He needs to let me go. He’ll get nothing out of me. Not willingly.
I stare into the mirror, eyes cold and distant, my arms at my sides.
My hair has been parted at the front and swoops over my right eye. I’ve pulled it back into a loose lower bun.
Normally, I would admire a gown like this—I would enjoy looking like this. I put on makeup because he wants me to look nice (and frankly, after he took my ring, I didn’t think it was a bad idea to distract myself enough by looking pretty again.) My lips are glossed and I look great…but I don’t feel like it at all.
The gown is made of embroidered sequined lace, with a boat neck and V-back. A ribbon sash is tied at my waist, the sleeves stopping mid-arm with a scalloped trim. It’s the first black dress I saw in the closet when I was finally freed from the cells. For some reason it really caught my eye. My heels are a charcoal black, not too tall or short. A perfect, comfortable height.
I give myself one more glance before walking out and looking at the alarm clock. I have ten minutes to make it down. I should get there early.
My numbness from earlier has consumed me.
I’m just going through the motions.
I can’t think straight.
I keep thinking about Toni.
Flashbacks of my beloved husband are haunting me, almost as if he blames me for not standing up for myself and keeping my ring.
I blame myself too. I should have fought, but Daddy would always tell me that fighting over something that can be replaced is pointless. To Draco, it is just a ring, and my father would think the same of it.
I can cry all I want to, but it won’t make a difference.
“Move ahead, Gia. Move ahead.” Those were Daddy’s words exactly. Even when I feel low, I have to keep going. Keep pushing. Don’t stop or give up.
I won’t.
And that’s the only reason I’m going to this dinner.
The dining room is full of people when I enter.
I avoid frowning as I spot some of Draco’s men standing in the corner. They aren’t dressed as nicely as I am. Most of them are wearing brown or tan cargo pants with way too many pockets, black or gray T-shirts, and black gloves that don’t cover their fingers.
His mom is sitting in her usual spot, wearing a brown gown, and Francesca is wearing a sheer white dress. Her hair is in loose, dark waves around her shoulders, her eyes down, focused on the empty plate in front of her.
She glances up and I force a smile.
She doesn’t return it.
I feel the men looking at me, some of them grumbling to the next in Spanish, looking me up and down in my dress.
“Is that the bitch?” one of them with a slick black ponytail asks. He scans me thoroughly.
“That’s her. Stupid cunt that got Pico bludgeoned by Jefe.”
“What the fuck is he keeping her here for?”
“Probably same fucking reason he kept the bitch up there. To fuck her when he feels like it. She has a nice ass, though. I’d fuck the shit out of her myself. I don’t blame him for keeping her too.”
They all think I don’t understand.
Fucking scumbags.
They both chortle but I ignore them, making my way towards the head of the table. I take my seat—two chairs down from Francesca—and place my hands in my lap.
I look around for Draco but he’s nowhere to be found.
I peek at the clock. He has five minutes to arrive.
Those five minutes pass by rather quickly, and when he walks in from the kitchen, the butlers come out right behind him.
In his native tongue, he demands his men to sit and they all pull out chairs at the end of the table, a few seats away from us.
Draco pulls out his chair. He’s changed clothes—a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black dress pants. He’s wearing the skull ring again, his black hair pushed back. He’s gotten it cut. It’s shorter on the sides and in the back, long and wavy at the top.
One loose strand has fallen onto his forehead and when he rakes it back and points his gaze on me, I feel my breath dwindle. The scary part is I don’t know if it’s in a good or a bad way.
Holding his hands out, he picks up his gaze and carries it across the table.
I didn’t notice before that classical music is playing softly from the speakers.
His men notice him trying to get their attention and they stop talking immediately, putting all of their concentration on him.
“Thank you,” he murmurs in Spanish, dropping his arms. “Tonight is special. Want to know why?” He flashes a wicked smile, but no one responds to his rhetorical question. “Because my guest is finally able to join me for dinner. She had to learn her lesson during these past few days, but I think she’s starting to understand.”