Chapter 33
Matteo
It’s the weekend. We’re heading home.
Leo slipped Aoife through the underground, quiet as smoke, moving like she belonged to the dark. She told Conor she needed the weekend to catch up on coursework, to breathe. For once, he agreed without a fight. That alone should’ve set off alarms.
Now she sits beside me in the back seat, hands knotted in her lap. The drive hums with silence, broken only by Marco and Milo throwing half-hearted jokes from the front.
Her shoulders stay rigid. Spine straight, that kind of tension comes before something detonates.
When the iron gates of the Messina estate rise ahead, my pulse matches hers.
My world. “Breathe, little lamb,” I say quietly, eyes on the road twisting into shadowed stone. “No one’s dying today.” She doesn’t laugh.
Marco catches her in the mirror and smirks. “You sure you want to bring the lamb into the wolves’ den?”
“Looks like she’ll disappear before we hit the stairs,” Milo says, grinning.
I don’t respond. I keep watching her.
When the car stops, my brothers climb out first. I stay put.
“You ready to jump, little lamb?” My voice is soft, not teasing.
Her hand trembles when it finds mine, but she lets me pull her out. I keep her close, my arm firm around her waist, daring the world to touch her. Funny thing, under my hand, the chaos quiets. The storm in me goes still.
The estate towers above us in late-afternoon haze. Gargoyles crouch on the roofline. Ivy coils across the stone like secrets that refuse to die. This house was never built to welcome.
I push open the door. Every step echoes too loud. It’s been a week, and my father hasn’t spoken a word. Not a call, just silence thick enough to drown in.
Aoife’s grip tightens.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “No one touches you. Not in this house. Not anywhere.” She nods, breath shallow.
And me? My heart’s already hammering, waiting for the storm hiding behind the walls. The hush inside isn’t peace. It’s waiting.
Paintings line the hall stern faces, uniforms, medals instead of smiles. The Messina home wasn’t built for comfort. It was built for command.
Aoife’s steps are light on the marble. Her breath ghosts my sleeve. She doesn’t look at the portraits. Doesn’t flinch at the cross above the archway.
Marco’s voice echoes from above. “You two coming, or planning to die dramatically on the stairs?”
I don’t answer. I don’t move. I look at Aoife instead. “Take my hand, little lamb. We go in together.”
The O’Brien girl in Messina Manor.
The sitting room door is already cracked. Firelight spills across the floor, warm in color but cold in feeling.
My father stands at the mantel, back to us, one hand clenched around the edge like he’s holding himself together. My mother sits on the couch, hands folded in her lap, gaze fixed on the fire as if she’s praying the floor swallows her whole.
And Grandfather…Grandfather is smiling.
When the door shuts behind us, silence floods the house.
No welcome. No greeting.
Not even a glance from my father.
The tension breathes, slow and heavy, sharp enough to cut skin.
Aoife stands beside me, hand still locked in mine. I hate that I pulled her into this place that eats people alive.
Grandfather sits at the end of the hall, cane in one hand, rosary in the other, his stare sharp as a blade.
My mother rises, her steps quiet on the marble. Her eyes meet mine, soften, then flick to Aoife. A faint nod. A small mercy.
But my father, he stays seated at the head of the table. The weight of his stare digs trenches into the cloth, as if he’s deciding where to carve next.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look up and that’s worse than shouting.
“Come,” Grandfather says, voice low and even. “We eat. Then we talk.”
Aoife’s hand tightens again, her pulse racing under my thumb.
“You’re safe,” I whisper.
The dining table stretches before us, heavy walnut, polished until it gleams. Silver glints under chandeliers shaped like inverted blades. The wine is dark as blood. The food, ravioli, veal, bread, olives slick with oil is perfect.
But the air is wrong.
Thick. Unforgiving.
My father still hasn’t looked at me. Not during the walk in. Not when we sat. Not now.
Grandfather fills the silence with talk of numbers and docks, his voice smooth, measured, noise meant to mask the absence of peace.
Beside me, Aoife sits straight as a blade. Her hands fold tight in her lap. The small brush of her arm against mine feels like a heartbeat trying to escape.
Marco and Milo sit across from us. Marco’s eyes never leave Father. Milo drinks too fast, the glass clinking each time it hits the table.
Only Grandfather looks alive in this room, but that’s because he built this kind of silence.
“So,” he says finally, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “Matteo brought a guest.”
The words hit like the crack of a whip.
Father doesn’t move.
I clear my throat. “Aoife will be staying with us this weekend.”
The pause stretches too long before Grandfather smiles. “Good. I like to meet the people who make our blood run cold.” Maybe a joke. Maybe not, but I do the only thing I can think of, I smile.
Father’s fork doesn’t move.
Aoife says nothing, smart enough not to, but under the table, her fingers tap once against her thigh.
Dinner crawls on, half-words, forced laughs, questions that die midair.
I answer what I have to.
Pretend everything isn’t about to collapse.
Grandfather says, “It’s good to have something… new in the house.”
That’s when Father’s voice finally breaks the stillness. “New doesn’t mean welcome.”
It drops like a hammer.
Grandfather leans back in his chair, voice smooth as oil. The words hit like steel against marble. Aoife flinches. Barely. But I feel it.
I set my fork down. Quiet. Controlled.
Father doesn’t look up. He keeps cutting his food with surgical precision. “No? Then why is she here?”
Aoife shifts beside me, ready to answer. I rest a hand on her knee beneath the table. She shouldn’t talk, not yet anyway.
“Because I asked her to be,” I say.
Silence falls again, thick, stretching, alive.
Then Father looks up. When his eyes meet mine, they burn cold. Not fury. Worse.
Disappointment. The kind that rots slowly. The kind that says I expected more from my blood.
Grandfather hums into his wine, amused, as if he’s watching a performance he’s seen before.
Mother clears her throat softly. “We were all young once.”
Father’s gaze flicks to her, assessing, but he doesn’t reply.
I glance at Aoife. She’s holding herself together by threads.
When the plates are cleared and the last goblet drained, we move into the family room.
Grandfather sits, cane on his knee. Mother is near the hearth, quiet and folded in herself.
Marco lights a cigarette, Milo’s knee bounces in thin, restless rhythms, and he drinks his whiskey.
Aoife stands by me, clinging to my side as if I could be her anchor.
Then the storm cracks open.
“You brought her into this house.” My father’s voice is low but it cleaves the room, even the other Messinas turn.
“Massimo,” my mother murmurs, soft and warning. He ignores her.
“You brought an O’Brien into our blood?” He isn’t shouting, that low, brutal tone is worse it kills without spectacle.
“She’s not—” I start.
“Don’t.” He points, a single trembling finger. “Don’t speak until you understand the filth you dragged through that door.”
Aoife flinches. I feel it in my palm. I turn, jaw raw. “She isn’t her family.”
“You’re not thinking!” He slams his fist on the table. The sound echoes like a verdict. “You—my son—a Messina—bringing the daughter of those who buried my mother?”
Silence drops like a sheet. “Do you remember what they did to your Uncle Carmine?” his voice goes cold. “Left him in pieces on a Dublin dock. His teeth, mailed to me in an envelope.” His eyes are glassy with hate. Aoife sucks in a breath, as if she forgot how to breathe.
“Her bloodline did that. Her people. Her name.” He points at her, the finger. “Now you parade her here like a stray dog you fucked behind the academy, dragged in like a trophy?”
“Don’t talk about her like that!” I explode, stepping forward. I expected anger, I didn’t expect this kind of poison.
His hand shoots out, not to strike but to stop me, an iron barricade. He stares me down, unblinking. I’ve faced men who’d kill without thought, this is worse. This is my father.
“You think this is love?” he spits. “You think she—raised on their lies like we were on ours, won’t slit your throat when it suits her? You’re a child playing with a snake.”
I feel Aoife swallow behind me, small and terrified.
“She’s not like them,” I say again, voice lower now, steady but lethal. “She’s mine.”
Father lunges forward. Marco shifts beside me, ready, but Father only jabs a finger hard into my chest.
“She’ll never be yours,” he snarls. “And if you think your grandfather’s blessing protects you, think again. I’m still alive and I’ll die before O’Brien blood stains this family.”
I don’t move, neither does Aoife. Her breath stutters beside me.
Generations of hate burning at the altar of my choice.
Grandfather finally clears his throat. “Enough,” he says, voice sharp as cut steel. Father steps back a fraction, but his eyes don’t leave mine.
“She’s Irish.” He spits, the word like venom. “She’s the blood of the bastards who tried to tear us apart.”
“You married my mother because you loved her.”
His head snaps toward me. “Don’t—”
“You did,” I push, knowing I shouldn’t. “You broke a rule because it was worth it.”
His rage ignites. “She wasn’t the fucking Irish!”
His fist moves before thought does. The crack of skin on skin detonates in the room. Pain burns across my jaw, white-hot, but I don’t flinch.
The world stops.
No one breathes.
Aoife gasps. Marco and Milo step forward.
I meet Father’s eyes, voice rough but steady.
“I know I’ve disappointed you. That was never the goal, but I tried to walk away from her. I can’t.” The silence deepens, heavy as stone. “I won’t take it further without your blessing,” I say. “But if I had the choice again, I’d still fall for her.”
His chest heaves, his knuckles pale. He stares at me like I’ve become the wound he can’t close.
Then he turns and walks out.
No words.
Only the echo of his boots fading down the hall.
I sink into the chair, breathing through the ache in my jaw. Aoife still hasn’t moved. One tear tracks down her cheek, I reach for her hand, she doesn’t pull away.
Across the room, Grandfather meets my eyes. He gives a slow, deliberate nod before rising. Approval or warning, I can’t tell. But it’s something.
Marco steps closer, studying my face. “We’re getting ice,” he mutters. “Even we felt that one.” Milo follows without a word.
Mother comes next. She touches my bruised cheek, gentle, her eyes tired but kind. A small smile ghosts across her lips.
“She’s pretty,” she murmurs, glancing at Aoife. Then, softer, “He’ll come around.” Then she’s gone too.
Silence stretches between us just her and me.
I rake a hand through my hair, my jaw throbbing. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “For him. For tonight.”
Her voice is small but firm. “I was expecting it. I don’t blame you.”
I meet her eyes. She’s still here. Still standing. Still mine and before I face her war, I have to win mine.