Chapter 31
Aoife
Dinner glows under the chandelier’s low gold light, all polished silver and crystal that hums when glasses touch. The china is the kind that only comes out for deals disguised as family gatherings.
My mother smiles like it’s her job. My father laughs—too fake.
Rory’s hand drifts too close to my thigh.
It’s perfect, if you don’t look too hard. If you ignore the rot under the silver.
I keep my fork poised, pretending this is dinner, not theater. The roast duck bleeds into the porcelain, and I swallow wine to drown the taste of my own silence.
Their voices rise and fall like a chorus I was never meant to join. Shipments. Expansion. The harbor.
Laughter about “friendly” meetings with the Russians.
I didn’t even know we worked with them.
I do now.
When dinner ends, the men stay seated.
My mother and aunt clear the table, quiet as servants in their own house.
Smoke hangs thick in the air, sweet and bitter, curling through the chandeliers like ghosts that refuse to leave.
I don’t move. I wait until their voices grow louder, sharp with words that cut — take, control, profit.
They forget I’m here. They always do. Born from their blood, but never meant to listen.
Uncle Liam turns toward me, his glass turning lazy circles in his hand.
“Aoife,” he says, like we’re making small talk. “Have you decided where you’d like to go for your honeymoon?”
My hand tightens around my glass. “What?”
He smiles. White teeth. Dead eyes. “You should enjoy it, darling. Somewhere warm. You’ll be married soon enough. A new life ahead.”
Rory’s hand slides higher on my thigh. My stomach twists.
“I haven’t thought about it,” I say. “Seeing as I’m not the one planning any of it.”
The table stills. The laughter dies. My father’s gaze cuts through the smoke, cold and precise.
Uncle Liam chuckles, the sound like gravel. “Think fast. You’re the future of this family. We’ve worked hard to put this together.”
My voice comes out quiet. “Put what together?”
He leans forward, the room shrinking around his words. “This union. This alliance. Don’t fuck it up.”
The warning sinks into the silence like a knife.
I smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. I nod, like a good girl, but inside, I scream. Yet I keep it together because of the promise I made to Matteo.
“You’ll be expected to show some enthusiasm,” Uncle Liam says.
“For what?” The words come out sharper than I intend. “For being traded like livestock?”
“Watch your tone,” my father says. His voice is low, too steady. That’s how you know he’s close to snapping.
Everyone thinks Liam’s the danger, but my father… he’s the quiet kind. The kind you don’t hear until the explosion.
Conor learned that from him.
“This marriage isn’t about you,” Uncle Liam says, setting his glass down with surgical care. “It’s about the family. The legacy.”
“You mean your legacy.” I don’t mean for them to hear it, but they do.
“What was that?” My father’s voice drops, cold and precise.
I meet his stare. “Nothing.”
He leans closer. “Everything we do keeps this family alive. That takes sacrifice. You’re not the first, Aoife. You won’t be the last.”
“Sacrifice?” I let out a broken laugh. “I haven’t even lived.”
Uncle Liam’s voice slices through the air. “Then make the most of the time you’ve got. And don’t fuck it up.”
His words hang in the air, thick as the cigar smoke.
I force a smile that hurts my jaw. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The men stand. Uncle Liam claps my father’s shoulder, smug and sure, and they leave without a glance back.
I might as well be another piece of polished silver, used and set aside.
“Stay here,” my mother says softly, stacking dessert plates with careful hands.
She doesn’t look at me. She never does when it matters.
I stay seated, fingers locked under the table until my nails bite skin.
I hear voices through the walls, they want to build power, and don’t care how.
I move like smoke, silent, toward the study.
A thin crack in the door breathes their heat into the hall.
“…finalize it after the wedding,” Liam says. “Once she’s pregnant, we tighten the noose around the Italians’ necks.”
“She won’t mess this up,” my father growls. “Or we deal with her first.”
My heart slams against my ribs, the sound roaring in my head. I want to scream, but I swallow it down, the taste sharp as glass.
Passing the dining room, I see my mother still there, wiping a spotless table.
There’s no rescue here. Not now. Not ever.
By the time I reach my old room, each step feels like sinking into my own grave.
At my door, Conor steps out of the bathroom. He smiles. I don’t.
“You okay? You look—”
“Like you care.” I cut him off and reach for my door, but his hand catches my arm.
“Aoife, I’m not the enemy,” he says, voice low. “I’m trying to buy you time. I know you hate this, and maybe you hate me, but I don’t want you—” I try to pull my arm away, but his grip is tight. “Aoife, please—”
“Save it, Conor. I’m done.”
I yank my arm free, slam the door, and sit on the edge of my bed. The mirror stares back.
I barely know the girl in it. She had plans once. Now she has orders.
Maybe Conor means well. Maybe not. Either way, I’m alone here.
The only time I’m not, is when I’m with Matteo.
Even training felt like punishment today, every strike, every breath, cutting deeper.
The air down here is thick with sweat, iron, frustration. My palms burn from gripping the knife wrong again. My trainer’s voice drills into my ear, harsh and metallic.
“Focus, O’Brien! You’ll be dead before you blink.”
Dead.
The word ricochets through my skull, too loud.
I swallow the scream clawing its way up, to tell him to fuck off, that he’s useless, and I’ve learned more from Matteo than I ever will from him.
But then everything stills.
Matteo’s voice detonates across the underground.
“Then find me someone to fucking punch, and I’ll leave you alone!”
The sound hits like an explosion.
Every head turns. Even my trainer shuts up mid-breath.
I don’t move. Don’t even breathe.
My heart slams against my ribs, hard enough to bruise.
Across the mats, Matteo stands heaving, fists clenched, muscles wound tight as wire. Sweat beads at his temple. His knuckles are already raw from whatever hell he’s been dragging himself through tonight.
Leo faces him, calm as a cliff against the tide.
“Come on, boy,” Leo says. “Burn it out.”
Matteo lunges. The sound of his fists colliding with Leo’s gloves cracks like thunder through the old stone room. Each strike is rage sharpened to precision, every blow, a storm made flesh.
The floor vibrates. The air thickens. Even the walls seem to hold their breath.
No one speaks. We all pretend to keep drilling, but every gaze locks on him, the violence in his movements, the control wrapped around the fury.
I stand frozen, fingers clenching around my knife until the blade bites my skin.
If I move, if I breathe wrong, I’ll give it away the truth humming through my veins.
He isn’t just another Messina. He’s mine. And I’m his.
But no one can know. Not here. Not yet.
Matteo keeps striking, each hit punishing himself as much as his target. Blood slicks his knuckles, glinting under the harsh lights. His jaw is locked tight, stone and torment.
Then, even mid-swing, his eyes find mine.
A heartbeat.
A breath.
A blink.
And I’m gone, air ripped straight from my lungs.
His stare cuts through me, stripping away every lie I’ve ever told myself. I want to move, want to reach him, drag him out of this hell, press my palms against his chest and make him stop before he shatters.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
So, I stand there, trapped, watching him fracture one strike at a time while the room pretends not to see.
The ache in my chest burns sharper than the knife in my hand.
The fists stop first. Then the noise fades trainers barking low orders, feet scuffing against mats, the world trying to stitch itself back together.
The spell breaks. The storm outside rages, but the one in my chest tears harder.
I force my hands to move. Force my body to act normally. To pretend one look from him didn’t rip me apart.
The knife slips in my slick palm, the weight wrong, the balance off.
I switch hands.
One parry.
One slash.
One breath.
Just like he taught me.
But the tremor in my fingers betrays me. The burn behind my eyes won’t fade.
I bite my lip until blood rises, copper and warm, and stare at the blade as if it might hold the answers.
Don’t let them see you break.
Not here.
I force myself through the motions, one strike, one block, one breath. A puppet wired by nerves instead of strings.
I can’t tell if my body shakes from Matteo’s rage or my family’s poison. Maybe both.
When the drill ends, I’m already moving. I slip out before anyone can stop me.
My feet move without my thought through Blackstone’s corridors, the arches above gaping like a beast waiting to consume me.
Each step lands too loud, a reminder that I don’t belong here.
The shadows stretch, thin and jagged, crawling across the walls like claws. Every breath cuts deeper, threatening to split me open. No matter how many lies I tell myself, I can’t outrun the truth.
I’m already his.
Even if it kills us both.
I don’t remember the walk back.
One moment I’m in the hall, the next the dorm door slams shut behind me, the sound hollow as a gunshot.
I lean against the wood, breath ragged, heart trying to crawl out of my chest. The silence presses in, thick, punishing.
My knees buckle. I slide down until the cold floor bites through my clothes, arms locked tight around myself.
Like a child.
Like a stranger wearing my skin.
The light hums overhead, cruel and bright, exposing everything I want to hide. I rest my forehead against my arms and go still.
No sound. No movement.
The tears burn behind my eyes, hot and useless.
I swallow them back.
If you cry, they win.
His words, Matteo’s words echo in my skull, louder than breath.
I’m not a lamb.
Not anymore.