Strawberries and Secrets

Chapter 8: Strawberries and Secrets

Gwen

“It’s the only way to keep you safe,” he stated, as if he were explaining that the sky was blue.

“Safe from what?” I slammed my hand on the counter. “Stop being cryptic and talk to me! Who are these people? Why do they care about me? Because I saw you kill a man? Fine! I won’t tell anyone! I promise! Just let me go, and you’ll never see me again!”

“It’s not that simple,” he said, a flicker of frustration in his voice. “They know about you. They know we were together at the hotel. They have photos. You are now a tool they can use to get to me. The moment you walk out of here unprotected, they will grab you. And they won’t ask nicely. They will use you, torture you, and when they’re done, they will kill you. And they will make sure I watch.”

The cold, graphic certainty in his tone made my blood run cold. I wanted to call him a liar, but the look on his face said otherwise. This was real.

“So this…” I gestured wildly at the contract. “This is your solution? You want me to marry you?”

“It’s a business arrangement,” he clarified, his voice going back to that infuriatingly calm tone. “A contract. You become my wife. In the eyes of my enemies, that makes you untouchable. To harm you is to declare a war they cannot win. It grants you protection.”

“A business arrangement?” I echoed, standing up so fast the stool screeched behind me. “You think I’m going to sign a paper that says I belong to you? That makes me your property!”

“It ensures your safety!” he fired back, his own composure finally cracking. He leaned forward, his hands flat on the counter, his face inches from mine. I could see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. “This isn’t a fairytale, Gwen! This is life and death! Your life! Do you understand that? Your stubbornness will get you killed!”

“And marrying you won’t?” I yelled. “What happens to me when this is all over? When you’ve won your little gang war? Do I get tossed aside? Or do I conveniently have an ‘accident’?”

The pain was back in his eyes, raw and startling. “I would never hurt you.”

“You keep saying that!” I was crying now, hot, angry tears streaming down my face. “But you’re the one who locked me in a room! You’re the one who brought me here against my will! You’re covered in blood and you talk about debts and contracts! Why should I believe a single word you say?”

He was silent for a long time, just watching me cry. His jaw was clenched so tight I thought it might break. Finally, he spoke, his voice so quiet I almost missed it.

“Because twelve years ago, at St. Agnes, you gave a scrawny, bruised-up kid your apple when no one else would even look at him. You told him, ‘Don’t tell Sister Agnes.’ You never even knew my name.”

The world stopped. The air left my lungs. St. Agnes? The orphanage? I stared at him, my mind reeling, trying to place him. There were so many boys. Quiet ones. Sad ones. I remembered Nico. I remembered a few others. But him? Armando Denaro? He was… unforgettable. How could I not have remembered him?

“You…” I whispered, my voice shaking. “You were at the orphanage? How come I don't remember you?”

“I sat behind you in the chapel for six years,” he said, his gaze intense, willing me to remember. “I’ve known you since you were six years old, Gwendolyn. It doesn't matter if you don't remember me. I have spent my entire life making sure you were safe. This…” He gestured around us, at the contract, at the impossible situation. “This is just a continuation of that. I am not your enemy. I am the only reason you’re still breathing.”

The revelation hit me like a physical blow. It was too much. The kidnapping, the attempted stabbing, the waffles, the marriage contract, and now this? A secret benefactor from my childhood? A boy I didn’t even remember?

I stumbled back from the counter, my hands knocking down the plate of strawberries that was laid in front of me. My head started spinning, the grandeur of the kitchen, the shirtless man with secrets I didn't seem to understand how they were related to me, the legally binding document on the marble island—it was all too surreal.

I looked from his face, etched with a sincerity that terrified me more than his anger, down to the contract. The neat, typed lines blurred before my eyes.

He was insane.

He had to be.

And I was trapped with him.

I looked up at him, my voice a broken whisper. “I’m not signing that.”

He didn’t look surprised. He just nodded slowly, the tiredness returning to his features. “You have twenty-four hours to change your mind. After that, the offer expires. And so does my ability to protect you.”

He turned his back on me again, focusing on the griddle as if the conversation was over. As if he hadn’t just shattered my entire understanding of the world.

I stood there, trembling, staring at his broad, tattooed back, the bandage on his hand a stark reminder of the line I’d crossed. The scent of waffles suddenly made me nauseous. He was giving me a choice, but it felt like no choice at all: become the wife of a monster, or die and the most terrifying part was that I had no idea which one was the worse fate.