“You walked into this house with a bomb,” someone else growls, I think it’s one of Matteo’s older cousins. “You realize that?”
Matteo steps forward, shoulder brushing mine, and speaks for the first time. “She came to me the moment she had proof,” he says, voice low and hard. “And she risked her life doing it.”
“She’s O’Brien,” another snaps. “That blood doesn’t just wash off.”
“She jumped off the fucking school roof to get away from them!” Matteo explodes. “She almost died trying to escape them, she nearly died because of them!”
That quiets the room. Silence again.
Until Matteo’s Grandfather steps forward, slow and steady like a glacier made of ash and steel. His voice when it comes is dark as the grave.
“We all made the choice to stick with Matteo through this, we all have to think how hard this is for her. She’s giving us her family; we need to understand that." His words surprised me. I wasn’t expecting him to say anything like that but maybe seeing how scared I am showing.
No one moves. No one says anything.
Then his grandfather speaks again. “Right, we need to be ready. Because war is coming.”
His father, sitting stone-faced at the table, finally speaks, voice like splintered wood.
“I still don’t like it,” he mutters. “But I’m not blind, that girl was born to be a weapon and she turned the blade on them to stand beside us—” He looks over at Matteo. “To be with my son.” He turns his cold eyes back to me, the corner of his lip curls slightly. “Then let them come, and we will win.”
The toast echoes like a warning bell. Matteo grips my hand tighter, grounding me, pulling me in.
This war was written before we were born.
But now, it has a face.
Ours.
Chapter 36
Matteo
Monday morning bleeds in the cold through the windows. Not sunlight, just light. Pale and gray like smoke. My jacket hangs heavy on my shoulders, lined with yesterday’s tension and today’s dread.
Grandfather’s voice cuts through the low murmurs of the main hall. “Boys.”
The three of us turn in unison.
He doesn’t speak again until Father joins him. “Watch your backs,” Grandfather says first. No fluff. No metaphor. Just the warning of a man who’s survived five decades of blood feuds. “We don’t know when they’ll come or who they’ll send.”
Father’s jaw tightens beside him. His hands are behind his back, the same posture he used to wear in church, or just before he shot someone. “The O’Briens aren’t fools but they’re desperate. That’s worse.”
My mouth’s dry, I nod once, but something festers in my gut. Fury. Guilt. Her.
Last night replays in my mind in snapshots, glass in fists, maps stretched across tables, names barked into phone lines.The Messina men gathered like lions after dusk. My uncles were arguing over which ports to lock down.
“War isn’t coming,”he said.“It’s already here. We just didn’t hear the first shot.”
And Aoife… fuck.
The way she stood there, telling them everything. Her voice kept shaking, she stopped a few times, because the words were too hard for her to say.
PREGNANCY INITIATIVE. TERMINATION PLAN. Property. Targets. Her name, spelled out in ink and soaked in blood.
It was then I knew there was no going back for her, she was going to be part of this family, no matter what.
I light a cigarette now, hands steady even if my chest feels like it’s breaking open. Marco swipes it from my mouth before I take a second drag. “You alright?” He asks.
