3. Vittoria
THREE
Vittoria
A s I follow the stern-faced wedding planner through the Mariano mansion, I can't help but feel a sense of despair. Just days ago, I was in Belfast, dreaming of a life beyond my father's control. Now, I'm choosing floral arrangements and cake favors for a wedding I never wanted, to a man who’s colder than my own father—something I hadn’t expected.
"We'll start with the dress fittings," the planner, Mrs. Rossi, says briskly. "Mr. Mariano has arranged for several top designers to bring their collections. We'll find something suitable."
I nod mechanically; my mind overwhelmed. It’s too much all at once. I'm grateful, at least, that my mother was allowed to come for this part. As we enter a large room that's been converted into a temporary bridal salon, I see her sitting on a plush couch, her face tight with worry.
"Mam," I breathe, rushing to embrace her. She holds me tightly, and for a moment I allow myself to be a scared little girl again, seeking comfort in my mother's arms.
"Oh, my darling," she whispers, her Irish lilt thick with emotion. "Are you alright?"
Before I can answer, Mrs. Rossi clears her throat. "We should begin," she says, gesturing to the racks of white gowns. "We have a lot to get through."
My mother's grip on my hand tightens briefly before she lets go. "Of course," she says, her voice steady despite the pain in her eyes. "Let's see these dresses then."
The morning is filled with so much lace and tulle. Dress after dress is presented, each more elaborate than the last. I try them on and parade before my mother and Mrs. Rossi like a doll on display.
"You look beautiful, Vittoria," my mam says, dabbing a tissue at her eyes the moment I step out of the makeshift changing room wearing dress number forty-two of the day.
I take a deep breath and turn to the mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back at me. The dress is stunning, hugging my curves, it’s flattering, beautiful, and intricate. The dress is sleek but elegant with diamonds around the waist. Not too many, but enough to make sure it stands out. I should be happy that I’ve found the perfect dress. But all I see is a cage of white fabric, binding me to a future I never chose.
"It's perfect," Mrs. Rossi declares. "Mr. Mariano will be pleased."
At the mention of Cesare's name, I feel a chill run down my spine. Our conversation from this morning replays in my mind. His words were both a threat and a challenge, and I'm still not sure how to navigate any of this. Especially him. He’s so cold and distant, there’s no way that being married to him will bring me happiness. I’m destined to be one of those brides that are stuck in a loveless, hate-filled marriage.
"Vittoria?" my mother's voice breaks through my thoughts. "What do you think, love?"
I force a smile, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "It's beautiful, Mam. I think this is the one."
As Mrs. Rossi bustles off to make arrangements for alterations, my mother comes to stand beside me. Her hand finds mine, squeezing gently. "Are you sure about this, Vittoria?" my mam whispers, her voice low enough that only I can hear. "It's not too late to back out. We could leave; go somewhere they'd never find us."
For a moment, I let myself imagine it—running away with my mother, starting a new life far from the reach of my father and the Marianos. But reality crashes back quickly.
"You know we can't, Mam," I say softly, squeezing her hand. "They'd never stop looking for us. And even if we managed to disappear, what about Father and the boys? We can't leave them to face the consequences."
My mother's face falls, the brief hope in her eyes extinguished. "I know," she sighs. "I just hate seeing you being sacrificed like this."
Before I can respond, Mrs. Rossi returns with a seamstress in tow. "We'll need to take in the waist slightly," she says, all business. "And perhaps lower the neckline a touch?"
I nod numbly as the seamstress begins pinning and adjusting the dress. My mother steps back, watching with a pained expression. I hate that she’s feeling this as much as I am, but she’s not going to be able to do anything about it, just as I’m not. The situation is irreversible and in less than three weeks, I’m going to be married.
As my mother and I prepare to leave, Cesare appears in the doorway. His presence immediately fills the room, commanding attention.
"Ah, Vittoria," he says, his eyes raking over me appraisingly. "I trust everything is proceeding smoothly?"
"Yes, Cesare," I reply, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "We've made good progress today."
He nods, seemingly satisfied. Then his eyes land on my mother, and his expression shifts to one of cool politeness. "Mrs. Costa, I hope you've found everything to your satisfaction?"
My mother straightens her spine, meeting Cesare's gaze with a strength I've always admired. "The arrangements are lovely," she says, her voice steady. "Though I admit, I'm still getting used to the idea of my daughter marrying so young."
Cesare's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I assure you, Mrs. Costa, Vittoria will want for nothing as my wife. She'll be well cared for."
The implication hangs heavy in the air—that I'm a possession to be cared for, not a person with my own desires and dreams. I feel my mother tense beside me, but before she can respond, I step in.
"It's been a long day," I say, forcing a smile. "We should be going. Thank you for your hospitality, Cesare."
He nods, his eyes never leaving mine. "Of course. I'll have a car take you back to your home. We'll speak again soon, Vittoria."
As we walk out, I can feel his gaze boring into my back. My mother's hand finds mine, squeezing tightly as if to reassure herself that I'm still here, still hers, at least for now.
In the car, the silence is heavy between us. I want to comfort her, to tell her everything will be alright, but the words stick in my throat. We both know it would be a lie.
"Vittoria," my mother finally says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I need you to promise me something."
I turn to her, seeing the tears she's been holding back all day finally spill over. "Anything, Mam."
She takes a shaky breath. "Promise me that no matter what happens, no matter how hard things get, you'll never lose yourself. That fire inside you, that spirit—don't let them extinguish it."
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I think of Cesare's cold eyes, of the life stretching out before me, and for a moment, I'm not sure I can make that promise. But looking at my mother's pleading face, I know I have to try.
"I promise, Mam," I say, my voice stronger than I feel. "I won't let them break me."
She pulls me into a fierce hug, and I breathe in her familiar scent, trying to memorize every detail of this moment. Soon, these embraces will be a rarity, a luxury I can't afford in my new life.
The car arrives at the house, and I see my father standing in the doorway, his eyes dark with rage. Crap. He’s in a bad mood. What could have possibly gone wrong now?
As we approach the front door, I can see the tension radiating from my father. His jaw is clenched, his fists balled at his sides. Whatever has happened, it's bad.
"Inside. Now," he growls, not even waiting for us to fully exit the car.
My mother and I exchange a worried glance before hurrying into the house. As soon as the door closes behind us, my father explodes.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he roars, his face red with fury. "Talking back to Cesare Mariano? Challenging him? Are you trying to ruin everything?"
I freeze, my heart pounding. What is he talking about?
“Commenting on your age gap? Surely you can’t be that dense, Vittoria?”
I glance at my mam. Someone told him about what she had said.
"Domenico, please," my mam starts, but he cuts her off with a sharp look, one that I know all too well.
"Stay out of this, Siobhan," he snaps. "This is between me and our disobedient daughter."
He turns back to me, his eyes blazing. "Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"
I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice steady. "I didn't mean any disrespect, Father. I was just?—"
"Just what?" he interrupts. "Just throwing away everything we've worked for? Do you have any idea what's at stake here?"
"I do," I insist. "I understand the importance of this alliance."
My father laughs, a harsh, humorless sound. "You're nothing but a pawn in this game, Vittoria. Your only job is to do as you're told and keep Cesare happy. Is that clear?"
His words sting, but I force myself to stand tall. "Yes, Father," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He steps closer, his hand raised as if to strike me. I flinch involuntarily, but the blow doesn't come. Instead, he grabs my arm, his fingers digging painfully into my skin.
"If I hear one more word about you causing trouble," he hisses, "I'll make you regret the day you were born. Do you understand me?"
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. He releases me with a shove, causing me to stumble backwards, I teeter on my heels, unable to stop the fall. I try to steady myself, but I can’t. I fall to the floor, the back of my head hitting off the coffee table, causing me to cry out as dark spots start to cloud my vision.
"Go to your room," he orders. "And don't even think about coming out until you're called for dinner."
I scramble to my feet and flee up the stairs, my vision blurred by unshed tears and the pain from the blow to my head. As I reach my room, I hear my mother's muffled voice, pleading with my father. Their argument fades as I close the door, finally allowing myself to break down.
I sink to the floor, my back against the door, and let the tears flow freely. The weight of my situation crashes down on me—the loveless marriage ahead, the loss of my freedom, the constant fear of disappointing my father or angering Cesare. It's all too much, and for a moment, I allow myself to wallow in self-pity.
But as the tears subside, a familiar anger rises within me. Anger at my father for treating me like property, at Cesare for his cold indifference, at the entire system that allows women to be traded like cattle for the benefit of men.
I stand, wiping my face roughly with the back of my hand. My mother's words echo in my mind: "Don't let them extinguish that fire inside you."
I won’t let them break me. I refuse to lose myself completely. My mam’s managed to do it and I know that I can, too.
A soft knock at my door interrupts my thoughts.
"Vittoria?" my mother's voice calls softly. "Can I come in?"
I quickly open the door. My mother's face is tear-stained, but her eyes are filled 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 slightly but nod. "I'm okay, Mam. Just a bump."
She sighs, her fingers now coated in blood. “You’re not okay,” she says, pressing a kiss to my head. “Let me fix it up.”
My mother guides me to sit on the bed as she fetches the first aid kit from my bathroom. Her gentle hands clean and bandage the small cut on my scalp, her touch soothing away some of the pain.
"I'm so sorry, Vittoria," she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. "I never wanted this life for you. Why didn’t you tell your father it was me who spoke out of turn to Cesare Mariano?"
I lean into her touch, allowing myself a moment of vulnerability. "I know, Mam. It's not your fault, besides. Father wouldn’t listen to us even if I did try to tell him. You know that as well as I do. No matter what, he’ll always find a way to blame me."
She finishes tending to my wound and sits beside me on the bed, 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 can I survive in this world, Mam? How did you do it all these years?"
My mother's eyes cloud with a mixture of pain and determination. "It wasn't easy, love. But I found ways to carve out space for myself, to hold onto 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 might feel."
I close my fingers around the key, feeling its weight—both physical and symbolic. "Thank you, Mam," I whisper, tears pricking at my eyes again.
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 onto that fire inside you. It's your greatest weapon and your greatest strength."
Treacy was my mam’s maiden name. In Irish, Treacy means fighter. It’s who I am, who I’ve always been. I hate that I’ve only just realized how much my mam’s had to fight to be who she is while married to my father. God, I despise him so much.
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 the lining of my dress.
The door swings open without a knock, and my father looms in the doorway. His eyes narrow as he takes in the scene before him.
"Siobhan," he says, his voice dangerously calm. "I believe I told you to leave Vittoria alone."
“I know you did, Domenico, but Vittoria hurt her head, and I needed to check on it. Thankfully I did as it was bleeding.”
My father's eyes snap to me, scanning for evidence of injury. His gaze lingers on the small bandage visible at the back of my head. For a moment, I see a glimmer of concern in his eyes. 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 once again that my well-being is secondary to the alliance this marriage will secure. I force myself to nod, keeping my expression neutral.
"Yes, Father," I reply softly.
He turns his attention back to my mother. "Dinner will be ready in an hour. Make sure she's presentable." With that, he turns and leaves, closing the door behind him with a firm click.
As soon as he's gone, I let out a shaky breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. My mother's hand finds mine, squeezing gently.
"It's alright, love," she murmurs. "Let's get you ready for dinner."
She helps me change into a fresh dress and fixes my hair to hide the bandage. Once we’re ready to head downstairs, my mother pauses, her hand on the doorknob. She turns to me, her eyes shining with unshed tears and fierce determination.
"Remember, Vittoria," she says softly. "You're stronger than they know. No matter what happens, hold onto that strength. It's who you are."
I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. "I will, Mam. I promise."
As we descend the stairs to join my father for dinner, I feel the weight of the key hidden in my dress. It's a small thing, but it represents so much—my heritage, my mother's love, and the strength of the women who came before me.
Whatever lies ahead—the wedding, my life with Cesare, the challenges of navigating this dangerous world—I'll face it with that strength. I may bend, but I won't break. I'm a Treacy woman, after all. And we're fighters.