TIED TO AN OUTLAW

"Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius, and it's better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring."

-Marilyn Monroe.

-----------------

The dinning was aglow with enough candles to guide a ship to shore, because nothing says 'classy' like a room full of stuff that can be used as a weapon. But I wasn't admiring the decor - I was too busy having a heart attack, courtesy of being trapped in a wasteful mansion with a bunch of family and strangers alike, and too much glassware.

The hum of conversation and clinking cutlery were just background noise to the sound of my own mortality.

I was stuck at a depressing angle of the table, wearing a gown so sparkly, I'm pretty sure I blinded everyone within a 5-foot radius. Aunt Rosa and my mother's mission accomplished.

The classic 'you're a star, now go make him worship you' advice from both of them had been a real treat. Should I be honest with you? My mom and her sister, Aunt Rosa, were a dynamic duo of toxic encouragement. Their push for me to rub my 'Benedetti bestness' in everyone's face was a dead giveaway that humility was clearly underrated in my family.

The irony was rich-why dazzle when I could just crumble? My bestness had been reduced to a flaking layer of my makeup and a whole lot of desperation. Desperation to survive this glittering nightmare without losing my dinner or my mind.

Guest of honor-my ass.

Don Vincenzo, the self-proclaimed king of the table, basked in the spotlight like it was his birthright – and honestly, with that ego and chiseled jawline, he probably thought he was the sun itself. His mini-me, his first son-my portentous brother-in-law-to-be, sat across from me, a carbon copy of his father's cold, detached, and self-absorbed demeanor. The apple didn't fall far from the tree, and in this case, it just rolled onto the same ego-fueled path.

Marrying into this, I wasn't just in for a long ride; I was in for a never-ending cycle of narcissistic hell, with the whole family as my personal chauffeurs.

"Smile, Sessie," my mother's voice cooed in my ear as she leaned in, her perfume-a mix of rosewater and authority-wrapping around me like a noose. "You're too beautiful to wear such a frown tonight. You're a-"

"Save the celestial flattery, mother," I spoke back discreetly, not moving a muscle as I stared ahead to the men in black. I was far from being a star. "I'm more like a fallen meteorite - crashed, burned, and utterly done with this night."

"Sessie!" She barked in a way only I could hear, fork abandoned, eyes blazing with the thrill of another opportunity to drill our family motto into my skull. "Enough. Now chin up, shoulders back, and for the love of all things Benedetti, pretend you're not dying inside."

I managed a smile, or rather, a grotesque parody of one, like a skull grinning from beneath a tattered mask of flesh.

I was twenty-three for crying out loud; my life didn't have to be filled with so much depressing details.

My mother's words were still heavily settled on my shoulders, much like the engagement ring glittering on my finger-a symbol of everything I was being forced into. She adjusted a loose strand of my hair, her fingers cool and precise, as if she were preparing a doll for display.

In many ways, she was.

In many ways, she'd raised a social doll - not merely a puppet dancing to the tune of societal expectations, but a marionette whose strings were pulled by the whims of etiquette and politeness. But like all dolls, there was a limit to how far I could be bent and molded before I cracked. And deep inside, the cracks were beginning to form.

The guests-family, a few business associates of the Family, and those who wanted to be on my father and Don Vincenzo's good side-were all here to celebrate what should have been the happiest night of my life. But I couldn't stop the knot tightening in my stomach. This circus, though it was in my name, was not for me, it was not for my happiness; it was for their own entertainment-witnessing the union of two powerful families in one. Witnessing how Vincenzo and Benedetti expertly played matchmaker – as long as the match was between two pawns who'd keep the Family's secrets and secure its future.

Haha, the classic Vindetti move: take one volatile Tiziano, add a dash of 'Sessie's' supposed obedience, and hope for a recipe of stability – or at least a decent PR spin. Because what every unhinged Don's son needed was a 'me' – a.k.a. a doormat with a pulse – to manage his temper and smile pretty.

Across the table, my younger sister, Vi, was giggling at something Ariele, the underboss's son, had whispered in her ear. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, her eyes sparkling in a way mine hadn't in years. At least one of us had a shot at happiness – Vi's contagious laugh told me she'd found her escape in the colorful guy, and maybe, just maybe, the matchmakers would grant her a reprieve from the Tiziano treatment.

My father sat at the other end of the table, his phone in hand - fork out - scrolling through what I could only assume were urgent business matters. As usual. The only time I merited a glance from him was when he needed to confirm I was still a marketable asset.

This dinner and the guests were just formalities for him; it was a necessary inconvenience to solidify the alliance this engagement promised.

And then, there was Tiziano.

Dressed in his trademark all-round black, he was seated to my right, his presence brewing like a dark cloud. His eyes, too sharp, too focused, roved over the room with a hunger that made my skin crawl. Oh great, they finally landed on me, and I got to enjoy a lovely frisson of discomfort because, you know, being looked at by him was just what I needed to make my night complete. His hand reached out to cover mine, and I had to fight the urge to pull away.

His touch was cold, his grasp possessive, like he was branding me with an unspoken ownership. I was a prize he'd already won and was simply collecting.

"You belong to me, body and soul, Sessie. Don't ever forget that." Tiziano's voice took on a predatory edge, carrying a weight that pressed down on my chest.

All eyes were on us now, the room collectively leaning in, expecting me to dispense the usual saccharine smile and gentle words that Sessie was famous for, the ones that never seemed to lose their potency.

But Tiziano's words were a velvet trap, and only Vi saw the steel beneath. The others just heard the sweet nothings.

Words remained caught in my throat. I was choking on the bitterness of it all. I managed a nod, barely, the edges of my vision blurring as I forced myself to meet his gaze.

Tiziano's eyes did the whole 'I've got a secret and it's going to ruin you' thing. Motherfucker had a mix of victory and something that made my instincts scream for me to run. And the other familiar faces around me? They wanted more than a nod; they wanted my soul to sign on the dotted lines.

To feed the beast of their vanity, I sipped my wine, uttering under the glass, "Cheers to many more years." It was partly to drown out my doubtful tone, and mostly to distract myself from the nausea twisting my stomach.

Just as the suffocating silence between Tiziano and me threatened to swallow me whole, my immediate older brother, Cosimo, leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, cutting through the tension like a knife.

"Well, Sessie, if Tiziano doesn't marry you, I'll have to hire you as my personal chef. You do make the best lasagna." A mischievous grin spread across his face. His voice was loud enough to catch the attention of everyone at the table, causing several heads to turn.

Aunt Rosa, sitting beside him, let out a hearty laugh, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Oh, Cosimo, don't tempt fate," she said with the playful affection she reserved for him. "But if I'm being honest, dear Sessie, you'd be better off with someone who knows how to make you smile, like your brother here."

Our mother, however, was less entertained. Her eyes narrowed in on Cosimo with the kind of disdain that only a disappointed mother could muster. "Cosimo, enough with your nonsense," she barked. "This is a serious occasion, not one of your juvenile games."

Cosimo raised his hands in mock surrender, though the grin on his face didn't falter. "Just trying to lighten the mood, Mamma. Can't have a party without a little laughter, right?"

"Some things are not meant to be laughed at." Her gaze shifted pointedly toward me, disappointment locked in them.

I could feel her unspoken words pressing down on me again: This is your duty. This is your fate. Accept it with grace.

Even when the joke wasn't my doing, I still bore the brunt of it. More than marvelous.

Cosimo merely shrugged, unfazed, but before the conversation could spiral into further tension, the sharp ring of my father's phone cut through the air. He glanced at the screen, his expression darkening as he stood abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping against the marble floor.

Without a word to any of us, he answered the call and strode out of the room, his departure signaling a pause in dinner. The energy in the room shifted immediately, as if a spell had been broken. Chairs were pushed back, sighs were observed, and a few began to rise, murmuring their need for a recess and exchanging polite smiles.

Don Vincenzo, with his usual air of authority, stood as well, offering a stiff nod to those at the table before following my father out. It was the unspoken rule in the Family: when Don Vincenzo left, so did everyone else. The evening was officially over.

Grazie a Dio.

Just as I stood up, hoping to escape notice, my phone trembled in my hand, the screen illuminating with a name that made my heart skip a beat.

Jake.

Anxiety kicking in, I froze, scanning the room to see if anyone had caught my momentary panic. But the others were engrossed in their own conversations: Tiziano charming my mother and Aunt Rosa, Vi besotted with Ariele, Cosimo deep in discussion with our older brother Remo, and my older sisters clinging to their partners like lifelines.

Everyone was too busy with their farewells to pay me any mind.

With a quick breath to steady myself, I pushed away from them, away from the dinning hall, to the gallery away from the building, and answered the call.

We did our ceremonial pleasantries, Jake and me, my laughter echoing in the room full of art, craft and candles. But just as Jake's boyish voice crackled through again asking if I'd finally surrender to his plea for a kiss tomorrow, icy fingers wrapped around my waist like a vice, and another hand snatched the phone from my ear, severing the connection.

My fingers froze, abandoning their gentle tracing of the delicate curves in Botticelli's 'The Birth of Venus'. The beauty in front of me was starkly different from the beast behind.

The stench of Tiziano's breath, a toxic cocktail of ruthlessness, stale wine, and decay announced his presence like a dark omen. My body froze, not just because his fingers were tracing paths I hated, but because his voice, soaked with venom, hissed a question that made my blood run cold: "Why are you speaking with another man on the eve of our engagement?"

"The world is a tragedy to those who feel, but a comedy to those who think."

-Horace Walpole

------------------My fingers trembled as the coldness of my fiancé's aura sipped into my veins. He had enough darkness around him to be capable of spreading it wide.

And he never hesitated to do just that.

Against my better judgment, I turned to find him a few breaths away, and blood drained from my face. I watched his jaw tick as he waited for my response, as he cinematically watched the pulse in my neck thud like a loose cannon.

The air between us felt suffocating, as if every breath was a struggle. My skin itched with unease, automatically jerking away from his touch.

He stood there still, silent, and yet the room felt like it was loaded with a low, minatory hum-the kind you feel deep in your spine just before something terrible happens. For a moment, I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. The sheer dread of his presence paralyzed me.

Taking a step forward, he hissed, "Uh, Sessie, Sessie, Sessie... Do I need to ask twice? Or are you just pretending to be dense?"

The latter-clearly.

I opened my mouth, desperate to find words that might save me from the humiliation of his next comment, but all that escaped was a ragged breath. How could I possibly explain who Jake was? How could I admit that I fancied a boy from my art class, a boy whose heart was so big it made my fiancé's seem microscopic? How could I lie to someone who would rip me apart if he even suspected a shred of dishonesty?

"I'm starting to think you enjoy making me repeat myself," he spat again, his words like pinpricks driving into my skull. "So, let me indulge you... again. Who. Was. That? And don't even think about shaking your head-I want an answer."

His voice was cold, each word laced with barely restrained anger. There was something in his eyes-something I'd seen too many times before-that made my stomach twist with fear.

Tiziano was always a step ahead of me in school, expected, as he had two years on me. My earliest memory of "Tizzy's" rage? Tenth grade, of course-the beginning of this horror. We were all labeled as cousins, every last one of us connected to Vincenzo's crime family-a neat little trick to keep the "Vinseltti" operations, as I liked to call it, nice and tidy. I remember a so-called friend of mine practically breaking the sound barrier to warn little ninth-grade me that "my Tizzy" had gotten mixed up in something truly awful. When we rushed back, there he was in the hallway-bloodied hands, a few fresh cuts on his face, and his victim lying face down, out cold. The silence was deafening. He'd pounded every last bit of life out of the poor guy.

When I dared to confront him right then and there for what he'd done, I got a swift slap in the face, leaving me with a nosebleed for my trouble. It took Cosimo cutting short a make-out session to pull his classmate-slash-partner-in-crime off his sister's hair.

And let me tell you, that was far from the only time-not even a fraction of the times I'd ended up bleeding because of this man right here.

Right now, his steps were a lot heavier than they were in tenth grade, his eyes now far more contaminated by the monster that had claimed him. His grip? God don't get me started with that, because it only ended with one thing-a retch from me.

"T-tizzy, you're hurting me."

"Answer me, Alessandra! Goddamnit!" He groaned. "Don't 'Tizzy' me."

I knew the signs, knew what was coming when he fisted his hand with my phone in it. Tiziano had been fed by the devil him, but that was a truth the family never acknowledged beyond these doors. That was a truth they never even acknowledged at all. To the outside world, he was the strong, capable second son of Don Vincenzo-loyal, powerful, untouchable.

To me, he was nothing short of a monster. I'd witnessed the chaos left behind by his rages, the wreckage that followed in his path. I'd heard the maids whispering their horror stories, seen the bruises on the women who had the nerve to defy him. I'd even seen the bruises on myself.

There had to be some sort of neat, clinical label for whatever he was, but honestly, he was far more terrifying than anything science could ever explain. Nothing could ever capture the sheer violence of his outbursts, the way his eyes would go dark and his fists would clench, or the cold calm that followed, as if nothing had happened.

It didn't describe the way my heart raced whenever I was alone with him, the way I had to constantly walk on eggshells, never knowing what might set him off.

"You're shaking," he observed, his eyes narrowing as if the sight pleased him. He reached out, and I flinched before I could stop myself. His hand hovered in the air, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You'd do well to be honest with me, Sessie. It'll save us both a lot of... unpleasantness."

I blinked.

"Me having to raise my voice... and Remo or Cosimo having to intervene. Again."

Same old poison, same old suffocation. Two years of my life, drowned in his manipulation and cruelty, buffered by my brothers' strong arms.

"Sessie..."

My nickname felt like poison on his lips. It wasn't a term of endearment when he used it. It was a shit-show of how small and trapped I was under him.

Finally, I found the courage to get my story straight. "I-it was just a friend," I stammered, hating how weak I sounded. "Someone from school calling to extend their congratulations. I promise."

It was only half true. Jake never set foot in Lincoln; he was actually at my art class. But I kept that little nugget of information to myself, fully aware that if Tiziano found out, he'd either pay to make Jake disappear from the class or, in true Tiziano fashion, handle the problem the​ old-fashioned way-with his own two hands.

"A friend," he repeated as disbelief licked the edges of his words. Before I could react, his free hand was already in my hair-not that I'd ever think to object.

His eyes flicked between my contorted face and the phone screen as he scrolled through the recent calls. Groaning from the pain of my hair being yanked, I watched in horror as he lifted the phone to his ear, dialing the number.

No. My heart pounded so loudly I could barely hear the ringing on the other end. Please don't pick up-I begged silently. Please, God, don't let him answer.

Being called 'Sessiepie' by Jake as usual upon answering my call was basically a neon sign screaming 'I'm a cheating liar.' Because, clearly, a cute nickname was the ultimate indicator of guilt. And what a coincidence that I was surrounded by a cast of characters straight out of a bad historical drama? The cavemen, the Vikings, the medieval kings... it's a wonder I didn't get accused of witchcraft too. And the women who could've vouched for me? Please, they were all too busy perfecting their 'damsel in distress' faces and practicing their 'who, me?' expressions.

I was done if Jake answered.

The seconds stretched into what felt like hours. Each ring seemed to echo in my mind, the tension mounting until I thought I might scream. Then, finally, the ringing stopped-no answer.

I exhaled shakily, a flicker of relief almost making me dizzy. But that relief was short-lived. Tiziano's expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he ended the call. "No answer?" he murmured, very dangerously low. "How convenient."

He dropped the phone onto the floor with a careless flick of his wrist, his eyes never leaving mine. The sound of it shattering against the marble tiles reverberated through the spacious hall, like the final crack of a whip.

I jumped at the sound, my breath catching in my throat. The pieces of the phone lay scattered at our feet, broken-just like the tiny shred of peace I'd been clinging to all night.

Tiziano took a step closer, so close I could smell the faint scent of his woody cologne laced with something sour underneath. "You're lucky, Sessie." His whispered words were hot against my cheek. "If I ever find out you're lying to me... neither Cosimo nor Remo would be inclined to stepping in the way of my wrath."

My voice was gone, trapped somewhere deep in my chest, along with my courage. I could only nod, praying that he'd believe me, that he wouldn't see the terror hiding just beneath the surface.

For a moment, he lingered, his gaze raking over me, searching for cracks. Then, with a cold smile, he turned and walked away, leaving me alone with the broken pieces of my phone and the shards of my fear.

When I felt able to breathe again, I sank to the floor, wrapping my arms around myself as if I could hold all the pieces together. The silent prayer on my lips turned into a plea for something I knew I might never find again-freedom.

A tear slipped, and subsequently, more followed. Before long, I was a sobbing mess.

It suddenly hit me-once we were married, there'd be no Remo or Cosimo to hold him back, no Vi to call him out. There would just be a submissive version of myself, constantly tiptoeing around his temper.

How long could I survive like that?

"There you are!" A loud voice cut through the emptiness of the room. I didn't need to turn around to know who it was; even in my sleep, I'd recognize Zita's distinctive tone. My eldest sister. "Why are you... curled up here?"

I hastily erased my tears, because crying is so passé when you're stuck in a never-ending cycle of destiny. I inhaled, put on my best 'I'm okay' face, and gathered the shattered remains of my phone - a fitting metaphor for my life.

"Wow, I'm such a genius," I mockingly scolded myself. "Can't believe I let this slip."

When I finally turned to face Zita, she was tucking her pale hair to the side, her gaze darting between my eyes and the remaining broken glass doubtfully. "Are you... alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be, hmm?"

She squinted. "It's just that..."

"Zita, I'm fine!" I snapped, trying to salvage the cool demeanor Tiziano had knocked out of me. Honestly, I'd rather she not dig into the latest disaster of my married life. Not that if I explained, she'd rush off to confront him-more likely, she'd just watch with detached curiosity.

I'd figured out that in this family, keeping your true feelings buried was the only way to get by.

She had clearly come here with a purpose, so I guessed. "Riding arrangements, then?"

"Yes," she replied, smiling knowingly and smoothing her green dress. I was familiar with the routine-time for the women to retreat to their little kingdom while the men, the real night owls, went off to do whatever dark deeds they preferred. "So, are you joining me or riding with Liv and Vi?"

Because I was a glutton for punishment, I asked the rhetorical question: "Let me guess, Rachele and Amalia will be joining you?"

A true dream team: Zita, Rachele, and Amalia - the holy trinity of chaos. One-a walking submissive wife. Another-a live grenade of her mother's fury. The last-if a viper ever had mood swings.

As Zita nodded, I just about choked on my own sarcasm. "I'll pass" was my diplomatic way of saying "hell no, I'd rather walk on hot coals."

Point was, I'd just stick to my own personal apocalypse, thank you very much - no need to amplify the destruction with a toxic road trip with my sister and our half-sisters-whom she seemed to love so fervently she'd conveniently forgotten how their mother had torn our lives apart.

"Congratulations once again," she said, her eyes fixed on the ring I'd somehow managed to overlook yet again. I gave a nod, and Zita's gaze lingered before she stepped in closer. "You know," she whispered, "sometimes the things we commit to end up committing to us. I can see how you look at Tizzy-with just enough disgust to be noticeable. It's only going to crush your spirit to fight against a well-established protocol."

My heart sank. They were all cut from the same cloth-each one tethered to their own version of submission.

"For the love of your sanity..." she said, wrapping me in a hug that practically screamed pity. "You're engaged now, end that affair before it blows up in your face."

Before I could even process what she meant or ask how she'd managed to know about Jake, she vanished, leaving behind only a lingering scent of vanilla and a not-so-subtle hint of doom.

"The purpose of art is to lay bare the questions that have been hidden by the answers."

-James Baldwin

------------------The morning after was a beautiful disaster. I dragged myself out of bed, still reeling from the night's escapades-Tiziano's chills, my mother's nagging, and ultimately Zee's confession-and I was greeted by a cacophony of clanging pots and the smothering scent of pancakes and espresso in the kitchen.

I paused at the doorway, freshly showered and dressed in a bright blue top that said "Stop Staring" and skinny jeans, taking a moment to steel myself for what I ran into.

It was a sea of faces-literally a tidal wave of them. All familiar, but some were definitely out of place for a morning gathering like this. Take Zita, for instance. I hadn't expected to find her lounging in our kitchen, which was so grand it made our father's study look like a closet.

Married to one of the family's commissioners-who, by the way, was my father's mistress's cousin-Zita was usually nowhere to be seen in such ordinary settings, especially not with her three kids in tow.

Unless Elio had managed to avoid coming home, which I was betting he had.

Just like every other attempt to dodge family encounters, this one was no different. As soon as I halted, her eyes locked onto mine. The little smile she gave me seemed to say she was all too happy to keep my secret.

Then the following frown told me to heed her warning.

Well, damn her.

Snooping around to discover there was even a secret at all was precisely what I'd meant when I called this family a noxious blend of meddlers, alpha males, sycophants, drama queens, submissive wives, pretenders, idealists, and not a single realist in sight.

"Well, hello, hello," said... oh joy, Nico was here too? Aunt Rosa's only child. He opened the fridge, rubbing his sickly-formed mustache like anyone in this room would ever see it as anything other than the disgusting habit it was. "Look who's finally decided to join the living. The newly wed, how sweet."

"She's not married," Vi retorted, though not lifting her head from the fantasy trilogy she'd been guzzling for three straight days. "Anything can happen."

"Shut up, Viola!" Mother interjected. Vi had certainly poked the sorest spot in our family. That's how we all referred to my relationship with Tiziano-a raw wound just waiting to be touched. Mention it, and you were bound to be electrocuted by my mother's rage.

Can't really blame Mother for that-she wasn't about to risk another failed alliance, not after hers and Father's had collapsed like a house of cards.

She went back to flipping her pancakes, but not before shooting me a glare that could've turned butter to stone-all for Vi's nerve. Good grief!

Mother's hair was pulled back in its usual tight bun-a style as rigid as her demeanor. Ginevra, our father's mistress, was the complete opposite. In all the years I'd seen her, not once had she tamed her hair like that. Thirty years with our father, and she remained unapologetically wild, unlike the subtle, controlled presence of Mother. It made me wonder if Father was ever drawn to Mother's restraint at all or if it was Ginevra's untamed spirit that captivated him. But I quickly pushed aside the absurdity of pondering the sorcery of a household this was.

I finally trudged into the kitchen. Housekeepers bustled around, darting in and out as they arranged an elaborate spread of pastries in the dining hall-just for Father, who never indulged in such common fare. Zita was perched on a high chair, feeding her ten-month-old baby with a patience I envied. The toddler made delighted noises as he tried to grab at the spoon, her little hands flailing around.

The chaos continued with her younger kids darting through the kitchen, their laughter echoing off the walls. They seemed to be in a perpetual state of motion, occasionally spilling something or getting tangled in one another's legs.

Then a thought twisted my gut-I'd be having Tiziano's kids soon. But first, I'd have to get in bed with him. The mere idea made me choke, drawing a few curious glances my way, which I quickly brushed off with a forced cough.

Glancing ahead, I spotted Cosimo, the family's resident jester, slouched in a chair at the far end of the kitchen, nursing yet another hangover. His hair was a mess, and his expression radiated a profound "not a morning person" vibe.

"You look like you got run over by a bus, Cos," I commented, eliciting laughter from half the room and exasperated mutters about his drinking problem from the other half. "How many drinks did you two actually have?"

Nico said nothing, trying to drown his own hangover with the bottle of water in his grip.

"Not enough to make me feel this awful," Cosimo grumbled. "I swear, tequila's out to get me."

I didn't recall tequila being on the menu last night. In fact, I didn't remember ever being given the freedom to choose from any menu that didn't involve clothes, books, or food.

Since every Benedetti seemed to be present here, I asked about Liv and Remo's wife. Aunt Rosa vaguely mentioned that Liv had left early and said nothing more, her attention already shifting to the next person walking through the door.

Remo, always the picture of calm, strolled in already dressed to the nines in a pressed suit. He was always styled in a way that set him apart from our father's typical look. That kind of strict adherence to our father's every move was left to Young Dario-our father's first son with Ginevra.

Remo made a beeline for the kitchen island, casually popping grapes into his mouth, clearly on his way out the door. He never stuck around long. "Got an early meeting," he said, catching another grape with a flick of his wrist. "Not that I'd stay anyway-dodging the chaos is exactly my strong suit."

Glad I wasn't the only one who knew that when more than one Benedetti stayed in one place, an invisible bomb was sure to go off.

Aunt Rosa scoffed. "Maybe that meeting will teach you some manners, Remo. Lord knows you've missed every lesson so far."

Remo turned to her with a smirk. Then he laughed sarcastically. "Permit my absence, Aunt Rosa-some of us are allergic to all that hot air you've been blowing around for years."

Cosimo and Vi laughed, only fanning the flames of Aunt Rosa's anger. She spat,

"Run off. Just like your father-always quick to leave when the women get too real for you."

Remo froze, a 'what did you just say' look plastered on his face. Everyone else stiffened like statues, but not me. At that moment, I knew I'd be the one to catch the pancake slipping off mother's spoon.

Aunt Rosa wasn't the type to let anyone push her around. It's probably why her husband had taken suicide as an escape route, seeing that he couldn't bend her to his will sixteen years ago.

I had a lot of respect for her; after all, she didn't just take on everyone-she even took on my father.

By now, Remo had absorbed enough of her sting. With his lips clamped shut, he turned to the "hungover twins" and said, "Once Allegra's up, have someone drive her home. Nico, that's you."

"Uhm. Yes... sir..."

And just like that, Remo was out the door.

Aunt Rosa's little dig had effectively wrecked the perfect couple's getaway plans? Perfect.

The glare my mother shot her sister made it clear they'd be at each other's throats for the rest of the day for that singular statement. Lucky for me, I had better things to do than stick around for the drama.

Cosimo cast a feeble glare around the room, trying to defuse the tension. "Cinnamons are better than butter, right?"

"What?" I coughed, confused. "That's not even a fair comparison."

"What would you know?" He rolled his eyes and took the plate of breakfast from me. "I didn't even ask for your opinion. Now, beat it."

"Fuck off."

"Language!" Mother chimed in from inside the fridge now.

I bit my tongue to keep from swearing again. "Sorry, Mother."

Vi, still huddled on her barstool, finally slammed the book shut with a frustrated huff. "I can't freaking concentrate with all you people around."

Aunt Rosa shook her head as she observed my sister. "Better off that way. That book's going to give you impossible expectations about men." A wry smile appeared on her lips, and her eyes rolled as she set down her empty plate. "Don't let those heroes go to your head."

Vi barely looked up. "You mean, no one wants to ride in on a white horse and rescue me from this chaotic breakfast?"

I chuckled as I grabbed another plate and started piling on scrambled eggs and toast for Nico. He hated pancakes. "Just don't let your fantasies interfere with your reality, Vi. That's a hard lesson I learned last night."

"What's that about last night?" My mother's eyes darted to me at once.

"Uhm... nothing, Mama," I said quickly. "Just a little too much excitement."

To shield me from my mother's probing gaze, heavy footsteps announced Father's arrival. Instantly, his presence turned the room cold. The remaining laughter and chatter evaporated as if a switch had been flipped. He surveyed the room with a piercing, calculating look before leaning over the island.

Then, his phone rang, and he was out the door once more. A wave of relief swept through us as everyone hurried to finish their meals, eager to avoid another encounter with his intimidating presence.

Vi finally finished eating as she asked, "So, what's the plan for today? And who's driving me to book club? Cosimo looks like he'll be out of commission."

"I'll drive you," Nico offered, though the enthusiasm was clearly lacking. How could it be otherwise? Driving around spoiled princesses was a job for chauffeurs, not brothers and cousins-unless, of course, you were talking about the Benedetti household.

"You're my ride, not Vi's!" I groaned. "Unless you're planning to drop me off first before heading to her place. I'm not going to be late again today."

That was the crux of our perfect, princess-like lives. We weren't allowed to drive ourselves. Thankfully, as Cosimo's favorite sibling, he'd bent a few rules for me since I turned eighteen. He'd taught me to drive, but volunteering to drive myself now was out of the question. Not only would it get me a sharp retort from my mother, but Cosimo would be sobered up by her slap faster than he could say "hangover."

"Does Nico look like he's up for your sarcastic existence?" The fool eyed me jokingly. "You're going to be late if you don't hurry up, kids. And don't look at me-I'm not going anywhere today but back to bed."

Nico slanted his eyes at me. "Actually, it's the Sessie-Amalia drama I'm avoiding."

"I wasn't even going to ask ride from you, you imbecile." I rolled my eyes at Cosimo, hoping to avoid Nico's allegation.

Vi rose then, probably frustrated with Cosimo's existence. "Have a lovely day... Aunt Rosa, Mother, Zee." She stuffed her novel into her tote and slung it over her shoulder. "Call me, Sessie, once you're done with class." After planting a quick kiss on my cheeks, she dashed off with Nico.

"And who's taking you?" Mother asked, brushing a crumb from my lips.

"One of the men. I'm sure if she asks nicely, they'll linger until evening and bring her back," Cosimo sneeringly said as he got up. "After all, she's Sessie."

Mother gave me a look that mixed relief with amusement. "Be careful, honey. Don't lose your ring."

And as for that ring-I'd be hiding it in my bag as soon as I was out of sight. But I offered a dutiful smile. "Sure, Mother."

Clearing her throat, Zita picked up her baby and started tidying up the mess. Her gaze was a reminder of our one-sided agreement. "Looking forward to seeing your commitment and you at the Matrimonial Retreat."

Well, I could certainly wait. What was exciting about joining a bunch of idealistic women to discuss marriage, its lofty expectations, and inevitable drawbacks?

Before I could slip out through the second door, Father stormed back through the first, his eyes landing on Zita with a chilling intensity. "Elio's been shot," he announced, devoid of any emotion or connection-just stark, cold facts.

Zita and I let out simultaneous screams, amplifying the gasps that rippled through the room from mother and Cosimo.

Father's gaze flickered in my direction, one of the rare moments he actually looked at me. He snapped his fingers and barked, "Weren't you supposed to be going somewhere?"

I nodded hesitantly.

"Then why are you still dangling around?"

Yeah, I was an object; I dangled.

I found my feet in an instant, pushing the door open and fleeing, eager to find something-anything-that wasn't tied to the Benedetti name. How was I supposed to cope with this? Zita's husband had been shot, and yet I was treated as if it were none of my business, as if I wouldn't be expected to mourn if he didn't pull through.

Frankly, it had always been clear: our only jobs were to cook, nod, and stay silent.

This family wasn't merely sitting on a time bomb; it was the explosive device itself.