I nod as the church bells toll. We walk out together. My brothers’ eyes find mine.
They know. They always know. But they won’t say a word.
Back at Messina House,the garden smells like home, old stone, cigars, and history. Laughter drifts from the terrace. Marco and Milo grab drinks and vanish toward the tables.
Aunt Camilla spots me first, red lips, silk scarf, same perfume as always. She hugs me like I’m eight again, kisses both cheeks, and calls over her boys, Armani and Raf.
Armani’s too polished for this world. Raf looks like trouble wrapped in leather. They’ll join Blackstone soon. They’ll learn the same lessons.
“Matteo!” Armani grins. “Still breaking hearts and noses?”
“Mostly noses.”
Uncle Luca shows up next with his twins—Enzo and Vito. Smirking. Mirrored menace. We grew up side by side and learned to shoot with the same gun. They’re the same age as Raf.
“Look who finally shows up,” Vito says, slapping my back. “The golden son himself.”
“I had sins to pray for.”
Enzo grins. “Did you confess?”
“Would you?”
No one confesses in this family. And if we do, no one ever hears about it. Everyone here’s got blood or sin buried somewhere.
The garden feels like a pause, a breath before the next war. A reminder that once, before all the blood and vows, we are family.
Even surrounded by blood and bond, she’s still in my head, and I don’t know how much longer I can pretend I’m not already hers.
Chapter 24
Aoife
Dinner is all raised glasses and fake smiles. Mine most of all.
Father toasts our engagement like prophecy. Uncle Liam’s laughter rattles the crystal. Mother says nothing.
The usual performance.
I smile. Pretend.
Liam launches into another story about the early days of the business, all grit and glory. Father humors him, nodding like it’s scripture.
Mother cuts her steak in perfect, silent motions. The knife never slips.
Rory sits beside me, playing the role of the devoted fiancé. His hand brushes mine under the table—calculated, for the audience.
I pull away before anyone notices.
Liam claps Father on the shoulder. “We should talk before the numbers call in from Dublin.”
Father rises, smile tight. “We’ll take it outside.”
Their chairs scrape against the marble.
Rory follows them, phone already in hand, all business now that the show’s over.
Mother reaches for her wine. “Don’t stay up late,” she says, eyes fixed on the glass, not on me.
