Frederico rises to his full height, which is impressive, considering he’s in the back of the booth, while my brain is trying to process what was just said. My wide-eyed gaze locks with his for a moment, and I watch his nostrils flare and his lips curl. The suffocating pressure on my chest grows with every passing second.
A few minutes ago, I heard every single word that came out of my father’s mouth. Now, everything around me sounds muffled. My brain wasn’t willing to handle any more, so it just shut down.
I blink, then I blink again.
Nothing changes.
As if we’re in a movie, I watch Frederico’s face turn red. He says something to my dad, and tight lines form around his eyes. Then he glances at me and shakes his head, as if to say,Don’t worry, I’ll talk him out of it. You won’t have to marry this sleazy, old man who was always a bit too friendly to you when you were a child.
Now that I think about it, wasn’t it actually Frederico who once dragged me away from Emilio as he was trying to make me sit on his lap? Gosh, I haven’t thought about that in so long, since Emilio left for Italy shortly after anyway.
Hands land on my shoulders, but I can’t move. A sudden feeling of coldness expands in my core, the heaviness of it shocking my entire system. My whole body freezes into one solid piece, and I’m unable to do anything about it.
My breaths come out quick and shallow, and two hands push their way under my body—one under my knees, and the other behind my back—and I’m hoisted out of the chair and pressed against a strong chest.
I manage to close my eyes, almost grateful I’m stuck in this bubble and can’t fully make out the chaos that’s happening around me. The faint sound of shouts is merely background noise in my brain, and I’m sure Matteo’s men have stepped in so we can get out of here.
I’m jostled as Matteo tries to get into the car, still holding me. He ends up lifting me into the car first, before getting in himself, and cradling me back on his lap.
The driver speeds away while Matteo brushes over my hair in a soothing motion, constantly muttering things like, “It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you.” “I told you I won’t let anything happen to you.” “I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere,” and “He’s not taking you anywhere. You’re mine, passerotta.”
“You’re mine, passerotta.”
My broken brain probably misconstrued that last one, but I keep repeating it in my head and focus on Matteo’s heart beating steadily under my ear until my breathing finally evens out.
At least I can hear him, even if it still sounds so far away.
Tucked into my safety bubble that is Matteo’s chest, I slowly drift off to sleep, my mind completely shutting down. At some point, I rouse with a start, but that familiar woodsy scent, with a hint of oranges, allows me to go straight back to sleep.
The next time I wake up, I’m in Matteo’s bed, covered up to my chest with the blanket. I move around in the dark, immediately bothered by the tight confines of my dress. A quick glance at the clock informs me it’s three in the morning.
Yet, the bed beside me is empty.
Even though there’s this vague memory of him putting me down and hugging me to his chest when I drifted back to sleep.
After he took care of me and got me back home like he’d promised.
Home.
His home.
The place that feels more like my home than my father’s house ever has because it comes with the man who’s done so much for me.
Which is the opposite of what can be said about my dad. My father. The man who sells off his daughter—his own flesh and blood—like she’s some goods he needs to make the highest possible profit on. For the second time.
Disgusted doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel about all of this. Moment by moment, my brain and body work more, my pulse speeding up in line with the rise of my anger.
I grind my teeth as I replay what happened today. No matter how often I think about it, it all seems surreal. Maybe I lack the capability to think the way my father does, to care that little about someone’s life—your own daughter’s life—that you’d not only be okay, but delighted, to marry her off for your own personal and professional gains.
Anger swells in my gut, and my chest burns, heat spreading outward into every single one of my cells, until I feel like I’m about to burst into a million drops of scalding lava.
The dress suddenly feels way too tight, and I need to get out of it. I tug on the zipper, and it rips straight off. For fuck’s sake, seriously? I let out a groan of frustration and walk to the door. I yank it open and stalk down the hallway, heading straight for the kitchen island. The room is illuminated by the moonlight shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows, making it easy to navigate my way around. After turning on the dim light above the stove, I go back to the island and pull out the top right drawer. Bingo.
The scissors are heavy in my hand, the plastic handle smooth around my fingers as I hold it upside down in front of me.
“Passerotta.”
I lower the scissors and watch Matteo walk toward me, his movements smooth and assured. The low lighting makes him appear otherworldly, larger than life, like a king, or a Greek god, someone who can’t be rattled by anything.