Page 67 of Third Degree

Elio

As I waited in the car for Gianna, I knew she was angry with me, and I was determined to make it up to her. For the first time in twelve years, I could offer her more than just the choice to be with me, something we had already planned.

I wanted to give her the freedom to decide where to live, how to live, what to do—anything she desired, I would provide on a silver platter.

Yet, deep down, I knew I had messed up by not including her in the plan. I should have told her everything and trusted that she didn’t need my protection. She was capable of making her own choices. After all, she wasn’t a child; she was my wife.

Fuck. It sounded so good. My fucking wife. It’s ironic how you can find yourself married to someone nowadays without even expressing your love to them in person. Although she did say it in a text message, not yet face to face.

I didn’t care how much I resembled an ecstatic golden retriever with a stupid grin on my face.

Then I saw her emerging from the house. Her black shoulder-length hair cascaded down in loose waves, framing her face with an air of mystery. Her brown-amber eyes sparkled with a mix of determination and vulnerability.

She wore a form-fitting white dress that clung to her curvaceous figure, accentuating her generous chest. That damn dress made me want to tear it off her now that she was mine. She also wore adorable Converse shoes, a playful touch that added to her unique charm. In that instant, she looked more like herself, the Gianna I had come to know and love.

I wasn’t going to tell her that she resembled a cake topper in that dress, but the moment I saw her discomfort, I knew it was yet another decision forced upon her by her parents.

This—this was the Gianna I knew, the one who possessed an undeniable beauty that left me breathless, irresistibly drawn to her.

I exited the car and opened the door so she could get in. She had a bag in her hand.

“What about the rest of my stuff?” She paused for a moment, looking up at me.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

In her eyes, I saw a mix of burning rage and crushing disappointment that hit me like a punch to the gut. I had messed up big time, foolishly thinking that hiding the truth would spare her from the hurt.

As our gazes locked, her eyes bore into mine, daring me to confront the brewing storm of emotions and find the courage to mend what was broken between us.

“I didn’t know where you wanted to live. When you pick, then I can tell them to bring your—”

“San Diego,” she cut in and pushed past me to get inside the car.

“Cazzo(Fuck),” I whispered under my breath and walked behind her.

We drove off in silence while she clenched her overnight bag in a death grip and stared out her window. She was so pissed.

“Rosa mia…” I groveled and attempted to reach out for her hand, but she only tightened her grip on the bag.

“No.” She simply turned from me and shifted so her full body faced outside.

“I am sorry.”

Her head snapped in my direction. “No,” she barked at me. “No. Absolutely not. I am really fucking upset with you. I swear, you’ve always been the one person on this whole planet who put me first. You saved me when I was eighteen years old. How could you think it was okay to do this to me and my family without asking my opinion?”

“I tried—”

“Did you, though? You know how much change affects me. Did you think about how this would make me feel?”

“The business, I guess I didn’t think—”

“This is one thing we can agree on. You weren’t thinking.” She threw her hands in the air in frustration. “And I am so fucking tired of hearing about the family fucking business.

“It’s clear that the fleeting impression I had of you when I was eighteen and then again at Julian’s wedding isn’t the real version of you. You’re just like my father. All you care about is the business.”

“I am not like your father,” I interrupted and tried so hard to keep my voice even.

Fuck, if she thought I was anything like that piece of shit.

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