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We didn't enter through a side door, I made a point of passing through the red carpet that a man like Massimo, naturally, laid out at the entrance to his birthday party. I made a point of posing for photos next to Gabriella, showing her off like a trophy, as well as the mark I placed on her neck.
The fact that the girl, at all times, seeks my approval with her eyes, eager to please, is just the icing on a cake that I had no idea I wanted so much to taste.
The Biscari Palace is one of the most luxurious properties in all of Sicily and, tonight, its facade was completely transformed by lights and brocade fabrics. Gabriella gasps loudly, unable to contain her admiration with each step we take into the castle's lavishly decorated interior.
“No. This is a birthday party.”
“It’s beautiful!” She comments, running her eyes over the walls, curtains, floor and everywhere. “Very beautiful!”
I only turn my face, watching her carefully while Gabriella doesn't focus more than half a second on me. Every fiber of her body is too busy reveling in the luxury around her. I wonder what she would say if she knew that the man responsible for all of this was claiming to be her grandfather.
“When is your birthday?” she asks as we walk aimlessly through the room, turning her face towards me.
“The eighth of November.”
“Mine is March 18th.” I fold my lips into my mouth, there we go. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“Thirty-eight?” She widens her eyes. “All that?”
“Are you calling me old, Gabriella?” Her mouth opens for a response, but the girl decides to think a little more before answering me and closes it.
“It's not that, I just didn't think you were thirty-eight.”
“And how old did you think I was?”
“I hadn't thought about it yet,” she confesses, and I narrow my eyes at her. “There's always a lot about you to think about, your age really isn't a priority,” she explains and, seconds later, she regrets it, I can tell by the tone that colors her cheeks. “Do you also have birthday parties like this?” She asks, desperate to leave her own comment behind.
“Unfortunately, yes.” Her eyebrows furrow.
“Don’t you like it?”
“There are better ways to invest my time, but I understand the appeal to the people around me, so I let the women in thefamigliaorganize it the way they see fit.” My words remind me of Gabriella's, a few days ago, at breakfast.
Everything that came out of her mouth are ideas that La Santa is very far from considering. What impressed me was, firstly, what Gabriella constantly does: challenge me without leaving submission aside, worrying that she is displeasing me in some way and correcting her own words so that they don't sound insolent. The girl does it naturally, and it's exciting beyond what I'm willing to think about. Then, the fact that even though I hadno interest in the point of view she presented, she still presented it.
“The women in thefamiglia?”
“Led by my mother, currently. When I get married, this will be my wife's responsibility.” Gabriella presses her lips into a thin line, creating dimples in her cheeks, she does this when she wants to swallow her own questions, I've noticed. “Ask, Gabriella.”
“Why aren’t you married?” Her cheeks blush again.
“Marriages in thefamigliaare commercial agreements. I still haven't found one that's worth my time.”
“Commercial agreements,” she murmurs. “Always?”
“The ones that matter, yes.”
“And which ones matter?”
“Do your questions ever end?”
“Sorry.” She lowers her eyes for a second. “I was just trying to understand.”
“Those of leaders matter. Some low-ranking families use marriages to move up in rank.”
“Rafaella told me that.”
