she could almost breathe life back into the petals. “Isn’t it beautiful? Even in decay, there’s a story to tell.”

Funny thing about decay—people only called it beautiful when it wasn’t happening to them.

I glanced at her, drawn to the softness in her eyes as if they were windows opening to realms I longed to explore. “Every story has an end,” I murmured, hoping my voice didn’t betray the tumult within.

“What if the end is just a new beginning?” She countered, her gaze unwavering. It was as if she could see right through my carefully constructed defenses, peeling back layers of doubt and fear that I had allowed no one to touch for years.

“That’s poetic,” I said, not wanting to continue the conversation. “I didn’t know you were so into photography.”

“I—” she hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty shadowing her features. “Not really. My mom just liked it, and I’d go with her to galleries. But I always thought there was something magical about capturing moments,” she added, her voice softening. “Like freezing time, even just for an instant.”

“Some moments shouldn’t be frozen in time,” I muttered, thinking back to all the things I had done. They were dark, bloody memories, moments that clung to my skin like a second layer, necessary for survival and business.

I looked around and saw Pablo, my contact at the gallery. Being here with Gabriella was just a guise—I was actually here to conduct business.

Ettore had a lot of money that needed to be laundered, and there was no easier way to do it than expensive art.

Yet, as I scanned the room, Gabriella’s presence dulled the edge of my intentions.

Her laughter floated through the air like an ethereal note, drawing me back into her orbit against my better judgment. I forced myself to focus.

“I need to check in with Pablo.” I turned, feeling the weight of her gaze on my back as I walked away, a tether pulling me closer to her even as I tried to sever it.

The gallery buzzed around me, vibrant yet dulled by the gravity of my thoughts. I approached Pablo, who was deep in conversation with a wealthy art collector, his hands gesturing animatedly.

I didn’t interrupt, instead casually choosing to look at a piece of art like I knew what I was doing while my mind was elsewhere, the chaos of my life swirling like the colors on the canvas before me.

It was a riot of reds and blues, each stroke telling a story that felt maddeningly familiar—one of passion, betrayal, and inevitable loss.

I shifted my gaze, stealing a glance at Gabriella across the room.

She was now animatedly discussing the photograph with another guest, her hands dancing through the air as she painted her words into the atmosphere.

The sight made something within me tighten—a mix of admiration and a desperate need to pull away from it all.

“Looks like you’re lost in thought,” Pablo’s voice broke through my contemplating, and I turned to face him, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes.

“Just appreciating the art,” I replied, my tone flat. “Here to buy some paintings. ”

Pablo glanced around to double check there was nobody around to overhear our conversation. “How much would you like to spend on these paintings?”

What he was really asking was, “How much money are you trying to launder?”

“10.4 million.”

Pablo’s eyebrows shot up, momentarily breaking the cool facade he often maintained. “That’s... ambitious.”

“I saw some pieces for $500,000,” I responded.

Pablo creates replicas of the expensive paintings and sells them to us as originals. They get reported on our taxes at their true cost, when in reality we are paying a fraction of the price. It keeps our money “clean” and both of our pockets lined.

“I’ll choose some art for you, then,” Pablo said before walking towards the gallery floor.

I looked around for Gabriella and found her enraptured by a painting, her features illuminated by the soft gallery lights. She stood transfixed, hovering as close to the painting as possible while not breaking the “do not touch” rule.

I walked towards her as if drawn by an invisible force. The air between us felt charged, vibrant with unspoken words and possibilities.

“What do you see?” I asked.

She turned to me, her eyes sparkling like stars against a dark night.

“It’s about rebirth, I think,” she said, her voice a soft whisper that seemed to echo in the quiet of the gallery.

“The colors are so vivid, yet there’s an underlying darkness.

It’s like something beautiful is emerging from pain. ”

Hell if I knew. I didn’t know anything about art.

“It’s a nice interpretation,” I managed, though my pulse quickened at her words. “But some things don’t emerge from pain. They just die.”

She frowned slightly, the light in her eyes dimming for a mere moment. “Sometimes the death of one thing gives life to another,” she replied softly, her gaze drifting back to the painting. “Just like in nature; one flower withers while another blooms.”

“I admire your optimism.”

“Mmm.”

I couldn’t get over how enthralled she was by the painting. It looked like she wanted to dive in and live inside of it, if that was possible. I glanced at the price tag—$50,000.

Pablo stood across the room at the front desk, furiously punching numbers into a cash register. Without hesitating, I walked up to him.

“And add that one,” I said, pointing to the one Gabriella was obsessed with. My voice lowered a bit as I leaned in closer. “The real one.”

Pablo glanced up from his cash register, a hint of surprise flickering across his face at my request for the expensive painting. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing as he processed the transaction.

Gabriella’s expression shifted from curiosity to disappointment as Pablo gently moved her aside to remove the painting from the wall. But then, as the realization dawned that I was the one who had purchased it, her eyes widened in disbelief.

I watched her closely, captivated by the way her entire being seemed to light up in that moment, as if the painting had breathed new life into her soul.

Gabriella turned to me, her voice barely above a whisper, filled with gratitude. “Thank you.”

I simply nodded, unable to find the right words to express the turmoil of emotions swirling inside me. Seeing the joy on Gabriella’s face made it all worth it.

With a gentle smile, she reached out and took my hand, squeezing it lightly in silent understanding. In that brief touch, a shared connection blossomed between us, bridging the gap of our differences and uncertainties.