Page 52 of Third Degree

I looked down in disbelief, mentally replaying the entire conversation. I had to turn and look around just to ensure that, somehow, I wasn’t being punk’d. When disbelief turned into realization, I rested my head in my hands and just started to cry. I dropped to the floor, sliding down the wall behind me.

“Why?” I pleaded aloud, the question hanging in the air, unanswered.

Suddenly, joyful laughter echoed from the reception hall, reminding me that Elio was just on the other side of those doors.

I couldn’t bring myself to return to him or subject him to the turmoil I was experiencing. I saw the torment in his eyes when I left, and I couldn’t bear to inflict that upon him again.

But in my selfishness, I also couldn’t endure the thought of putting myself through the same agony. The pain of being torn from his arms once before was unbearable. If I could somehow exert control over this excruciating pain, maybe it would be bearable this time. I had to release him completely, relinquish the little control I had left, and allow both of us to return to the lives we were destined for.

I wiped away my tears, smearing the running makeup from my cheeks, and with a newfound determination, I lifted myself.

Just as I was about to head inside to retrieve my jacket, I noticed Chelsea emerging from another door at the end of the hallway. She, too, was running out, tears streaming down her face.

“Hey, are you okay?” I asked, enfolding her in a tight embrace. She shook her head, her vulnerability mirroring my own.

“Areyouokay?” She pulled away, her gaze searching mine. My puffy red eyes and the trembling shake of my head prompted laughter from both of us.

“Let’s get out of here,” I suggested, intertwining my fingers with hers and leading us toward the car.

As I walked away from the only man I’d had ever had feelings for and was forced to start a life I never wanted, I realized that sometimes the freedoms we think we have are just our own false realities.

PART III

Present

18

Gianna Daphne

It has been the longest nearly eight weeks of my entire life.

Between dodging phone calls from my friends, packing up my apartment, and staring at my phone to see if Elio had called me, my life had been a roller coaster.

Eight weeks. Two months. Complete radio silence from Elio. I was the one who walked away, but I never anticipated his inaction. After everything, I half expected a grand gesture, a desperate attempt to save or rescue me.

Yet there was nothing—no phone calls. No texts. Not even a whisper.

Was it childish of me not to reach out? Perhaps. But he knew I didn’t return for the wedding. Word must have spread that I had left my apartment as well. Where was the man who had once saved me at eighteen? The one who’d given me my freedom?

But I didn’t need him anymore.

I was turning thirty-one tomorrow, a full-grown adult. I would grant myself the freedom I craved. Amid endless wedding planning meetings, I had to devise a plan for my own life.

I knew my destiny was to be the perfect Mafia wife, but I could shape what that meant. I could craft my own narrative, my own story. Maybe I’d bear a few children for him, then find solace in my gardening, hoping that the man my father had struck a deal with wasn’t a despicable monster.

I had to seize the tiny bit of freedom I’d be granted and forge my own path. Perhaps in secrecy, I could pursue education. Take classes on the side. But those choices had to stem from me.

Though I lacked a concrete plan for what lay ahead, I knew what needed to happen, and none of it involved Elio.

As much as that fact tore me apart.

I had to cancel all my therapy sessions and felt the anxiety creeping back into my life. I tried to practice everything I had learned alone, but it was hard, and the insomnia was strong out here, especially being in the same house where I witnessed my father put business over his family.

As the morning sun poured into my room, memories and moments with Elio consumed my thoughts, yet I had to push them aside.

I had to move forward. It was the only way this would work. The only way I would survive it all.

As I sat around in my childhood bedroom in a small suburb outside the city of Chicago, I couldn’t stop the intense aching inside my chest. I missed Elio. I missed my life. I missed my apartment. Instead, I was in a room with the largest, most obnoxious four-poster bed covered in pink-and-gold accents.

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