Chapter 17
Aoife
Idon’t want to be here. Not this weekend. Not any weekend. Not ever.
Conor hasn’t looked up from his phone, thumb moving, jaw tight, silence matching mine.
I look up at the driver as the car stops. “Don’t start!” I’m already out, door slamming hard enough to echo off the stone walls. Not in the mood to listen to him.
The moment my boots cross the estate gates, my chest locks. The air presses down, it’s heavier, thick with old smoke and secrets that cling to the throat.
Marble lions guard the path. Windows glow like watchful eyes. The O’Brien estate breathes pride and power, but under my skin it feels like a chokehold.
I steady my breath. This is the house where I sign my life away.
My mother greets me with a brittle smile and a hug that smells like rose water and nerves. “My little girl. Beautiful.” Her voice is soft but tight.
She leans in, eyes flicking toward the hall. “Don’t fight him,” she whispers “Your father and uncle, they’re already in bad moods. Keep your head down.”
I nod once, the smallest movement, because there’s nothing left to give her.
“She’s finally here,” my aunt says “Looks tired already. Go freshen up.”
“You’ll need to be radiant,” my mother says, still smiling. “Blue brings out your innocence.”
If only she knew, Matteo burned that out of me a weeks ago.
Uncle Liam steps into my path, adjusting his cuffs. “Be good, Aoife. You know what today means.”
I nod. My last black eye only just faded. I’m not leaving here with another.
By the time I hang my coat, the performance has begun. My mother twists my hair, pins biting like a crown I never asked for. Photographers shuffle their gear, lenses waiting to swallow me whole. So much for freshening up.
“You look stunning,” my aunt says with a smile.
I draw a long breath, follow her inside. Conor gives me a weak smile from across the room. My father and uncle are still murmuring business in the corner, not even glancing up.
Then I see him.
My fiancé. Seventeen years older, suit tailored like armor, glass of whiskey in one hand, ownership in his eyes.
“Aoife,” he drawls. “You look divine.”
The camera flashes. His arm snakes around my waist, heavy and possessive. Each flash drives another nail in my coffin. I force a smile, stomach empty, head light. No one asked if I’d eaten, or if I wanted a drink. No one ever asks.
“Closer,” the man behind the camera says.
He leans in. His lips brush my ear. “You’ll make a beautiful bride, Aoife,” he whispers. “And an obedient one.”
I want to shove him off. Or better, take the blade Matteo made for me and bury it deep in his throat.
Instead, I smile. A dead, practiced smile. My father's favorite.
His hand drifts down my back, presses at my hip. My jaw aches from holding still. He smells of cigars and old whiskey, of power stripped of kindness.
The party has started; the air is thick with pride. Glasses raised. Laughter like thunder.
I walk away from the man to the edge of the room wanting to get some fresh air. A moment to breathe, a moment of peace.
“This alliance will secure Hollow Edge.” I hear my father’s voice. I lean in closer, knowing I shouldn’t, but unable to stop myself. “The Russians have allies with the Italians, who have most of the ports. We take this marriage, and we control some of the ports.”
“They think they’re untouchable,” Uncle Liam says, his voice low, laced with venom.
“The Messinas have held that dock for too long. It’s time we send a reminder we’re still here.
” My ears sharpen. I lean closer without moving.
“Strike during the next shipment run. That Messina dock? It’s exposed. Just outside city control.”
“They’ll retaliate,” someone mutters. “They didn’t when blood was spilled but they will come this time.”
“They won’t know it was us. Not until it’s too late.”
The words hit hard. They’re planning an attack. Matteo’s family.
I walk away before anyone notices I’m listening. The cold air hits like a slap. Silence folds around me. It doesn’t feel like safety—it feels like betrayal.
Conor finds me on the back veranda, sitting on the swing watching my mother and aunt laughing and dancing. His expression isn’t warm. It never is anymore.
“I spoke to Father,” he says without preamble. “I’m trying to talk him down. Give you time. Let you finish school.”
I turn slowly, surprised. “Why?”
“Because I’m not the monster you think I am, Aoife” he says.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
He leans against the swing. “You hate me for playing the game. But I didn’t make the rules, I’m just picking up the pieces and learning.”
“Then why do you play them so damn well?”
He stares at me for a long second. “The one who watches you like you’re already his.
The one who touches you with his eyes.” My body tenses, but I say nothing because if he knew what was happening, I’m sure he would have told Father and Uncle Liam.
“You think he cares about you? Think again. He’s a Messina.
” He spits the name like poison. “They killed our people in the past. The blood will always be there.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “And who was the one who spilled the first blood?” I ask. Long before us, back in my great-grandfather’s time, they fought. Blood on both sides. A truce followed. Peace held until the wedding. Then the knives came out again.
“In this family, it doesn’t matter. Blood stays fresh. He’s not watching you because you’re special, Aoife. He’s watching you because he’s hunting. He’s using you, not for a weapon. Just to break you.”
“I don’t believe you, plus I haven’t even spoken to him,” I whisper.
“Believe what you want,” he says. “But I won’t let him hurt you, nor will he talk to you while I’m watching.”
His voice isn’t protective. It's a warning. Sharp and unbending.
Maybe Conor’s right. Or maybe Matteo’s the only one who ever saw me.
And I don’t know which one scares me more.
Conor being right about Matteo using me, or Conor being wrong, and what I feel for Matteo will be too much. I won’t be able to breathe without him next to me.