The words hit like a bullet. I stand there, heart pounding, every muscle locked.
He’s not bluffing.
“No,” I say. “I choose to build something better.”
The silence that follows feels alive. It’s not relief, it’s the world rattling for what’s to come.
Father stands stiffly near the liquor cabinet; the scent of whiskey and smoke hangs heavy. Mother doesn’t move, her eyes fixed on me not pleading, not pitying just seeing me drown.
“You shame this family,” Father says, voice low. “You bring an O’Brien into this house and expect me to bless it?”
“I know who she is,” I say, steady now. “I know what her uncle did. But she didn’t choose any of it.
“She’s got their blood,” Father shouts.
“She’s got their scars,” I argue back, maybe not the smartest move from me.
The glass in his hand shatters against the table. “So now you’re her savior? That it? Couldn’t fuck someone else and move on?”
My jaw tightens. “I tried. I can’t.”
The room goes still. The fire snaps in the hearth, the only sound between us. Marco shifts behind me, Milo doesn’t breathe.
Mother’s voice cuts through the tension, soft but sharp. “Do you love her?”
I look at her. “Yes.”
Father swears, pacing now, a caged animal dressed in silk and rage. “You’ll start a war, Matteo. Are you ready for that?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
Grandfather rises, slow and deliberate. “Enough.” His voice carries the weight of decades. “We’re Messinas. We don’t flinch.” He turns to Father. “You remember the girl you wanted. The one you married?”
Father’s eyes darken. He doesn’t answer.
“She wasn’t one of them,” Grandfather continues. “But she was promised to them. You were ready to go to war for her.”
Father slams the glass again, shards skittering across the floor. Then he turns and walks out , no words, only footsteps fading up the stairs.
The silence he leaves behind isn’t anger anymore. It’s fear.
And maybe that was worse.
No one speaks. Not even Grandfather.
Then Marco steps forward. Milo follows.
And for the first time tonight, I know I’m not fighting this war alone.
Chapter 31
Aoife
Dinner glows under the chandelier’s low gold light, all polished silver and crystal that hums when glasses touch. The china is the kind that only comes out for deals disguised as family gatherings.
My mother smiles like it’s her job. My father laughs—too fake.
Rory’s hand drifts too close to my thigh.
