Miguel Hernandez doesn’t give two shits about his daughter’s reputation. All he cares about is how having a twentysomething unwed daughter will look on him.
“My mother bore children well up to her fortieth birthday. I’m sure she’ll be ripe enough to breed when the time comes, not to mention my father bore more bastards than you can imagine at that age,” Volkov retorts with a scowl.
“Then you take her!”
“No one is calling dibs on any girl. This needs to be fair to all parties concerned. Therefore, there will be a lottery,” Rossi explains patiently.
“A lottery?! What pinche puta solution is this? Is my Rosa supposed to be awarded like cattle to you?!”
My father, having had enough of the Hernandez’ outrage, pushes his chair back and gets up to his feet. All the men in the room instantly go to their waist to grab their guns. Athair, unbothered by the reaction, walks unruffled to the breakfast table set at the corner of the room. My brows pull together, observing my father grabbing the large bowl of fruit and walking back to his seat. Before he sits back down, he tosses the fruit over his shoulder, and places the bowl in the center of the table. Everyone is silently observing his every move, wondering what he’ll do next. Athair grabs a yellow pad of paper, then proceeds to rip a piece, doodling the Kelly name on it and then dropping it into the bowl.
“We all pick a name. Should the name pulled out be of our own daughter, we pick again until we have a new name.”
“A little childish, but I guess it serves our purpose,” Danny scoffs behind his brother.
Fucker.
“Aye, but I find simplicity always gets the job done. Why make a mountain out of a molehill, I always say.”
I smirk at Athair teaching these Brit assholes a lesson.
“It will do,” Rossi adds, throwing his name into the bowl.
One by one, each boss writes their family name on pieces of paper and throws them into the pit of despair, while looking none too happy about it.
And why would they be?
The bowl symbolizes conformity where once free will prevailed.
Yet, it’s the only way to guarantee we live another day in this messed up world of ours.
Ten years.
That’s all I have.
Ten years of blessed freedom until I’m chained to a woman I’ll despise on mere principle alone. Worse still, she will have to bear children of my blood, making sure that every time I look at them, all I’ll see is an enemy ready to take my place. I guess I’ll cross that bridge when the time comes. Right now, I’m more concerned with my little sister’s fate than I am my own.
Iris doesn’t deserve this.
She’s a free spirit, but this is going to rob her of her freedom and place her in a gilded cage of our own making. Staring at the men around me, I consider who would be the lesser evil in welcoming Iris to their home and giving her some semblance of the life she now holds so dear. Unfortunately, the stone-cold faces around the table don’t give anything away, much less inspire any spark of hope.
Do they love their daughters as much as Athair loves Iris?
Do they love their sisters as much as I love mine?
Or do they only see them as pawns to be used in this wretched game?
I doubt any of them care one bit that these girls will be entering, without their consent even, into what most likely will be a toxic—maybe even abusive—relationship. That they will be forced to live in a hostile environment for the rest of their lives just to ensure the treaty is upheld. Just the mere idea of it makes me wish I could demand that Athair back out of this deal right now. Better we all die today than have Iris be subjected to such cruelty tomorrow.
I have ten years to come up with a plan to save my sister. If I can’t come up with anything that will help her in the end, then at least I’ll have enough time to teach Iris how to defend herself. To use her wits. Her brains and fists, if she needs to. Like my younger brother, Shay, Iris has always been fond of knives, so I make a note to gift her a sharp dagger as my wedding present. Whoever the cunt is that ends up calling her his wife will think twice about hurting her with that in her hand. Nothing keeps a man on his guard better than the suspicion that the woman lying beside him in bed can slice his throat while he’s at his most vulnerable.
Once all the names are in the bowl, Giovanni Moretti stands up from his seat and picks up a discarded pen from the table. He then proceeds to use it to slice his palm, creating an ugly gash. I store that piece of information away for the future. Although he might look like any other reputable businessman that wouldn’t dream of getting his hands dirty, Giovanni Moretti could kill his enemy by severing an artery in a man’s neck with just a tip of a pen if he were inclined to do so. Droplets of blood drip to soak the yellow papers in the bowl as he takes turns to look every man here in the eye.
“On my blood, I swear to protect and care for the woman who will ensure the life of the Outfit. Let her sacrifice bring union to the famiglias.”
I take his words in, dissecting their meaning.
Moretti has mostly been silent throughout today’s exchange. Not that I was surprised by his demeanor in any way, since it’s common knowledge that Giovanni prefers to keep his true thoughts close to his vest. He likes to observe his surroundings and catalog his foes’ weaknesses just by listening to them go on and on in their rants. A trait of a great leader, if you ask me.
But the oath Moretti decided to pledge today speaks volumes of his concern. Just like Athair and me, he doesn’t want any harm to come to his daughter either. My respect for the man increases tenfold as his blood continues to drip, and I find myself praying to the Almighty himself that if Iris needs to enter such a crime family, then let it be the Outfit.
Moretti grabs the paper and then reads it—rocks are slung to my stomach when it’s not my sweet sister’s name that falls from his lips.
“Valentina Rossi.”