He leans in, eyes lit. “I didn’t ask you to protect me. I’m not playing savior. I’m doing this because I love you.”
My breath catches.
“If they want to destroy me for it, fine. But they’ll look me in the eye first.” Tears burn. I press my palms to my eyes, he pulls them away. “Don’t,” he murmurs. “Don’t cry for them. Not tonight.”
“What if this ends everything?”
His hands cradle my face. “Then let it. I’d rather burn it down than let them own you.”
Silence.
I nod. “When?”
“Thirty minutes.”
I exhale, shaking. “Okay.”
His thumb brushes my cheek. We don’t speak. Two people in the dark, braced for war.
“I love you, too,” I say.
The car is too quiet.
Matteo hasn’t said a word since we crossed the invisible line that separates their territory from mine. The shift in him was immediate, jaw tight, fingers drumming once against his thigh before going still. Focused. Controlled. I stare out the window at the long drive winding toward my family’s estate. Familiar gates. Familiar hatred. The Messinas don’t travel small. It’s not just Matteo and me. No. The entire family is here.
Three black SUVs behind us. His grandfather rides in the one ahead. I don’t need to see his face to feel the power radiating off of him. Matteo’s father too. Both men who’ve tasted blood and fed it back into the earth.
The plan is simple, walk in, show the O’Briens the storm that’s coming if they don’t back the fuck off. But I know my family. They’ll see this as a declaration. Not a warning. A line crossed.
Itisa line crossed.
I don't know what will happen after this.
I press my forehead against the cool window.
Matteo’s hand lands over mine. I glance over at him.
His eyes are calm, but his grip is tight. “Don’t move until I come get you.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it, Aoife. You stay in the car.”
I nod.
Outside, the gates groan open.
The house rises ahead, stone and fury. I feel my stomach twist. This place raised me. This place wants me dead.
As the convoy comes to a slow halt, I see them.
The engine’s off, but my heart’s racing like it’s about to rip through my chest. I sit frozen, hands clutched in my lap, as the rain taps against the window like a countdown. Outside, black vehicles stretch like a funeral procession against the green of the O’Brien estate.
I can see Marco and Milo already stepping out, suits sharp, face stone. Then Matteo’s father, followed by his grandfather, old-school power wrapped in polished wrath. Matteo’s family doesn’t arrive anywhere quietly. They come like a storm, and right now I’m the lightning rod.
One of the guards for the house steps forward, and I hear Matteo’s father.
“My son’s found his girl,” he says. “It’s time your family heard it from him.”
