Strong-willed, badass and bounded by the chains of an arranged marriage, Isabela Arias dreams of the freedom to live and love as she chooses.
Being sold to the Italian mafia wasn't exactly on Isabela's to do list...
As she's forced to navigate the r...
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My hands clench the armrest, puncturing the soft cushion with my acrylic nails. Navy blue smears on the canvas like a spill. Random clusters of white paint form anything you can think of. It's like a painting meant to cater to our emotions. Dead leaves fall to the bottom of the page — sadness, confusion, anger. Everything bottled into one.
"Is everything prepared for my sister's funeral?" Damien asks, inhaling his scotch as if it was water.
I never took Damien for a person with feelings, but losing his sister warranted a foundering response. While I didn't have ill feelings for Paola, I didn't perceive her as the glue to hold the family together. Younger siblings are special like that — you either die for them or spend your whole life feuding with them.
I'm not sure which category I stand in with my brothers.
Probably the lather.
"Yes," Julian says, decked out in his usual black attire that perfectly fits a funeral's scenery. "It's almost time for the ceremony. Probably should head out."
Damien nods, pursing his lips. "Probably right."
Wrapping paper crinkles as I hoist myself up with the bouquet of roses in my hands. They're purple-- Paola's favorite color. The roses are enormous, covering most of my face from the sheer size. Goosebumps erupt on my skin when Julian places his palm on my lower back, leading me out of the room.
Ugh.
I hate how my body reacts like that.
I still haven't forgotten his betrayal.
I just wished my body remembered.
"Oh," Julian says, the spewing warmth disappearing when he removes his hand. "The new living arrangements? Am I supposed to bring Isabela to the penthouse?"
A sigh departs from his lips. "Tesoro, head to the car. The adults have some talking to do."
My stomach churns with disdain as I sport the fakest smile I can muster. "Of course, buttercup. I wouldn't want to disappoint you on the day of you paying regards to your sister."
My teeth grind against each other-- I'm sure they're getting sharper by the second. Sometimes I wished I was the one who died instead. I don't want to sound like I'm giving up, but treating Damien with respect guides me closer and closer to the ledge. For relief, I grasp the spikey vine without the sanctuary of the wrapping paper.
Pain circulates through my hand. My grip constricts until the pang becomes numb. Until it loses its purpose. My stilettos click as I stroll out the door. Blood shapes a path as I go. I pretend to listen to Damien's command as I linger by the cracked door. There's no one here to tattle on me except for Julian, and it might be silly of me to put faith in him again, but I won't be treated like a baby.
"I don't want Isabela in the penthouse." Damien clears his throat, dropping an octave. "Or in this country. That attack was a close call. If she's by my side, she will be at risk. I brought her a little cottage on the skirts of the city of Atlanta. It's only until our wedding or when matters wrap up. Whichever comes first. It's in your best interest to watch over her."
