Her hand trembles when it finds mine, but she lets me pull her out. I keep her close, my arm firm around her waist, daring the world to touch her. Funny thing, under my hand, the chaos quiets. The storm in me goes still.
The estate towers above us in late-afternoon haze. Gargoyles crouch on the roofline. Ivy coils across the stone like secrets that refuse to die. This house was never built to welcome.
I push open the door. Every step echoes too loud. It’s been a week, and my father hasn’t spoken a word. Not a call, just silence thick enough to drown in.
Aoife’s grip tightens.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “No one touches you. Not in this house. Not anywhere.” She nods, breath shallow.
And me? My heart’s already hammering, waiting for the storm hiding behind the walls. The hush inside isn’t peace. It’s waiting.
Paintings line the hall stern faces, uniforms, medals instead of smiles. The Messina home wasn’t built for comfort. It was built for command.
Aoife’s steps are light on the marble. Her breath ghosts my sleeve. She doesn’t look at the portraits. Doesn’t flinch at the cross above the archway.
Marco’s voice echoes from above. “You two coming, or planning to die dramatically on the stairs?”
I don’t answer. I don’t move. I look at Aoife instead. “Take my hand, little lamb. We go in together.”
The O’Brien girl in Messina Manor.
The sitting room door is already cracked. Firelight spills across the floor, warm in color but cold in feeling.
My father stands at the mantel, back to us, one hand clenched around the edge like he’s holding himself together. My mother sits on the couch, hands folded in her lap, gaze fixed on the fire as if she’s praying the floor swallows her whole.
And Grandfather…Grandfather is smiling.
When the door shuts behind us, silence floods the house.
No welcome. No greeting.
Not even a glance from my father.
The tension breathes, slow and heavy, sharp enough to cut skin.
Aoife stands beside me, hand still locked in mine. I hate that I pulled her into this place that eats people alive.
Grandfather sits at the end of the hall, cane in one hand, rosary in the other, his stare sharp as a blade.
My mother rises, her steps quiet on the marble. Her eyes meet mine, soften, then flick to Aoife. A faint nod. A small mercy.
But my father, he stays seated at the head of the table. The weight of his stare digs trenches into the cloth, as if he’s deciding where to carve next.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look up and that’s worse than shouting.
“Come,” Grandfather says, voice low and even. “We eat. Then we talk.”
Aoife’s hand tightens again, her pulse racing under my thumb.
“You’re safe,” I whisper.
The dining table stretches before us, heavy walnut, polished until it gleams. Silver glints under chandeliers shaped like inverted blades. The wine is dark as blood. The food, ravioli, veal, bread, olives slick with oil is perfect.
But the air is wrong.
Thick. Unforgiving.
My father still hasn’t looked at me. Not during the walk in. Not when we sat. Not now.
