Page 27 of Brutal Union
"Are you okay? Really okay? Not just saying it?"
I move to the window, looking out at Chicago spread below like Marco's personal kingdom. "I'm… it's complicated, Alice."
"Dad says you're with the Rosettis now. That the Irish thing is off." Her voice drops to a whisper. "He says you traded yourself for our family's protection."
My throat tightens. Of course Father would spin it that way, make himself the victim, me the noble sacrifice. "Something like that."
"Val, I looked him up. Marco Rosetti. The things they say about him—"
"Are probably true." I cut her off, not wanting to hear the list of his crimes while I can still taste the breakfast he cooked me. "Most of them, anyway."
"Then how can you—"
"Because the alternative was you married to Christopher O'Brien." The truth escapes before I can stop it. "And that wasn't happening."
Silence stretches between us. Then, quietly: "Dad mentioned Christopher yesterday. Said since you're unavailable, maybe it's time to reconsider—"
"No." The word comes out sharp enough to cut. "That won't happen. I'll make sure of it."
"How? You're trapped there—"
"I'm not trapped." The admission surprises us both. "I mean, I am, but it's… Marco won't let Father use you that way. I've made sure of it."
"By giving yourself to him instead?"
I think of his lips on my forehead moments ago, gentle despite everything he is. "It's not that simple."
"Val, do you… are you starting to care about him?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with implications I'm not ready to examine.
"I have to go," I say instead of answering. "But Alice? You're safe. Focus on your studies. Everything else… I'll handle it."
"I love you," she whispers.
"I love you too."
I clean up the breakfast dishes slowly, processing the morning’s events. Alice is okay. Marco Rosetti reads Calvino. His mother collected first editions. He found my strategic notes and thought they were insightful rather than threatening.
Later, I find myself in the library with Invisible Cities, reading his margin notes in careful handwriting. Next to Polo's description of Zaira, a city defined by relationships and memories rather than buildings, he's written: Every empire is ultimately built on perception rather than power.
Without thinking, I pick up a pen and add underneath: Then every empire can be rebuilt through reframing.
It feels like the beginning of something. Not surrender, not exactly. But perhaps Calvino was right—every story is a conversation between writer and reader, each creating the other through the act of engagement.
I'm starting to think Marco and I are writing something neither of us intended.
And I'm no longer certain who's the author and who's the reader.
10 - Valentina
Three weeks since he stole me from the altar. Three weeks of pretending nothing has changed while everything has. Now I stand before the full-length mirror in Marco’s penthouse, watching him fasten diamonds around my throat. Each stone is another chain, another claim, and tonight every woman in Chicago’s elite will know it.
"Beautiful," he murmurs against my ear, his fingers lingering on my pulse point where the necklace sits. "My queen."
I touch the diamonds deliberately, feeling their weight. Let him think it's submission. I know it's strategy. "Your trophy, you mean."
His reflection smiles, dark and knowing. "Both."
