Page 8 of His Dark Possession

GABRIELLA

“If I get married a third time, remind me to elope.” I absolutely detest wedding dresses. It doesn’t matter how much I might resemble Cinderella with my voluminous skirt and constricting bodice; I can’t shake the feeling of being a gift-wrapped present, set to be delivered to the marital bed of a man I’m still grappling with uncertainty about.

Carina, ever the devoted friend, insists that I look beautiful in this attire. “And that ceremony,” she gushes with uncontainable enthusiasm, “so incredibly romantic.”

I spent what felt like an eternity—thirty agonizing minutes—gazing into Antonio’s deep-set eyes while wrestling with my thoughts, questioning whether this marriage was truly necessary. Could I muster the courage to excuse myself and make a break for it? Would I be able to navigate life independently, without the safety net of a partner? Just as I was about to convince myself to run, the priest interrupted my spiraling thoughts, prompting me to say ‘I do,’ and in that very moment, our union was sealed. Antonio Bianchi becamemy husband, and once again, my freedom slipped through my fingers.

“I’m sure your wedding will be even grander,” I reassure my best friend, trying to share in her excitement. “Benedetto carries the family name, after all.” With the Bianchis and the Andrettis now united, I can only imagine how my new family will be woven into the elaborate tapestry of their celebrations. Lucky Benedetto Andretti, indeed.

Just then, a sharp knock reverberates against the bathroom door, but Carina, ever defiant, retaliates with an equally forceful knock. “Occupied!” she yells, her voice tinged with annoyance.

Yet, on the other side of the door, I hear Ben’s unmistakable voice, warm and familiar. “Cara mia, is Gabriella in there with you?”

Carina looks at me with pleading eyes, her expression a mixture of desperation and hope. I can tell she’s silently urging me to confirm to Benedetto that, yes, I’m in here with her. After all I’ve put her through for this wedding—late-night calls, endless planning meetings, and emotional breakdowns—I decide to fall on my sword for her. “Yes, Ben, I am. What do you want? Can’t a girl use the restroom in peace?” I try to inject a playful tone into my voice, but I can feel the tension building.

I can almost hear Benedetto roll his eyes on the other side of the door. “Your husband is getting impatient waiting for you, Gabriella. You were supposed to enter the reception hall fifteen minutes ago.” His voice carries a mix of concern and mild annoyance, and I can sense the mounting pressure.

Half an hour must have slipped by without us realizing. Oh well, it happens. “We’ll be out in a minute,” I assure him, trying tosound nonchalant, even as my heart races at the thought of the reception outside, the laughter and chatter of guests who are likely wondering where we are.

In a frantic whisper, Carina leans closer, her voice barely audible. “What’s the hold-up? He seems like a nice guy. He’s nothing like Johnston.” Her eyes dart back to the door, as if she can will him to understand our plight.

But that’s exactly what frightens me. I learned how to navigate the tumultuous waters of my deceased husband’s rage. I knew the signs—the way his brow would furrow, the tone in his voice that signaled a storm was brewing. When he was upset with me, there was no doubt he’d yell, hurling insults that cut deep. And when he drank, it was a different kind of dread; I’d find myself forced into depravity, submitting to his whims just to keep the peace. I had mastered the art of handling Johnston, from sunrise to midnight, each moment a lesson in survival. I knew what to expect and how to steel myself against it, and now, facing something new with Benedetto, I feel unmoored.

I don’t know Antonio, though. I can’t quite grasp what he truly wants from me or how he will treat me in the long run. So far, our interactions have been limited to just three fleeting moments. On that unforgettable first night, he was the first man to ever go down on me, and in between those electric waves of pleasure that made every one of my senses come alive, there was something disarmingly threatening in his intensity. Last night, he swept me around the dance floor, his confidence radiating as he whispered promises of a world filled with possibilities. And today, in front of his friends and family, he swore with unwavering conviction that he would protect me and love me, no matter what challenges lay ahead. But what if the doors close later, and he truly fulfills that promise? I’ve grown soaccustomed to the condescending nature of men that I find myself at a loss, unsure how to navigate the presence of someone who genuinely seems to care for me.

Yet, I am not so afraid that I won’t take the risk.

With a deep breath, I turn toward the bathroom door, feeling a mix of anticipation and apprehension. Out there could be a man who loves me or another Johnston Scott, but I’ll never know if I remain hidden in this sanctuary. “Alright, let’s go,” I say, steeling myself for whatever awaits.

Carina unlocks the bathroom door and steps out, her smile brightening the dim light. Benedetto leans down, pressing his warm lips to his cheek before looking at me with a mixture of concern and affection. “Your husband was beginning to worry that you’d left him,” he remarks, a hint of playful urgency in his tone.

I smile as brightly as I can manage, putting on a brave face despite the flutter of nerves in my stomach. “I would never do such a thing,” I swear, my voice steady even though my heart races. He would go the way of Johnston before I skittered away from this marriage like a scared little rat, leaving everything behind. “Take me to my husband, Ben.”

He leads the way down the hall, his confident strides echoing against the polished floors, twisting and turning until we arrive at the great doors that open into the reception area. The atmosphere is alive with laughter and music just beyond those imposing barriers. “Come, Carina,” he orders, and with a nod, the two of them disappear into the vibrant crowd, leaving me standing alone for a moment.

I’m left facing Antonio, who stands before me with a smile on his lips that is as radiant as the tailored suit affixed to his frame, the fabric hugging his broad shoulders perfectly. “You worried me, gorgeous,” he says, his voice smooth and inviting, drawing me in.

“Post-wedding jitters,” I announce with an air of confidence that I desperately hope I can maintain. “But I’m ready to be presented.” I straighten my posture, willing myself to embrace the excitement of this moment.

Antonio covers the space between us in an instant, closing the distance with a magnetic pull. He presses against me, and I feel a hand caress my back, sending a shiver down my spine as he pulls me into him. The warmth of his body takes my breath away, making it difficult to focus on anything other than the pounding of my heart. “Tell me what you’re afraid of, Gabriella. I can smell the fear clinging to you like a second skin,” he murmurs, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes me feel exposed.

I can feel a droplet of sweat form between my breasts, its warmth a stark reminder of my anxiety. “I-I’m not afraid of anything,” I lie, forcing the words out even as my insides twist with uncertainty.

But it only makes the smile on Antonio’s lips turn wolfish, a predatory gleam lighting up his gaze. “My darling, you don’t have to lie to me. Is it me who scares you? Or is it what you’ve been through?” His words slice through the air with a chilling clarity, and I can feel him reading me like a book, every page exposed, every secret laid bare—and I hate it.

I counsel myself to take deep breaths, to inhale the soothing air and calm my racing heart, but it doesn’t work. The longer I remain in Antonio’s arms, enveloped by his warmth and staringdeep into his dark brown eyes, the more vulnerable I feel, as if he can see straight through to my very soul.

“Come now,mia regina, tell me what you’re afraid of.”

My queen. The term rolls off his tongue with a silky smoothness, and I am taken aback by how quickly he has shifted from gorgeous to darling to queen in just a matter of seconds. Although a part of me is nervous about laying my heart bare, his tone seems earnest, almost pleading. “My last husband didn’t beat me, but I was no less abused,” I admit quietly, the confession slipping from my lips like a fragile whisper. The soft sound of instrumental music hums through the door, a gentle backdrop to the weight of my revelation, as if the melody itself understands the gravity of the moment.

Antonio looks at me with a critical gaze, his eyes piercing through the dim light of the room. I almost shy away from the intensity, feeling exposed and vulnerable in front of him after laying bare my past. “Gabriella, I will never speak unkindly to you. I will never lay my hands on you in anything but love. I will never mistreat you.” His brow softens, and he leans down to brush his lips gently against my forehead, a tender gesture that feels both grounding and reassuring. “I know that you have no reason to believe me. I have tortured and killed men, and I will do it again if necessary. One day I’ll be the head of the Bianchi family, and even worse acts will be attributed to my name, whispered in the shadows of the city. But if I make no other promise to you, let this be the one you remember. I will care for you, I will love you, and I will treat you like a queen every day until we die. You are the only person or thing of importance in my life now. Everything else comes second to you, a distant echo compared to the vibrant reality of what we could share.”

This is my second marriage, yet something about his promise feels like a balm over the jagged scars of my first. I know, deep down, that it has the potential to replace the memories that haunt me, wrapping them in a cloak of hope. “Thank you, Antonio.” Those are the only words I can form, a simple expression of gratitude that feels insufficient for the depth of what he offers.

“After the reception, I will take you home and show you that I mean those words,” he promises, his voice steady and sincere, hinting at a future where love triumphs over pain.

I have a vivid flashback to last week, lying on the soft sheets of the bed, completely lost in the sensations as I writhe beneath his expert touch. His lips caress my clit with a feather-light tenderness, while his fingers delve deep, satisfying that aching need within me that had long been neglected. If this is merely a preview of what is to come, then Antonio is undoubtedly an infinitely better man than Johnston ever was. “I look forward to it,” I whisper, my voice barely above a breath.

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