Page 69 of Brutal Union
"The O'Brien compound. They're doing it tonight instead of waiting." His smile is red and terrible. "She traded herself for Alice's freedom. Walked in there and offered herself to save her sister. Ceremony's at midnight, moved up from the original plan."
Of course she did. My brilliant, self-sacrificing wife. Trading herself like her mother tried to, like all Bernardi women do, thinking sacrifice equals love.
"My daughter will die in an Irish wedding dress," Alonzo says, "just like her mother died trying to escape this world."
I check my watch. Eleven fifteen. Forty-five minutes until midnight. Not even four hours since she left the cemetery, and she's already giving herself to another man. She didn't need even a full day to mourn. She needed less than four to replace me.
Twenty-four hours ago she was in my bed, my cum dripping down her thighs as she promised she'd never leave. Twenty-four fucking hours.
I drop Alonzo where he lies, still breathing but his left hand broken beyond repair. "If she's hurt when I get there, I'll come back and make this seem like mercy."
The city blurs past as I race toward the South Side, toward the O'Brien compound. My phone rings. Luca, Dante, Alessandro. But I don't answer. This is between my wife and me now.
The engine screams as I push it harder, racing through empty streets. Every red light ignored, every law broken. For the first time since my mother died, I find myself praying to a God I don'tbelieve in. Let me get there in time. Let her be safe. Let me stop this before…
The compound gates loom ahead, blazing with light like they're celebrating the theft of what's mine. Eleven forty. I slam the brakes, tires screaming against asphalt, as I see what's waiting: twenty Irish soldiers, armed and positioned. They knew I'd come. Of course they fucking knew.
Behind them, through the gates, I glimpse green. A flash of wedding dress disappearing into the main building. The hem trailing behind her like a ghost.
Valentina.
My wife in another wedding dress. Walking toward another man. While my marks are still on her skin, while she still smells like me, while her pussy probably still aches from how I fucked her yesterday morning.
I check my clip. Fifteen rounds. Twenty men between me and my wife.
The math is against me. The smart move would be to call for backup, wait for my brothers, plan this properly. But there's no time for smart moves. In twenty minutes, she'll say vows to another man. In twenty minutes, she'll promise him what she already promised me.
I smile for the first time tonight. Finally, odds that make sense. Twenty men who think they can keep me from what's mine. Twenty bodies between me and the woman who signed divorce papers in the rain but whose body still knows exactly who it belongs to.
The first guard spots me, starts to raise his weapon. Too slow. I'm already moving, already calculating angles and cover, already tasting blood that hasn't spilled yet.
Eleven forty-one.
Nineteen minutes to stop a wedding. Nineteen minutes to remind my wife that death is the only divorce I recognize. Nineteen minutes to either reclaim what's mine or die trying.
I slam another clip home and step out of the car. The guards tense, fingers finding triggers, but I'm already moving toward them with the confidence of a man who has nothing left to lose and everything to take back.
They have no idea what's coming.
26 - Valentina
The emerald dress weighs fifty pounds, every crystal bead another chain, every Celtic cross embroidered across the bodice a reminder that I’m cattle dressed for market. I stand before yet another mirror in yet another wedding dress, but this one makes me want to vomit. The O’Brien family heirloom drowns me in layers of heavy Irish lace, transforming me into a caricature of Catholic virtue.
My fingers find the knife hidden in my garter, the blade warm against my thigh. Small, sharp, perfect for slitting a throat during a kiss. The weight of it steadies me as two Irish women fuss with the cathedral-length veil, their hands rough where Marco's were gentle. My throat tightens at the memory: his fingers in my hair this morning, his mouth on my neck, whispering how I was his queen. Mother's killer or not, my body still aches for his touch. I lock that need away with everything else I can't afford to feel right now.
The chapel waits below, intimate and suffocating with its midnight shadows. Through the window, I see candles already lit, Latin prayers already being rehearsed by the nervous priest. Everything ready for a ceremony that can't be stopped, won't be interrupted, will bind me before anyone can object.
"Almost midnight," one of the women says, checking her watch. "Mr.O'Brien wants this done quickly."
I don't respond. My chest aches to hear Marco's voice, but I left my phone at the penthouse with Mother's rosary, adeliberate severing of ties. The man who signed divorce papers in the rain doesn't get to play savior now.
"Beautiful," the other woman pronounces, stepping back to admire their work. "Mr.O'Brien will be pleased."
Mr.O'Brien will be dead, I think, pressing my thigh against the hidden knife. After the vows, during the kiss when he thinks he's won, I'll draw the blade across his throat. Better to die a murderer than live as property again. Better to paint this hideous green dress red than let another man claim me as his wife.
They promised Alice would be released with money for school, safe passage out of Chicago. I have to believe that part was real, that my sacrifice bought her freedom even if everything else was lies. Christopher showed me the transfer confirmation, the taxi receipt from hours ago. She should be on a train by now, heading somewhere safe. That has to be enough.
The heavy fabric rustles like funeral shrouds as they lead me toward the door, each step a small death of the girl who once believed in fairy tales. Each step is calculated, measuring the distance from garter to hand, from hand to throat. One smooth motion. That's all I need.
