“I won’t stand for being disrespected, Tommaso!” Rosa screams and stomps her foot. “I won’t!”
“Calm down, Rosa,” Arturo barks. “You speak only when spoken to.”
“Daddy,” she whines and whirls to him, her hair flying to whip my face.
My father steps out of the sitting room, holding a glass of red wine. His look is unreadable, but he’s not my main concern. Gina, my queen, is.
When I stride past them, he barks a harsh command, “Stop.”
I turn, not bothering to hide my anger. “I don’t have time for this.”
That makes Rosa shriek again. “Don’t havetime? I’m your wife—”
“No. You’re. Not,” I grit through clenched teeth, giving her a menacing look.
She falters and smooths her hand over her hair. “Well, yes, of course, notyet.”
“Not ever.” I unclench my fisted hands. “I can’t marry you as I’m already married.”
She snorts and rolls her eyes. “Whatever.” She waves her hand and looks to Arturo. “Daddy, fix this.”
“We need to talk.” My father flashes a look at Marco, who’s standing by my side, knowing that he’s my accomplice. Then he strides back into the sitting room, expecting me to follow. Arturo and Rosa follow him, and it’s only Marco and Adolfo left with me.
“If he strips you of your power, you can’t protect Gina,” Marco says quietly. “We need to stabilize the situation and have time to move her if required.”
“She’s not leaving.”
“We need to stabilize the situation,” he insists in a hissed whisper.
“She’s not leaving,” I repeat.
Adolfo steps closer. “Jerome is upstairs with Salvo, guarding her door. Gina is safe inside, and they won’t allow anyone in or let her leave.”
I’m trapping her, keeping her here, but it can’t be helped. I need her to be safe while I fix this.
“Etta?” I ask.
“With Gina in her room,” he says.
At least she’s not completely alone. I know that Etta won’t divulge anything she knows to Gina, but it eases some of my angst, knowing that Gina has her there for emotional support.
Relaxing my rigid posture, I slap my mask on, schooling my features to be unreadable, and walk into the sitting room.
Arturo sits with his legs crossed on the brocade sofa. My father stands, his wine sitting on the table; he might look calm, but I can sense his brewing wrath. Rosa walks around the room, her long, red nails grazing over the frame of a beautiful watercolor painting of the sun beaming down on the landscape below.
It was one I had bought a year ago from an up-and-coming artist, loving the warmth and radiance captured in the piece, wanting that warmth to fill my home. Just like Gina had when she came into my life.
Rosa turns to me, her nose scrunched in distaste. “I’ll replace all the no-name pieces with more reputable artists.”
My jaw ticks, wanting to toss her out onto her ass. Instead, I focus on my father. “You forged my signature on the marriage contract. Why?”
Arturo smirks, telling me, this isn’t news to him. He knew what my father had done. Rosa hadn’t though, and her eyes narrow into slits.
“Daddy?” she hisses, but he waves her off, silencing her. To him, women are shiny trophies or a beautiful ornament—to be seen and not heard. The misogynistic twat.
“The contract is final,” my father says. “You had your chance to contest it.”
The tick in my jaw grows. “I’m already married.”
