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.
