Fuck them. I do.
My father made sure we knew the languages of our heritage. I'm fluent in Italian and Irish, not to mention German, Spanish, and Mandarin. My mam wanted me to hold my own, to have an advantage. She hoped for a different life for me, but it was never in the cards. My father always planned on using me as a pawn in his world.
Cesare's hand remains firmly on my waist—a constant reminder of my new reality.
The dining room is massive. A crystal chandelier hangs above a table that could seat twenty. The china gleams, and the silverware sparkles under warm light. It's beautiful but cold, much like everything else in this house.
"Please, sit." Cesare gestures to the chair at his right. I obey, carefully arranging my dress as I take my seat. My father sits across from me, his eyes still sharp and watchful.
Just as the first course is about to be served, the dining room door swings open. A girl, no older than sixteen, bursts in. Her dark hair is windswept and her cheeks are flushed. This must be Valentina.
"Sorry I'm late," she says, not sounding sorry at all. Her eyes land on me, and for a moment I see a flicker of something—sympathy maybe—before it's replaced by careful neutrality.
Cesare's jaw tightens. "Valentina, how nice of you to join us. This is Vittoria, your future stepmother."
The word 'stepmother' is practically sneered. I watch everyone tense. It's a damn joke. I'm barely older than Valentina herself. I just turned nineteen, for fuck's sake.
"Hi," Valentina says, sliding into the empty seat next to me. "Welcome to the family."
There's an edge to her voice I can't place. Before I can figure it out, the first course arrives.
Conversation during dinner is stilted and formal. Cesare and my father discuss business, their voices low and serious. The children continue speaking in Italian, talking about my looks, my hair, my body. It takes everything in me not to bark back a response. I'm supposed to play nice. My father warned me countless times on the plane: I'm not to open my smart mouth.
"So, Vittoria," Lorenzo suddenly speaks up, his voice cutting through the tension. "Tell us about yourself. What are your... interests?"
The way he says 'interests' makes it clear he doesn't expect me to have any worth mentioning. I take a sip of water, buying myself time. I hate how I'm being treated. I understand their mother died only a year ago, but I'm not at fault for what'shappening. If I had my way, I wouldn't be here. But I don't get a choice, just like they don't.
"I enjoy reading," I begin, my voice steadier than I feel. "Particularly classical literature. I'm also fond of art and have been studying Italian Renaissance painters."
"Really?" Valentina asks, leaning in. "Who's your favorite?"
"Botticelli," I reply without hesitation. "His work is intricate and full of hidden meanings."
For a moment, Valentina's carefully crafted indifference slips, and I see genuine interest in her eyes. But before she can respond, Cesare clears his throat, effectively ending our budding conversation.
"Vittoria's education has been... adequate," he says dismissively. "But her primary role will be as my wife and the mother of my children."
The words hit me like a slap. My cheeks burn with humiliation, but I force myself to keep a neutral expression. Across the table, my father nods approvingly at Cesare's words.
Bastards. Both of them.
Valentina's fork clatters against her plate, the sound jarring in the sudden silence. "Excuse me," she mutters, pushing back from the table and rushing out.
Cesare sighs heavily. "You'll have to forgive Valentina," he says to me, his tone condescending. "She's still adjusting to the idea of a new... maternal figure."
Maternal figure my ass. I nod mechanically, my appetite completely gone.
"Now," my father says, his voice dry, his eyes boring into mine, "we should discuss the wedding arrangements."
My stomach churns. I've known this was coming, but hearing it discussed so casually, like it's a business transaction rather than the rest of my life, makes it real in a way that terrifies me.
"The ceremony will take place in three weeks," Cesare says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "That should give us enough time for all necessary preparations."
Three weeks until I'm bound to this man for life. I focus on the intricate pattern of the china plate, struggling not to lose my composure.
"Excellent. A Christmas wedding," my father agrees. "And the venue?"
"Here, of course," Cesare replies. "The gardens will be covered in snow by then. Picturesque setting."
