Alessia hesitates. “He’s…making arrangements.”
“What kind of arrangements?” My voice is too sharp, but I can’t help it.
Neither of them answers at first. The silence stretches. They exchange one of those looks that never means anything good.
“Say it,” I press. “Don’t dance around it.”
Valentina finally sighs. “He’s doing it for your protection.”
I blink. “My protection? I’m already?—”
“It’s not that kind of protection,” Alessia cuts in, voice gentler now. “He’s…arranging a match.”
For a second, I think I misheard her.
“A what?”
Valentina’s eyes drop. “A marriage.”
The word lands heavy. It takes a full second for my brain to process it.
Then I laugh—sharp, wrong, like it belongs to someone else. “You’re kidding.”
Neither of them smiles.
“You’re serious. He’s actually?—”
“He thinks it’s the only way,” Alessia says softly. “After the attacks. After everything?—”
“Stop.” My voice cracks. “Don’t defend him.”
Valentina’s gaze lifts, steady but sad. “He’s trying to keep you safe.”
“By selling me off like property?”
“It’s not like that.”
“It’s exactly like that.” The words come out low and dangerous. “He’s doing what every man in this family does: dressing up control and calling it protection.”
Neither of them argues. The silence feels heavier than the rain starting again outside. I can hear it through the window. Slow, steady, relentless.
“When?” I ask.
Valentina hesitates. “Soon.”
“How soon?”
“Two weeks. Maybe three.”
The room tilts. My pulse roars in my ears.
Two weeks. I have two fucking weeks.
I stare at the screen. Their faces blur slightly, the edges warping in the light. I grip the phone tighter just to feel something solid.
“Who is it?”
Alessia looks like she wishes she didn’t know. “Someone connected. Someone who can keep you out of danger better than he can.”
