Chapter 26 - Valentina
The emerald dress weighs fifty pounds, every crystal bead another chain, every Celtic cross embroidered across the bodice a reminder that I’m cattle dressed for market.
I stand before yet another mirror in yet another wedding dress, but this one makes me want to vomit.
The O’Brien family heirloom drowns me in layers of heavy Irish lace, transforming me into a caricature of Catholic virtue.
My fingers find the knife hidden in my garter, the blade warm against my thigh.
Small, sharp, perfect for slitting a throat during a kiss.
The weight of it steadies me as two Irish women fuss with the cathedral-length veil, their hands rough where Marco's were gentle.
My throat tightens at the memory: his fingers in my hair this morning, his mouth on my neck, whispering how I was his queen.
Mother's killer or not, my body still aches for his touch.
I lock that need away with everything else I can't afford to feel right now.
The chapel waits below, intimate and suffocating with its midnight shadows. Through the window, I see candles already lit, Latin prayers already being rehearsed by the nervous priest. Everything ready for a ceremony that can't be stopped, won't be interrupted, will bind me before anyone can object.
"Almost midnight," one of the women says, checking her watch. "Mr. O'Brien wants this done quickly."
I don't respond. My chest aches to hear Marco's voice, but I left my phone at the penthouse with Mother's rosary, a deliberate severing of ties. The man who signed divorce papers in the rain doesn't get to play savior now.
"Beautiful," the other woman pronounces, stepping back to admire their work. "Mr. O'Brien will be pleased."
Mr. O'Brien will be dead, I think, pressing my thigh against the hidden knife.
After the vows, during the kiss when he thinks he's won, I'll draw the blade across his throat.
Better to die a murderer than live as property again.
Better to paint this hideous green dress red than let another man claim me as his wife.
They promised Alice would be released with money for school, safe passage out of Chicago.
I have to believe that part was real, that my sacrifice bought her freedom even if everything else was lies.
Christopher showed me the transfer confirmation, the taxi receipt from hours ago.
She should be on a train by now, heading somewhere safe. That has to be enough.
The heavy fabric rustles like funeral shrouds as they lead me toward the door, each step a small death of the girl who once believed in fairy tales. Each step is calculated, measuring the distance from garter to hand, from hand to throat. One smooth motion. That's all I need.
The chapel reeks of myrrh, Latin prayers hanging in the air like smoke.
Candlelight throws dancing shadows that look like reaching hands, and somewhere a small murmur.
One of the soldiers praying we don't all die tonight.
Christopher walks me down the aisle, his grip on my arm restrictive rather than supportive.
Only a handful of witnesses fill the pews: Irish soldiers who've seen too much, their faces carefully blank as they watch another woman traded like currency.
"Your mother would be proud," Christopher whispers, his breath hot against my ear. "Dying for family tradition."
Liam waits at the altar in a black tuxedo, trying to look powerful but only managing desperate.
The way he watches me approach, like a prize he's finally won, makes my skin crawl.
But I keep my expression neutral, my hand steady, already imagining how his blood will look spreading across white marble.
The priest begins in Latin, the old words that bind without consent, that trap without keys.
My fingers drift toward my thigh, finding the knife's outline through layers of fabric.
Time slows. I note everything: the angle of his body, the weight of the gun at his hip, the way his attention splits between the priest and his men.
Three seconds. That's all I need. Mother's voice whispers in my memory: 'Never let them see you break.
' But she never taught me what to do when breaking them becomes the only option.
"Do you, Liam, take this woman…" The priest's voice drones on while I practise in my mind. The knife is short. I'll need to get close, need him to lean in for the kiss. My wrist will have to turn just right to catch his throat at the correct angle.
"I do," Liam says, his eyes gleaming with triumph.
"Do you, Valentina, take this man…"
I open my mouth to say yes, to spring my trap, but Liam's hand suddenly clamps down on my wrist with bruising force. Not reaching for my hand, but reaching for where the knife hides.
"I think not, wife," he says, his grip tightening until bones grind together. "Did you really think we didn't know?"
Christopher laughs from behind us. "We found it hours ago during the fitting. Let you keep it to give you false hope. To see if you'd actually try."
The betrayal of it, the calculated cruelty of letting me plan, letting me hope, makes my vision blur with rage. They played with me like a cat with a mouse, knowing all along I was trapped.
"Say yes," Liam commands, his fingers digging deeper into my wrist. "Or I'll have men collect sweet Alice from wherever she thinks she's safe. The credit card we gave her? Tracked. The taxi? Our driver. She's never been free, just on a longer leash."
"You promised."
"I lied. Just like your precious Marco lied about your mother. Just like every man in your life has lied to you." His smile is cold. "Now say the words, or your sister pays for your defiance."
The threat hangs between us, Alice's safety balanced against my freedom. Always the same choice. Always the same cage.
The chapel doors slam open with the force of a hurricane.
Marco stands silhouetted in the doorway, and for a moment I think I'm hallucinating. But no, that's real blood covering his white shirt, dripping from his knuckles, splattered across his face like war paint. None of it his, from the way he moves.
My body betrays me instantly. My nipples tightening beneath the hideous dress, that familiar ache pooling low in my belly. Even seeing him covered in blood, even after his betrayal, my body recognizes its master.
"That's my wife you're touching."
The words drop into the chapel like grenades. Liam's grip on my wrist tightens reflexively as every eye in the chapel turns to Marco Rosetti standing in the entrance. The Irish scramble for their guns, the chapel erupting into shouted threats and cocking hammers.
But I barely register the chaos because Marco's eyes are locked on mine across the space.
Those dark eyes that have seen me at my worst, at my best, that have watched me break and rebuild.
Even covered in blood, even surrounded by violence, he came.
The man who signed divorce papers in the rain still came.
"She's not yours anymore," Liam snarls, pulling me against him like a shield. "You signed the papers. You let her go."
"I signed nothing that matters." Marco takes a step forward, and every Irish soldier tenses. "Death is the only divorce I recognize."
The violence in his voice, the promise of it, makes something crack in my chest. He's killed to get here. Left bodies in his wake. All for a woman who walked away from him at her mother's grave.
"You're mine. In blood, in darkness, in whatever hell we've created. The papers meant nothing. You know that."
The words hit like bullets, each one finding marks he left on my body, in my heart. My traitorous pulse responds to his claim even as my mind screams rejection. This is what he's done to me: made me crave my own destruction.
But I don't need saving.
The thought crystallizes as Liam yanks me closer, his attention split between Marco and his panicking soldiers. He's made the same mistake every man in my life has made: assuming I'll wait to be rescued, that I need someone else to free me.
My knee drives up into his groin with a lifetime of suppressed rage behind it.
He doubles over with a strangled scream, his grip finally releasing my wrist. I grab for his gun before he can recover, my fingers finding the handle just as he realizes what's happening. His eyes go wide, mouth opening to speak or scream or beg.
I shoot him point-blank.
The sound echoes through the chapel like thunder. Blood sprays across the hideous green dress, across the white marble floor, across the altar where I was supposed to promise obedience. Liam falls backward, his chest a spreading red stain, his eyes already going glassy.
The chapel goes silent except for the ringing in my ears. Every weapon is still raised, but no one moves. Not the Irish soldiers. Not even Marco, who stands frozen halfway down the aisle, staring at me like he's seeing me for the first time.
I look down at Liam's body, at the blood spreading in perfect circles across ancient stone. My hands don't shake. My voice doesn't waver.
I wait for guilt, for horror, for anything. Instead, I feel… powerful. For the first time in my life, I chose the violence instead of receiving it.
"I didn't need saving." The words come out steady despite the blood dripping from my hands, despite the body at my feet, despite the way Marco's staring at me like I'm something new and dangerous. "I never did."