Her body goes still, but it is not surrender.
It is strategy.
She stops struggling, lets him guide her toward the chair at the table, but her spine stays ramrod straight, her chin lifted in defiance, her eyes bright with anger and calculation in equal measure. Gabriel plants her in the chair with a firm pressure that leaves no room for argument, and his hand stays on her shoulder, heavy and unyielding, anchoring her in place—a quiet reminder that she is not going anywhere until we allow it.
Her gaze snaps to me, and the fury burning in her eyes is incandescent, hot enough to scorch.
"Did you know?" she demands, and the question is an accusation, a blade aimed directly at my chest.
"No," I say, and the word is simple, clean, true.
But it does not cover the seething mass of emotions churning in my gut—the fury at being deceived, the betrayal that comes from someone you let close enough to hurt you, the dark satisfaction of finally seeing her without the mask, and underneath it all, threading through everything else like poison through veins, the creeping suspicion that this was not just about protecting Erin O'Connor.
This was about conning us.
The thought crystallizes with brutal clarity. The Irish sent a decoy. They sent someone expendable, someone trained to take whatever we dished out, someone who could play the part convincingly enough to seal the alliance while keeping their real princess safe and untouched. This was never about respect or partnership—this was about the Irish Mafia treating us like marks, like fools who could be manipulated with a pretty face and a wedding dress.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, knuckles going white with the effort of not putting them through something solid.
I step closer to where she sits trapped in the chair, caged by Gabriel's hand on her shoulder, and I lean forward slowly, deliberately, until my hands rest on the edge of the table on either side of her, boxing her in without touching her, surrounding her with my presence until there is nowhere for her to look except at me.
Her breathing changes immediately—shorter, faster, her chest rising and falling beneath my shirt in a rhythm that speaks of adrenaline and fear and something else she is trying very hard to hide.
"Was this the plan all along?" I ask, keeping my voice dangerously soft, the kind of soft that precedes violence. "Send the decoy to seal the alliance while the real princess stays safe? Keep the Italians happy with a substitute while Seamus protects what actually matters to him?"
"No," she says immediately, the word sharp and vehement. "No, Dante, that's not—this wasn't about the alliance or the families or any of that political bullshit."
"Then what was it about?" I demand, and I can hear the edge creeping into my voice now, the barely controlled rage. "Because from where I am standing, it looks like your father played us for fools."
"This was about Erin's freedom," Rosalina says, and there is something raw and desperate in her voice now, something that sounds uncomfortably close to honesty. "She didn't want this marriage. She didn't want to be sold off like property to seal some alliance she had no say in. She wanted out, and I—" Her voice cracks slightly. "I would do anything for her. Anything. So I took her place."
I stare at her, searching her face for the lie, for the tell that will confirm she is playing me even now.
But all I see is fierce, unwavering conviction burning in her eyes.
"She's my sister in every way that matters," Rosalina continues, holding my gaze without flinching. "I've spent my entire life protecting her. This was just one more thing. One more sacrifice.And I knew—I knew what I was walking into. I knew what it would cost me. But she deserved to be free, and if giving her that freedom meant marrying you, then that's what I did."
The sincerity in her voice is almost painful to hear.
I study her face—the set of her jaw, the brightness in her eyes, the way her hands are trembling slightly in her lap even as she holds herself rigid and defiant—and something in my chest shifts, settles, believes her despite every logical reason not to.
This was not about conning the Italians.
This was about love. Stupid, reckless, self-sacrificing love for the girl she considers her sister.
And somehow, that makes it worse and better all at once.
I exhale slowly, some of the rage bleeding out of me, transmuting into something darker and more complex. I straighten, pulling back slightly, giving her room to breathe.
"You're telling me you walked into this marriage knowing exactly what it meant," I say slowly, "knowing you would be trapped here, knowing there was no way out, just so Erin could run off with whoever she actually wanted?"
"Yes," Rosalina says without hesitation.
I shake my head, something that might be admiration or disbelief or both warring in my chest. "That's either the bravest or the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
"Probably both," she admits, and there is the faintest ghost of a smile flickering across her mouth before it disappears again.
I turn away from her, raking a hand through my hair, processing this new information, rearranging everything I thought I knew.
