Chapter 3 #2
I quickly open the door. Her face is tear-stained, but her eyes burn with a fierce determination that matches my own.
"Are you alright, love?" she asks, gently touching the back of my head where it hit the table.
I wince but nod. "I'm okay, Mam. Just a bump."
She sighs, fingers coming away with blood. "You're not okay," she says, pressing a kiss to my head. "Let me fix this."
Mam guides me to sit on the bed and then fetches the first aid kit from my bathroom. Her gentle hands clean and bandage the cut, her touch soothing some of the pain.
"I'm so sorry, Vittoria," she whispers, voice thick with emotion. "I never wanted this life for you."
I lean into her touch, allowing myself vulnerability. "I know, Mam. It's not your fault."
She finishes with my wound and sits beside me, taking my hands in hers. "Listen to me, Vittoria. What your father said... you're not just a pawn. You're strong, intelligent, and capable of so much more than they give you credit for."
I nod, trying to believe her words. "But how do I survive this world, Mam? How did you do it all these years?"
My mother's eyes cloud with pain and determination. "It wasn't easy, love. But I found ways to carve out space for myself, to hold on to who I am despite everything. And you will too."
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small, ornate key.
"This was given to me by my grandmother on my wedding day," she explains, pressing it into my palm.
"It's been passed down through generations of women in our family.
It doesn't open any physical lock, but it's a reminder that we always have the power to unlock our own strength, no matter how trapped we feel. "
I close my fingers around the key, feeling its weight, both physical and symbolic. "Thank you, Mam."
She pulls me into a tight embrace. "Remember, Vittoria, you're a Treacy woman. We bend, but we don't break. No matter what happens, hold on to that fire. It's your greatest weapon and your greatest strength."
Treacy was Mam's maiden name. In Irish, Treacy means fighter. It's who I am, who I've always been. I hate that I'm only now realizing how much Mam's had to fight to be who she is while married to my father.
God, I fucking despise him.
The sound of heavy footsteps in the hallway breaks our moment. My mother quickly stands, smoothing down her dress. "Remember what I said," she whispers urgently. "And hide that key somewhere safe. It's yours now."
I nod, quickly slipping the key into a small pocket sewn into my dress lining.
The door swings open without a knock, and my father looms in the doorway. His eyes narrow as he takes in the scene.
"Siobhan," he says, voice dangerously calm. "I believe I told you to leave Vittoria alone."
"I know, Domenico, but Vittoria hurt her head. It was bleeding. I needed to check it."
My father's eyes snap to me, scanning for injury. His gaze lingers on the small bandage visible at the back of my head. For a moment, I see a glimmer of concern.
But it's gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual cold demeanor.
"You should be more careful," he says gruffly. "We can't have you looking anything less than perfect for the wedding."
His words sting, reminding me again that my wellbeing is secondary to this fucking alliance. I force myself to nod, keeping my expression neutral.
"Yes, Father."
He turns to my mother. "Dinner will be ready in an hour. Make sure she's presentable." With that, he leaves, closing the door with a firm click.
As soon as he's gone, I let out a shaky breath I didn't realize I was holding. Mam's hand finds mine, squeezing gently.
"It's alright, love," she murmurs. "Let's get you ready."
She helps me change into a fresh dress and fixes my hair to hide the bandage. As we prepare to head downstairs, Mam pauses, hand on the doorknob. She turns to me, eyes shining with tears and fierce determination.
"Remember, Vittoria," she says softly. "You're stronger than they know. No matter what happens, hold on to that strength. It's who you are."
I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. "I will, Mam. I promise."
Dinner is a tense affair. My father's mood hasn't improved, and I can feel his disapproval radiating across the table like poison. Every bite feels like swallowing glass.
"The wedding planner seems competent," he says finally, cutting into his steak with more force than necessary. "I trust you caused no problems today?"
"No, Father," I reply carefully. "Everything went smoothly."
He grunts, seemingly satisfied. But then his phone buzzes, and his expression darkens as he reads the message.
"Fuck," he mutters under his breath, then catches himself. "Excuse me."
He stands abruptly, phone pressed to his ear as he stalks toward his makeshift office. I catch fragments of his conversation, angry Italian mixed with English curse words.
"What's wrong?" Mam asks quietly.
"I don't know," I whisper back. "But it doesn't sound good."
Minutes tick by before my father returns, his face thunderous. He sits heavily, reaching for his wine glass and draining it in one gulp.
"Is everything alright?" Mam ventures.
"No," he snaps. "Everything is not alright. There are complications."
My stomach drops. "What kind of complications?"
His eyes fix on me, and I see something that makes my blood freeze: disappointment mixed with calculation. "It seems, caramia, that your future stepchildren are even more problematic than anticipated."
"What do you mean?"
"Young Valentina has been talking to reporters," he says, voice deadly quiet. "Feeding them information about the family."
Christ. That's why she was late to dinner. She wasn't just sneaking out to meet a boy.
"What did she tell them?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know.
"Enough to cause concern. Reporters were asking questions about the marriage, about why Cesare is marrying someone so young, about potential business connections." His eyes narrow. "Your name came up, Vittoria. They know about you."
My mouth goes dry. "What does that mean?"
"It means," my father says slowly, "that you're now a target. The press will be watching your every move, looking for any sign of impropriety or weakness in the alliance."
He stands again, pacing behind his chair. "Cesare is... displeased. He's concerned about security, about the potential for scandal."
"And?" I prompt, though I'm terrified of the answer.
"And he's moving the wedding date forward."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "Moving it forward? By how much?"
"One week," my father says, his tone final. "The ceremony will take place next Saturday."
One week. Seven fucking days to prepare myself for a lifetime of servitude.
"That's impossible," Mam protests. "The preparations—”
"Will be handled," my father cuts her off. "Money talks, Siobhan. Everything will be ready."
I feel like I can't breathe. The room starts spinning, and I grip the edge of the table to steady myself.
"Vittoria," my father's voice seems to come from far away. "You look pale."
"I'm fine," I lie, though I definitely don't feel fine. "Just... processing."
"Good. Because there's more." He retakes his seat, leaning forward. "Given the security concerns, you'll be moving to the Mariano Estate tomorrow. For your own protection."
Tomorrow, I'll be under Cesare's roof, surrounded by his children—who already hate me—with no escape and no ally except maybe Valentina, who's apparently caused this whole mess.
"That seems... sudden," I manage.
"It's necessary," my father says firmly. "Cesare insists. And frankly, after today's revelations, I agree."
The key my mother gave me suddenly feels heavy in my pocket; a reminder of the strength I'm supposed to carry. But right now, I feel anything but strong. I feel trapped, manipulated, pushed around like the pawn my father keeps reminding me I am.
"I understand," I say quietly, because what else can I say?
My father nods, apparently satisfied with my compliance. "Good. Pack your things tonight. A car will pick you up at ten tomorrow morning."
As dinner resumes, I push food around my plate, my appetite completely gone. Across from me, Mam's eyes are filled with pain and helplessness. We both know that after tomorrow, moments like this will be rare.
When dinner finally ends, I excuse myself and head upstairs. In my room, I sit on my bed and pull out the key my mother gave me. Such a small thing to carry so much meaning.
I press it to my lips, whispering a prayer to whatever gods might be listening. "Help me be strong enough for what's coming."
Because God knows, I'm going to need all the strength I can get.
Outside my window, snow is beginning to fall, the first of the season. In one week, I'll be walking down an aisle covered in this same snow, binding myself to a man who sees me as his property.
But I'm a Treacy woman. We're fighters.
And I'll be damned if I go down without a fight.