"He came to me. He is desperate. His supply lines are choked. His men are being picked off by Volkov’s hit squads. He knows what I know: divided, we are prey. United, we are a predator."
I feel a chill slide down my spine. It is surgical and precise.
"United," I repeat. "An alliance."
"A merger."
"A merger requires a contract," I say. "Contracts between families like ours are written in blood."
"Yes." My father picks up a folder from the small table beside him. He slides it across the polished wood toward me. "The Compact of 1920. The Founding Families clause. A binding union to end a blood feud."
I don't open the folder. I don't need to. I know the history. I know the laws.
"A marriage," I say.
"Yes."
“Pop, are you serious?" Rocco steps forward, his hands bunched into fists. "Who? We don't have any women. They don't have any women. Unless you’re planning to marry off Aunt Maria, this is?—"
"The Compact is not gender-specific," my father cuts him off. His voice is ice. "It specifies heirs. It specifies the binding of names."
He looks at me.
He doesn't look at Rocco. He looks at me.
And in that moment, the world narrows down to a pinpoint. The fire, the books, the smell of wax—it all recedes. There is only the equation. The variables. The inevitable solution.
"Me," I say.
"You."
"And?"
"Killian Kavanagh."
Rocco makes a sound—a choked, incredulous laugh. "Killian? The Reaper? Pop, he’s a rabid dog. He’s a street brawler. You can't put Alessandro in a room with him, let alone a marriage."
"I can. And I have." My father leans forward. "The papers are drawn. The terms are agreed. The ceremony is Friday."
I sit perfectly still. My heart rate has accelerated—I can feel it thumping against my ribs, a trapped bird—but my face is a slab of marble. I am analyzing. Processing.
Killian Kavanagh.
I have seen the files. 6’2”. 220 pounds. A chaotic, violent force of nature. He solves problems with his fists. He has no strategy, no finesse, only brute impact. He is everything I am not. He is dirt and noise and blood.
"He will kill him," Rocco says. He sounds panicked now. "You know he will. Killian hates us. He hates everything we stand for."
"He won't kill him," my father says calmly. "Because if he touches a hair on Alessandro’s head, the truce breaks, and his brother—Rory—becomes a target. Killian’s weakness is his brother. We hold the leverage."
He looks at me again. Expecting resistance. Expecting fear.
I give him neither.
"It is logical," I say.
Rocco stares at me. "Logical? Are you out of your mind?"
"It is a strategic necessity," I continue, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. "A marriage binds the families in a way a simple treaty cannot. It forces proximity. It forces cooperation.It neutralizes the Kavanagh aggression and gives us access to their union connections."
