3. Bella

3

BELLA

I thought I would feel better once I got up to my room, behind a closed door and alone. But instead of feeling safe, like it usually does, the space feels small and tight and confined. The feeling scratches beneath my skin, only adding to that sensation of being trapped that my father’s news gave me.

The last thing I need right now is to be confined in a room, I realize, even of my own volition. I need to get outside. Some fresh air might do me good, I think, and I reach for the phone on my nightstand, quickly finding my thread of texts with my best friend, Clara.

Bella: Hey Clara. What are you doing? I need to get out of the house for a while.

It’s only a minute or two before my phone buzzes with a response.

Clara: Nothing much. Off work today. Where you wanna go?

I bite my lip, thinking for a moment. After my father’s derogatory comment about my photography, I’m itching to go out and take pictures, to remind myself why I love it so much. That I’m good at it, and it’s not just a pointless hobby.

That if I had the chance, I could make something out of it.

Bella: What about the botanical gardens?

Clara: Sure. That sounds great. Meet you there in a couple of hours?

My spirits lift a little as I text her back a quick yes . The prospect of getting away from the house and my father for a little while eases the panic flooding my veins. I take several slow, deep breaths, trying to remember the things my therapist taught me to calm myself down. To take deep breaths, picture colors, imagine something I can touch and smell and see. They don’t always help, but in this particular moment, my pulse does slow and my breathing starts to feel more even. I focus on the feeling of the denim of my jeans as I rub my hands over my thighs, the softness of my hoodie against my skin, the soft lavender smell of the room spray I use on my bedding. I keep repeating those deep breaths, focusing on the fact that I’m going to see Clara shortly and not on the fact that my father wants me to agree to another engagement.

Or the fact that I embarrassed myself in front of one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen.

In the moment, I hadn’t thought much about his looks, but now the picture of him comes flooding back. He was definitely older than me by a decent bit—probably ten years or so, maybe a little more. But he was gorgeous, whoever he was. Dark hair, a little longer than what most men wear it, curling softly at the nape of his neck and the edges of his ears. A strong, clean-shaven jaw, straight nose, broad chest, and those eyes . I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes that green.

And his hands?—

The moment I remember him touching me, the feeling of those strong, long-fingered hands gripping my upper arms, the momentary warmth and flutter in my chest that I felt at the thought of him vanishes. It’s replaced by a cold, icy flood of fear, chilling me thoroughly enough to make me shiver as I grip the edge of the counter. My stomach twists, nausea rising sharply up into my throat, and I try to take the deep breaths again. But this time, they seem to catch in my chest, getting shorter and shorter until I feel like I’m going to pass out.

I squeeze the counter, feeling the quartz edge bite into my fingers, and focus on that feeling instead. Not the way that, for a moment, he’d held me tightly in his grip, and I wouldn’t have been able to escape if he hadn’t let me go.

You’re overreacting, Bella, I tell myself sternly, looking at my flushed and reddened face in the mirror. He was a stranger, but someone who knows your father. Mafia. Not Pyotr. Not his men. Not Bratva. He wouldn’t have hurt you.

But I don’t entirely believe that. I didn’t truly get a sense of malice from that man in particular, but I don’t trust anyone any longer. Not even my father, who sent me to the Bratva in the first place. Who, it seems, started looking for someone new to pawn me off on while I was still bedridden, recovering from what was done to me.

I swallow hard, reaching for the faucet tap and yanking it, turning on a hard stream of cold water. I reach down, splashing it over my face again, letting the icy shock of it against my skin jar me loose from the revolving door of my own thoughts and awful memories. I scrub at my cheeks, washing away the tear stains, and splash more of the cold water over my eyes, hoping it will help with how red and swollen they are. My nose is red-tipped, too, and there’s not much I can do about it other than try to cover it up with makeup.

But I’m just going to see Claire, and she won’t care how I look.

I swipe some moisturizer over my face and pat on a little caffeinated eye cream under my eyes in one last ditch attempt to improve the bags underneath them, and go back out to rifle through my dresser. I swap out my loose blue jeans for a pair of nicer black ones, and find a soft, long-sleeved green shirt in one of my drawers that I pull on. It’s a size too large, especially after the weight I lost, but I’m fine with that. It feels like I can more easily sink into it, lose the shape of my body in the folds of the cloth.

Running a brush through my hair, I leave it loose, and go to pick through the jewelry sitting on my dresser. I don’t wear much—I have plenty of fine jewelry that I inherited from my mother, but I rarely, if ever, put it on. On the rare occasion that there’s an event my father has taken me to, I’ve picked one or two pieces out. I wore her sapphires and pearls on my wedding day.

I wish I hadn’t. Now I can’t stand to look at them.

I reach for a pair of opal studs that my father gave me for my sixteenth birthday and slip them into my ears, along with a rose gold cuff bracelet and a twisted, leaf-and-vine rose gold ring that I slide onto my right hand. I prefer understated jewelry, things that are delicate and pretty. I’ve worn these same few pieces every time I leave the house for as long as I can remember, and I’ve never really wanted to add to my collection. I’d rather buy new things for my photography, or books, or spend the money going somewhere interesting.

Grabbing my phone, I text the driver to meet me out front, as well as Jacq, my bodyguard. We don’t have extensive security here, just like there isn’t a large staff to run this house, but my father has always kept one bodyguard to follow me around if I leave the property. As far as the driver, I think it’s as much to limit my freedom as a sign of status. I have a lot more freedom than daughters in the higher-ranking mafia families, but letting me have a driver’s license and my own car would probably be a step too far in my father’s eyes.

Derrick, the driver, is waiting by the car when I come outside. It’s not anything particularly fancy—a black SUV with heavily tinted windows—but nice enough. He opens the door for me so I can slide inside, and I see that Jacq is already up front, in the passenger’s seat. He twists around to look at me as I slide onto the leather seats behind him, groping for my seatbelt. “Where are we off to, Bella?”

My father would have an aneurysm if he heard any of the staff call me by my first name. But I can’t stand being called Miss D’Amelio constantly, so I nagged Jacq to stop calling me that for years until he finally agreed.

“The botanical gardens.” I hold up my camera. “Just to get some fresh air and some pictures.”

He nods, facing forward again without another word. Derrick gets in and starts the car, turning the air conditioning up. He started doing that when I first started venturing out again after coming back home, the second time he saw me wearing a hoodie in early summer. He didn’t ask why, he just made the car colder, and that was it.

I appreciated that more than I think I could ever tell him.

I lean back against the seat as we pull out of the driveway. It’s a bit of a drive into the city, and I close my eyes, feeling the sense of panic recede a little bit more with every mile of space that we put between us and my family home. This was the right call, I think, as I feel myself calming down. I just need some time away. That, and to see Clara. Both of those things will help.

Clara is waiting for me outside the gardens when we arrive. Derrick stays with the car, and Jacq follows me at a distance, close enough to make sure I stay safe but far enough back to give me some semblance of privacy. Clara waves when she sees me, and I wave back.

She looks me up and down as I get closer, and I wince. Clara is wearing jean shorts and a crop top with red nautical stripes, her blonde hair pulled up in a high ponytail, and sparkling hoop earrings dangling from her lobes. “Hey there, Bel,” she says as soon as I’m within hearing distance, closing the space between us and giving me a hug. “Aren’t you warm in that?” She eyes my long-sleeved shirt again, and I know what she’s thinking. This isn’t my usual wardrobe, and it’s hot enough out now for it to be strange.

I shrug, trying to make it seem as if it’s nothing. “I’ve been cold a lot lately. I went to the doctor, and it’s just some health thing. Nothing to worry about.”

“Oh, like low iron?” Clara raises an eyebrow, and I feel a flicker of guilt for the white lie. But I can’t talk to her about the real reasons for all of this. So I just nod, falling into step with her as we walk into the botanical gardens.

“Something like that.”

Claire knows I was engaged, that it was an arranged marriage, and that it didn’t work out. That’s the extent of it. My disappearance for over a month and inability to see her was chalked up to me getting over the marriage being broken off on my wedding day, before I even had a chance to say I do . Before the priest got past the part about if anyone has a reason why this man and woman should not be wed.

There were objections. Violent ones. I shiver despite the humid warmth of the greenhouse we’re walking into, thinking about it.

It’s a delicate thing, having a best friend who has nothing to do with the mafia. Claire knows who my father is and what he does, but I shield her from most of it. And even if she did know the truth about who I was supposed to marry and that he was Bratva, and what that meant, I couldn’t tell her about what came after.

I couldn’t even talk to my therapist about it. I haven’t been able to talk about it out loud at all, to put words to the things that happened to me. I can’t say it, so it all stays stuck in my head, tormenting me.

All I can do is find ways to make myself feel safer. Like covering up even when it’s hot out.

“Are you okay, Bel?” Clara shoots me a sideways look as we walk past a particularly gorgeous showcase of flowers, all bright yellows and pinks and oranges. I lift up my camera, looking for the right angle to get the perfect lighting. “You seem upset. And you said you needed to get out of the house. What’s going on?”

I let out a slow breath. Clara is the kind of friend who won’t push past the point where she realizes someone doesn’t want to talk about something, but she will push right up to that point, because she genuinely gives a shit. And I know she cares about why I was upset enough to need to bail out of my house on such short notice.

“My dad wants me to get married.” There it is, out in the open. Hearing myself say the words aloud twists my stomach. “He had me come sit down in his office this morning to see photos of the guy he picked.”

The look on Clara’s face reminds me of how strange the mafia world seems to someone who’s not a part of it. “Seriously, Bella? He just—sat you down and pointed at a picture and said ‘this guy’? After the last one he chose clearly went so well.” She frowns, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Bella, but that’s really weird.”

You don’t know the half of it. I swallow hard, focusing for a moment on taking another photo of a display of frothing greenery. The light is hitting it in a way that some of the leaves look translucent, and I want to capture it. “I know. But he doesn’t see it that way. I guess he’s been trying to find a new match for me for a while, and there haven’t really been any takers.”

Clara snorts. “Please. Maybe you just need to come out into the real world for a while. You’re fucking gorgeous, Bel. And smart, and talented. Guys would be lining up by the dozens for you, in any bar you walked into in New York. You could walk down the street and they’d be begging for the chance for a date.”

Except I don’t want a date. I want to be left alone, by men, at least. And smart and talented probably doesn’t go far when it comes with a side of trauma and neuroses . I smile thinly at Clara. “My dad doesn’t live in the real world, though. He’s mafia. So this is how it’s done. One arranged marriage falls through, another gets drawn up. It’s normal to him. And he doesn’t understand why I don’t want to do it.”

Clara can’t fully understand either, of course, because I haven’t told her the whole truth. But she’s not a part of the mafia world, so she doesn’t have to know all of that to be horrified by the idea of an arranged marriage.

“You can’t just be forced to marry a stranger if you don’t want to,” she splutters, and I pick up my camera again, taking a quick shot of her framed by varicolored roses. “Oh my god, Bella, you’re a menace with that thing.”

It’s said with love, though. I can hear it, and I can tell she doesn’t really mind, as long as it’s making me happy. And it is. My stomach is still churning at the thought of marrying someone my father picks out for me, and the never-too-distant memories are banging around in my skull, threatening to cause the panic to flare up again—but the camera calms it down. It gives me something else to focus on. A purpose. It quiets everything, for just a second.

It never lasts long, but any relief is something.

“It happens all the time. It’s normal for mafia families. I’m the one who’s rebelling, by not going along with it.” Again .

“Then be a rebel.” Clara spins around, walking backward as she talks, and I snap another quick photo. “Just leave. If he wants to control your life, show him he can’t. Walk away.”

“I’ve thought about it,” I admit. I’ve thought about it a lot , over the past couple of months, once I was able to think about anything again. But I come to the same conclusion, every time. “But where would I live? I don’t have access to any of my family’s money. Even my trust fund is controlled by my father, until I’m married. He doles out a very small allowance to my card every month. It’s not enough to put a deposit on a place to live, or get me by until I could find a job and get a paycheck.”

I zoom in on an orchid, capturing the delicate, paper-thin petals, the dew of the sprinkler system they use to water the flowers clinging to the edge of it.

“You could come live with me,” Clara suggests, crossing her arms under her small breasts. It makes her cropped shirt ride up, exposing more of her flat stomach and the sparkle of a piercing at her navel, and I see a man about our age sneak a glance at her as he walks by. It makes my skin crawl, to see the way his gaze slides over her body.

I turn away, snapping another photo of the orchids.

“I wouldn’t want to be a burden.” I lower the camera, stretching my neck to one side and then the other. “Your apartment is tiny. It’s the size of a closet. I can’t impose on you like that.”

“You wouldn’t be a burden. We’d figure it out.” Clara gives me a concerned look, and I return it with a small smile.

“I’ll figure something out,” I reassure her. “It’ll be alright.” The last words come out forced, and I can see from the look on Clara’s face that she can tell. “Let’s get something to eat, okay? I’m hungry.”

I’m not really, but there’s a nice cafe in the gardens, and I know Clara likes it. I also haven’t eaten since the half of a smoothie and two bites of oatmeal I had for breakfast, and I know I need to eat more than that. I doubt being too thin is going to scare off my father’s prospects for a future marriage.

We walk to the cafe, which is a quaintly pretty arrangement of white iron and glass-topped tables with white wicker chairs. As soon as we sit down, a server in a black and white uniform brings us two menus on thick cream paper with black script lettering, fitting the pretty, French cafe-adjacent setting.

“Would you like anything to drink?” he asks, glancing between the two of us. I look down at my menu, instantly feeling as if the space we’re in is too open, too full of people, too noisy. I hunch into my clothes, knotting my fingers together on my lap, trying to reclaim the sense of calm that I had just a little while ago when I was taking pictures.

“Just water,” I manage. I can feel Clara’s eyes on me.

“I’ll have the strawberry lemonade,” she says. “And bring us a bread basket for an appetizer.”

“Coming right up.” The server walks away, and I glance up to see Clara looking at me.

“Are you sure you’re alright, Bel? I know this all must be stressful, but?—”

She trails off, because without her knowing the truth, there’s no logical explanation for how I’m acting. Stress doesn’t cut it. But I can’t talk about it. I just can’t.

Which leaves Clara looking at me, confused as to why her bright, energetic, bubbly, and outgoing friend of three months ago currently has her arms wrapped around herself, looking at her paper menu as if it might bite.

“I’m fine. I’m just tired. And the argument with my dad this morning took a lot out of me.” I manage to unwind my arms from around my waist, knotting my fingers together in my lap again, picking at my cuticles. “Everything just feels uncertain right now. I don’t know what’s going to happen next. And there’s been a lot of that lately.”

“I know that feeling.” Clara looks at me sympathetically. “My job just went through another round of layoffs. I know I have some job security, but it’s nerve-wracking, you know? And working in computers and coding is a pretty bulletproof field; there are always job openings—but that uncertainty really does get to you.”

“Your job would be stupid to let you go.” I look up at her, managing a smile. “You’re brilliant with computers. You know stuff that makes absolutely no sense to me, and it’s like breathing to you. It’ll be fine.”

“And any guy would be crazy not to want to marry you.” Clara returns the smile as the server walks back over to our table, depositing a bread basket, whipped butter, and two drinks in front of us. “Now, let’s get something to eat. I know you’re going to want to take at least two more laps around the gardens before you’re done taking pictures, and you need the calories.”

There’s concern, and caring, in her voice. It calms me a little more and reminds me that there’s always someone in my corner. No matter what, even if I can’t tell her everything , I have Clara.

It means a lot, knowing I’m not entirely alone.

—

I end up getting home just in time to go upstairs and change before dinner. My father will be upset if I wear jeans to the dinner table, so I hurry up to my bedroom, dropping my camera on the bed, and change into a long sleeve knit dress with a neckline that comes up to my collarbones and a hem that comes down to my calves. It’s a pretty soft blue and dove-grey stripe, one of my favorite dresses. I snuggle into it, swapping out my opal earrings for a pair of small, plain rose gold hoops that match the ring and bracelet I’m wearing.

My father is already at the dinner table when I walk into the room, a bowl of soup in front of him and another at a place setting for me—a chilled cucumber gazpacho. I sink into my seat, picking up my spoon, but the thought of our conversation this morning tightens my throat and twists my stomach until all I can do is drag my spoon through the soup.

“I heard you ran into an associate of mine this morning.” My father looks at me over his bowl, his gaze implacable. I can’t tell if he’s angry or not.

I can feel my face flush at the memory. “I’m sorry.” It seems like the safest answer. “I didn’t see him.”

“Of course you didn’t. You were too upset about the perfectly acceptable match I’ve arranged for you.” There’s a trace of irritation in his tone. “Did you tell him you were my daughter?”

I shake my head. “We didn’t talk much. I didn’t even get his name, actually.”

“Enough for him to find out that you’re upset with my plans for your marriage.” The irritation deepens. “Enough for him to decide he had a better idea.”

My head snaps up at that. “What do you mean?”

“He wants to take you out to dinner tomorrow night. I was skeptical, but he didn’t seem to want to take no for an answer.” My father purses his lips, frowning. “It’s not the way I’d have liked to handle this at all. But he seems to have different ideas than I do about how to go about it. So he’ll be here at seven tomorrow to pick you up.”

I set my spoon down, my head spinning. Suddenly, the entire interaction this morning with the man I ran into is framed in a new light. Those green eyes looking down into mine. His hands on my arms, keeping me from falling. Him listening as I told him about the impending engagement I don’t want.

And his response to that was to—tell my father he’s taking me out on a date?

It almost makes me laugh. I press the back of my hand to my mouth to stifle it, faking a cough instead and reaching for my water glass.

My father looks at me quizzically, and I can feel his irritation growing by the second. It makes me like this man a little more, actually—I can tell that his high-handedness in demanding that he be allowed to take me out, something no one else has ever done, has pissed my father off.

Masseo D’Amelio doesn’t like being told what to do. Even Salvatore framed his request for the engagement between Pyotr and me as a favor my father would do for him. A favor that would be well-rewarded. He must have known my father would buck against it, otherwise.

“I told you, I don’t want another marriage. Or an engagement, or to have someone trying to court me.” I knot my hands together in my lap, trying not to remember the man holding me in place. The firmness of his grip. Trying not to think about Pyotr, or my wedding day. The taste of copper in my mouth, or the feeling of too-strong fingers digging into my skin. Panic starts to crawl up and down my spine, and I force the memories down.

My father lets out a long sigh, one that I know very well. It means he’s at the end of his patience with me. “Just be ready at seven tomorrow, Bella,” he says flatly. “And hear the man out. You might like his offer.”

The way he says it makes me curious. Truthfully, the entire situation makes me curious. Mafia daughters don’t date. They meet prospective matches at charity galas and dinner parties, at arranged meetings between parents, or they don’t meet them at all, and simply show up for the wedding on the decided-upon day. The fact that this man got my father to agree to this at all is interesting enough to make me reconsider how I feel about it.

He seems different from other men I’ve met. His request—or demand, it sounds like—for a date with me makes it seem like he wants to try to woo me himself, instead of just having my father set the marriage up. And it makes me feel like he respects me enough to at least want my opinion on it. To want to try to make me like him, to make me a part of the decision.

I’m still going to tell him no. I don’t want to marry anyone, and I have every intention of trying to put it off as long as possible. But this delays my father’s plans to make me sign a betrothal contract with Tommas Ferrero a little longer, at least. And if this man is willing to at least make an effort to take my feelings into account, I can at least let him down in person, over dinner.

The feeling of panic twists in my stomach again, thinking about being alone with him, about going out to dinner, going on a date with a man I don’t know for the first time. I can do this, I tell myself. I can at least do this, and stand up for myself and what I want. I can sit across from this man, and tell him politely that I appreciate him thinking of me, but that I meant it when I said I didn’t want to get married to anyone .

I swallow hard, picking up my spoon again. “Alright,” I say quietly, and I see my father relax a little, now that I’ve given in. “I’ll be ready at seven tomorrow.”