Post-birth: accidental death.
Cover: inter-family conflict.
Blame: Messina retaliation.
The room spins. Bile burns my throat.
I’m not a bride. Not a daughter. Not even a person.
I’m a plan.
A tool.
And once they’re done, I’m disposable.
My family. My own blood, has planned my death like a business deal.
I stumble back, heart pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
Then everything turns red.
Not the kind of rage that screams, the kind that kills quietly.
“Monsters,” I whisper.
I want to scream. Tear the office apart. Shake my mother awake and make her admit she never loved me.
But I stay silent.
I gather the pages, photograph every sheet with shaking hands, and slide them back into place.
They’re going to kill me and make it look like the Messinas did it.
A war will follow, and I’ll be nothing but a footnote.
But I swear on every breath I have left they will not use me.
They won’t use me to marry, to birth, or to bury.
If they want blood, they’ll bleed for it first.
For the first time in years, I break.
Not out loud. Not in sobs.
Inside, where no one looks.
Not my mother, who called obedience love.
Not my father, who sees my body as leverage.
Not Uncle Liam, who crushes my fate between his fingers.
And not Matteo?—
Because even if he keeps me breathing, he’ll lose everything.
So, who the fuck am I doing this for?
