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It's not a date.
It's not an hour.
It's not a name.
It's a destination. One whose streets I will wash with blood as payment for the time that was stolen from me with what belongs to me.
CHAPTER 66
________
Gabriella Matos
I'm dressed as a bride.
Embroidered lace outlines my curves down to my waist, where it flares out into a voluminous tulle skirt. The sleeves are long, and the neckline is closed, keeping my entire body, with the exception of my hands, neck and face, covered.
My face is made up and my hair is tied up in an elaborate hairstyle that supports a long veil. As much as the reflection in the mirror proves that this is really happening, my mind refuses to believe it.
I couldn't escape. I didn't even have a chance, not when only a week had passed since I stopped being sedated. When Alina told me that my supposed wedding date was in a week, even on our first meeting, I assumed it was some kind of psychological torture.
It wasn’t.
Marriage. I'm ready for my own wedding even though the only man with whom I dared to have the shadow of that dream is, I have no idea how far away. Vittorio didn't come.
I pretended not to, but with all my heart, I wished that yes, he would’ve come, because every time I was in hell, Vittorio came to get me, but not this time. The tears that slide down my cheeksdon't smudge the flawless makeup and that's just another reason for me to feel useless. I can't even destroy the false perfection they built around me on a day when I would rather have died than woken up.
I tried to be strong. For me, for the things I learned to desire, for the man my heart refused to stop waiting for. I tried. I tried a lot. I looked for exits, I watched the doors, I looked at every gap as a possibility, except they never really were.
I touch the left sleeve of the dress with my right hand, but my fingers repel the contact, bending to grip the delicate fabric with all the strength that my spirit is no longer capable of feeling: too much.
“I wouldn't do that if I were you.” The voice reaches me, and I look up at the reflection in front of me, finding Massimo Coppeline standing at the open entrance to the room. “If I have to drag you around the church naked, I will.”
I hadn't seen him since that breakfast, he disappeared, leaving me in the care of his insane ex-sister-in-law. This afternoon, however, his gaze sweeps across my entire body before he enters the room, carrying a thin paper folder with him. I breathe a sigh of relief when he doesn't approach me, but my relief is short-lived.
Massimo places his briefcase on the table, opens it, takes a pen from his pocket, and holds it out to me.
“Sign this.” I don't move.
“What is that?”
“Recognition of your ancestry. These papers make you my heir,” he explains with little patience, and I shake my head from side to side, denying it.
“I don't want it. I don't want to be your heir. I don't want anything from you.”
“But the man who is going to marry you today wants. Come on, girl, sign it.” His voice becomes coarse, but that's not enough to thaw my legs out of place.
“Please don't make me get married. Why do that? Why look for me just to get rid of me later? Why did you have to take me from where I was?” Disgust covers his eyes when he hears my words.
“Maybe I would have reconsidered my plans for you, Gabriella. Maybe I really could have done that, if that son of a bitch hadn't already imbued so much of himself into you. Sign it!” His words are thrown at me like insults, but in days, they are the first ones I hear that make me feel some value.
“No!” I refuse to sign, and Massimo takes on the same cruel look I remember seeing on his face in Rome, which he gave the barman. I don't understand why he even bothered to pretend for me.
“We can do this the easy way, or the hard way, girl. It's up to you to choose,” he says, and I look down at the dress on my body, then I raise my arms and run my eyes over them too, at the sleeves.
“No, it isn’t.” Massimo advances against me with unparalleled strength, but I don’t flinch or retreat. His hand grabs my arm, squeezing it without any delicacy before dragging me the short distance between where I was standing and the table.
“Sign,” he growls, but I refuse to hold the pen. I may not have been able to do much for myself, but I'm not going to do that.
