Finally, his voice cuts through it. “I think I misheard you, son.”
“You didn’t.”
His fingers tap the desk. Once. Twice. Each tap lands like a bullet. “You bring me the name of the bloodline that buried my wife… the family we’ve bled against for generations… and expect me to bless this?”
I feel Marco and Milo tense behind me, but I don’t turn. I hold his gaze.
“Yes,” I say. “Because I don’t just want her. I need her.”
The old clock ticks in the corner, loud and merciless. He leans back, studying me the way men study soldiers before sending them to die.
The silence stretches until it breaks with a low rumble.
A laugh.
Soft at first. Then darker.
The kind of laugh that belongs to devils and men who think they’re gods.
“Which one of them told you that you were stupid?” Grandfather nods toward my brothers.
“Milo told me to have fun. Marco called me an idiot.” My voice stays even, but my pulse hammers. I don’t lower my head. Not now.
A low chuckle rumbles out of him. “And yet they still stand beside you.”
He looks at them, then back at me. The smile that follows isn’t kind. It’s approval laced with warning.
“Well,” he says, pushing to his feet, smoothing the front of his jacket. “If my grandson’s decided to fall for an O’Brien, I’d better dust off the shotgun.”
My jaw locks. The air feels heavier as he circles the desk, his boots slow and deliberate against the stone. When he stops in front of me, the scent of cigar smoke clings to his jacket, sharp enough to sting.
“But you,” he says, voice lowering to steel, “you’d better be ready. Your father won’t be as forgiving as I am.” He squeezes my shoulder once, hard enough to bruise. “Be ready for war, Matteo.”
“I am.” The words taste like iron in my mouth.
"Good." He slaps my back once, hard. "Because if you're going to tear this family apart for a girl… you better be damn sure she's worth bleeding for."
“She is.”
His eyes flash, pride, danger, the same glint that built empires and buried enemies.
“You’ll bring her here,” he says.
“She’s watched. There’s always someone?—”
“Then deal with it,” he cuts in. “You want her, you find a way. She’s here next weekend.”
I nod once. There’s no way out.
Behind me, Marco and Milo step forward again.
Three shadows. Three Messinas.
Solid. Unbreakable.
I should feel better, but I don’t because there is still someone else I need to tell, and I agree with Grandfather, Father won’t take it the same way.
I follow Grandfather out of the office, my brothers behind me, and I know where we’re going, to the family area where Father and Mother are. One band-aid ripped off, another to go.
