It’s perfect, if you don’t look too hard. If you ignore the rot under the silver.
I keep my fork poised, pretending this is dinner, not theater. The roast duck bleeds into the porcelain, and I swallow wine to drown the taste of my own silence.
Their voices rise and fall like a chorus I was never meant to join. Shipments. Expansion. The harbor.
Laughter about “friendly” meetings with the Russians.
I didn’t even know we worked with them.
I do now.
When dinner ends,the men stay seated.
My mother and aunt clear the table, quiet as servants in their own house.
Smoke hangs thick in the air, sweet and bitter, curling through the chandeliers like ghosts that refuse to leave.
I don’t move. I wait until their voices grow louder, sharp with words that cut —take,control,profit.
They forget I’m here. They always do. Born from their blood, but never meant to listen.
Uncle Liam turns toward me, his glass turning lazy circles in his hand.
“Aoife,” he says, like we’re making small talk. “Have you decided where you’d like to go for your honeymoon?”
My hand tightens around my glass. “What?”
He smiles. White teeth. Dead eyes. “You should enjoy it, darling. Somewhere warm. You’ll be married soon enough. A new life ahead.”
Rory’s hand slides higher on my thigh. My stomach twists.
“I haven’t thought about it,” I say. “Seeing as I’m not the one planning any of it.”
The table stills. The laughter dies. My father’s gaze cuts through the smoke, cold and precise.
Uncle Liam chuckles, the sound like gravel. “Think fast. You’re the future of this family. We’ve worked hard to put this together.”
My voice comes out quiet. “Put what together?”
He leans forward, the room shrinking around his words. “This union. This alliance. Don’t fuck it up.”
The warning sinks into the silence like a knife.
I smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. I nod, like a good girl, but inside, I scream. Yet I keep it together because of the promise I made to Matteo.
“You’ll be expected to show some enthusiasm,” Uncle Liam says.
“For what?” The words come out sharper than I intend. “For being traded like livestock?”
“Watch your tone,” my father says. His voice is low, too steady. That’s how you know he’s close to snapping.
Everyone thinks Liam’s the danger, but my father… he’s the quiet kind. The kind you don’t hear until the explosion.
Conor learned that from him.
“This marriage isn’t about you,” Uncle Liam says, setting his glass down with surgical care. “It’s about the family. The legacy.”
“You mean your legacy.” I don’t mean for them to hear it, but they do.
