Page 11 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

“Gabriette, it’s time,” he says, all formal in Italian, no hint of comfort, not that I expected it.

“Don’t you think you’ve orchestrated enough ‘times’ in my life, Pappa?” The bitterness in my voice surprises even me. “You arranged this marriage without my consent. You kept Mamma’s illness from me, and you lost my sister. What’s left?”

He looks at me, his face unreadable. “Life is not always about what we want, Gabriette. Sometimes it’s about what must be done.”

“What must be done?” I retort, my voice rising with every word. “For whom? For you? For the family name? What about what must be done for me, for my life? When do I get a say in all this?”

He sighs, taking a moment before he speaks. “You’re my daughter, and this is your duty. It’s time for you to accept that.”

“Duty?” I can feel my fists clench involuntarily. “My duty is to live a life that’s true to myself. Not to be some bargaining chip in your underworld dealings—”

A hard slap lands on my cheek and I stumble backward, my hand flying up to where he struck me. Tears well up in my eyes and I look at my father, hoping for a glimmer of remorse, but finding nothing.

“I’ve had enough of your fucking cheek,” he growls, gripping my face in his hands and forcing me to look up at him. “Today, you will become Mikhail’s wife. It’s your duty to make this alliance work, or so help me God, I will kill you myself.”

My father has never spoken to me like this before, and I find myself terrified of him for the first time in my life. “Pappa—”

“The car is waiting. It’s time to go,” he says, stepping back from me and smoothing down his tux. “I have given you the freedom you wanted, Gabrietta, but you’ve run away enough. It’s time you know your place.”

Know my place … Something tells me that my father never intended to keep his end of the promise with Sophia, and that knowledge now sits like lead in the pit of my stomach.

My freedom was never mine in the first place; I was living on borrowed time, just like my mother.

GABRIETTE

The car stops in front of the church, and I’m seized by a visceral urge to bolt, to rip off this expensive dress and run as far and as fast as I can. I glance at the throng of expensive cars parked neatly outside and feel sick.

Every vehicle represents another nail in the coffin of my freedom, a garish show of wealth and power that has nothing to do with love or happiness.

“Smile, Gabriette,” my father says, almost mechanically. His words hit like his earlier slap. How can he say that when he’s led me to this emotional slaughterhouse?

I put on a mask of a smile, my lips trembling as they curve upwards. It feels like I’m betraying every part of myself with that single, simple action. I take his arm as if he’s leading me to the gallows. The doors in front of us swing open.

And that’s when I see it—the long stretch of white, flower-adorned carpet that I’m supposed to float down like a dream. But this isn’t a dream; it’s a nightmare. A trap set with roses and satin ribbons.

As we make our way down the aisle, I catch sight of Mikhail standing there at the altar, a dark magnet pulling me closer with every step. I can’t take my eyes off him even though everything in me is telling me to.

He’s a devil in a tailored Tom Ford suit; a devil I am signing my life away to.

There’s no comfort in his gaze. Those mismatched eyes hold nothing for me, just an acknowledgment of the unholy pact we’re moments from inking. The scar adds a menacing look to his handsome face, making everything so much worse.

My heart bottoms out, a sinking stone of dread and remorse.

This morning the sound of a symphony celebrating my audition filled my ears. I was free. I was happy. I was me.

Now I’m being used as a pawn between the Cosa Nostra and Bratva. My public defiance could mean the death of many. Each step toward Mikhail is like descending deeper into a maze with no exit.

Finally, my father and I reach the altar. His hand lifts my veil, but it’s more like he’s unveiling a commodity than a daughter. Then his eyes widen and I see a look of horror in his eyes.

He glances at Mikhail, then at me, and clears his throat before placing my hand in Mikhail’s.

When Mikhail’s fingers close around mine, I shiver. It’s like a shackle snapping shut and a thousand volts of dread and revulsion surge through me. My father takes his seat, and as I turn back to face the altar, the sanctuary seems to spin around me.

I lock eyes with the man in front of me, and for some reason, he glares, then he looks over my shoulder. I don’t know what the hell is going on, and I don’t have the extra emotion to still figure it out.

As the priest speaks, his words morph into a meaningless drone. My gaze sweeps across the sea of expectant faces, but they’re just a blur, a smudged painting.

They’re witnessing my ruin, but mistaking it for a celebration. How did I end up here? How did this become my life?

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