She looks up at me with eyes full of hurt and defiance. "Mother would never have?—”
"Your mother is dead," I cut her off harshly, watching her flinch. "And if you keep acting like a reckless child, you might join her. Our enemies don't care that you're sixteen, Valentina. They'll use whatever weakness they can find."
She sits in stunned silence, tears streaming down her face. I hate seeing her like this, but she needs to understand the stakes.
"Marcus will escort you to your room," I continue. "You'll stay there until I decide what to do with you."
As Marcus leads a sobbing Valentina away, I sink back into my chair. Between my children's rebellion and a potential leak in our organization, the wedding is starting to feel like the least of my problems.
I reach for my phone to call Domenico. If someone's feeding information to reporters, we need to find out who. And we need to find out fast.
Because if this alliance falls apart before it even begins, we're all fucked.
CHAPTER THREE
vittoria
Followingthe stern-faced wedding planner through the Mariano mansion, I feel like I'm walking toward my own execution. Just days ago, I was in Belfast, dreaming of a life beyond my father's control. Now I'm choosing fucking floral arrangements and cake flavors for a wedding I never wanted, to a man who's colder than my own father, something I didn't think was possible.
"We'll start with 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 spinning. It's too much, all at once. At least 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 her. She holds me tight, and for a moment I let myself 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, voice steady despite the pain in her eyes. "Let's see these dresses then."
The afternoon drags on with endless fucking lace and tulle. Dress after dress gets paraded in front of me, each more elaborate than the last. I try them on like a doll on display, modeling for my mother and Mrs. Rossi.
"You look beautiful, Vittoria," Mam says, dabbing at her eyes as I step out wearing dress number forty-two of the day.
I take a deep breath and turn to the mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back. The dress is stunning. Flattering, intricate, and hugs my curves. Sleek but elegant, with diamonds around the waist—not too many, but enough to make it stand out.
I should be happy I 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 Cesare's name, ice runs down my spine. Our conversation from this morning replays in my mind, his words both a threat and a challenge. I'm still not sure how to navigate this shit, especially him. He's so cold, so distant. There's no way being married to him will bring me anything but misery.
I'm destined to be one of those wives stuck in a loveless, hate-filled marriage.
"Vittoria?" Mam'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. This is the one."
As Mrs. Rossi bustles off to arrange alterations, my mother comes to stand beside me. Her hand finds mine, squeezing gently.
"Are you sure about this, Vittoria?" she whispers, 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 fresh somewhere far from my father's reach and the Marianos’. But reality crashes back hard.
"You know we can't, Mam," I say softly, squeezing her hand. "They'd never stop looking. 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, brief hope extinguished. "I know," she sighs. "I just hate seeing you sacrificed like this."
