My mother said I was too shy. Too sensitive. Too much inside my own head. But Martina noticed the patterns she dismissed.The way I’d stiffen at physical contact. The distress I couldn’t hide when something in my routine changed. The inconsolable panic attacks I was punished for.
It was Martina who took me for a formal evaluation, and when I received my diagnosis, everything started to make sense. I understood why it felt like I was dropped onto another planet, in a world where I didn’t speak the language or know the culture. It was a relief to have an explanation—until it wasn’t.
I’ll never forget my parents’ anger when Martina told them. She reminded my mother that I was like my father, who she loved. Angie told her I was nothing like him and never would be, then Michael expressly forbade either of us from ever mentioning the words autism or ADHD in his house again.
They made me feel wrong, and in turn, I spent the rest of my childhood and teens learning to suppress my emotions. I’d foolishly thought that if I did everything right, I’d earn their approval. But it never came.
When Michael glances at me now, glowering at my ballet-pink satin dress, it’s never been more obvious.
“What are you wearing, Gabriela?” His lips press into a thin line. “Are you trying to embarrass me?”
“What’s wrong with it?” I glance down in confusion. It’s a dress Abella gave me, and it’s a designer brand.
My mother looks me over, mirroring Michael’s disapproval, as she usually does.
I shove down the emotion swelling inside my chest, trying to numb myself. I can’t let them make me cry. It will only make things worse.
“Do you want me to go home and change?” I ask.
“There isn’t time.” Michael shakes his head in annoyance. “You better not mess this up tonight, you hear me?"
“Okay.” I force a nod.
“And hand that little yapper over to your guard. You shouldn’t have even brought him.”
Reluctantly, I hand Beppe’s tote to Julian, who’s not even bothering to hide his scowl.
My stepfather doesn’t know that Mariella helped me through her connections with a referral to a psychologist. After an evaluation, I was granted an ESA letter. It doesn’t give Beppe the same rights as a service animal, but most people don’t mind if I bring him with me, and I always ask first. I checked with Mrs. Venturi before we came here the first time, and she assured me it wasn’t an issue. Beppe usually stays in his tote and doesn’t bother anyone, and he helps with my anxiety when I’m able to pet him.
Michael can’t be bothered to care about that, and if he could, he’d probably take us both to the pound.
I follow my parents to the door, and Julian trails after us. Typically, my guard would wait outside, but apparently, he didn’t get the memo. Since Michael hasn’t noticed, I don’t say anything, because it will be a relief just to have Beppe nearby.
The door swings open before we can even knock, and we’re greeted by the butler. While the Venturis are enmeshed with the Mafia, they tend to lean more toward The Society’s old-money aesthetic. They would never utter the wordsCosa Nostrain polite company, but everyone knows that’s where the bulk of their wealth came from.
The butler offers us a formal welcome, then leads us through the house into the drawing room. It’s a grand space, filled with art, expensive furniture, and a chandelier that’s probably visible from Mars.
Mr. and Mrs. Venturi are already seated, awaiting our arrival.
“Please make yourselves comfortable.” Mrs. Venturi gestures to the sofa. “Riccardo will be along shortly.”
We take our seats, and the butler prepares Michael a drink at the bar cart.
A long, awkward moment stretches between us as we all stare at one another, waiting for someone to speak. Naturally, my mother is the first to take a stab at it.
“I just love that painting.” She points a long red claw at the framed piece on the wall. “Is that a Monet?”
Mrs. Venturi can barely hide her horror over the way my mom pronounced it Mow-net, so Mr. Venturi takes it upon himself to answer.
“It’s a Van Gogh.”
“Ahh.” Mom snaps her fingers. “That was gonna be my second guess.”
“You were so close, honey.” Michael pats her thigh. “Wasn’t that the guy who dropped acid while he painted?”
“Actually, some historians think his fascination with yellow may have been xanthopsia,” I say. “It’s a side effect of foxglove treatment that alters color perception.”
“That’s right.” Mr. Venturi nods at me approvingly.
