Chapter 5 Dress Fitting
The drive back to the Scarpetti estate passed in silence.
Alessia sat in the back seat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her posture perfect, her face empty.
Anyone watching would’ve thought she was calm.
She wasn’t.
You betray my family, and our marriage will end in a funeral.
Liam’s voice replayed in her head, low and final, like a verdict already decided.
She’d expected threats. Expected hostility. That part hadn’t surprised her. What had unsettled her—what still crawled under her skin—was the way he’d looked at her. Like he wasn’t seeing what she showed the world, but what she kept buried beneath it.
Like he knew she was lying, even when she wasn’t speaking.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Thorne. How did it go?
Her thumb hovered over the screen for half a second before she deleted it.
No answers. Not tonight.
Two days later, Alessia stepped inside the O’Sullivan compound for the first time.
The building loomed, all dark stone and polished wood, heavy with age and violence. It didn’t just look old—it felt old, like the walls remembered every deal made and every body buried. The compound sat on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen, fortified, guarded like a fortress.
She passed through three separate security checks before anyone even spoke to her.
Finally, she was led upstairs to a private room.
The dress fitting.
Alessia stood in the center of the room, staring at herself in the mirror.
White.
Of course it was white.
Layers of silk and lace wrapped around her, beautiful and suffocating, more costume than gown. The fabric was expensive. Immaculate. It felt like something meant to disguise reality rather than reflect it.
A prison, stitched carefully into place.
Four women surrounded her, working in silence. O’Sullivans. Wives. Mothers. Sisters. Their hands moved efficiently, but there was nothing gentle about them. Pins slid into fabric with sharp, precise movements. Fingers tugged and pulled without warning.
No one spoke.
No one smiled.
A woman with iron-gray hair and a tight mouth stepped behind her and yanked the laces of the bodice hard.
Alessia sucked in a breath despite herself.
“Too tight?” the woman asked flatly.
“It’s fine,” Alessia said.
The woman pulled again.
Pain flared across her ribs. Alessia’s fingers curled at her sides, nails biting into her palms, but she kept her face blank. She refused to give them anything. Not a reaction. Not a crack.
Another woman knelt to pin the hem, jabbing the fabric with sharp, careless movements that came far too close to skin.
“Such a shame,” she muttered. “A Scarpetti in O’Sullivan white. Declan must be rolling in his grave.”
Alessia’s jaw tightened. She said nothing.
The gray-haired woman circled her slowly, her gaze assessing, cold. “I knew Declan,” she said. “Sweet boy. Polite. Kind.” Her eyes met Alessia’s in the mirror. “Your family killed him.”
“My family didn’t pull the trigger,” Alessia replied quietly.
“No,” the woman said. “But they gave the order.”
Alessia fell silent. She’d been seventeen. She hadn’t known. But excuses meant nothing here. Blood didn’t care about age or ignorance.
The woman leaned in, her voice dropping. “You think marrying Liam will save you? You think a ring fixes decades of blood? You’re a fool.”
Alessia lifted her chin. “Then we have that in common,” she said evenly. “Because you’re a fool if you think I want this any more than you do.”
The room went still.
The woman’s face flushed. “You little—”
The door flew open.
Siobhan O’Sullivan walked in like a storm.
Her red curls bounced around her shoulders, her green eyes sharp and furious. “Out.”
The women froze.
“I said out,” Siobhan repeated. “All of you.”
“Miss O’Sullivan, we’re in the middle of—”
“You’re done.” Siobhan folded her arms. “I’ll handle it.”
“Your brother said—”
“I don’t care.”
That settled it.
One by one, the women filed out. The gray-haired woman paused at the door, casting Alessia one last look of pure venom before leaving.
The door clicked shut.
Alessia exhaled, her shoulders dropping before she could stop herself.
Siobhan turned to her, studying her openly. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you’re about to faint.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Siobhan arched a brow. “You’re really bad at letting people help you.”
“I don’t need help.”
“Everyone does.” Siobhan stepped closer, her gaze curious, not cruel. “They were awful to you.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.” Her voice softened. “You didn’t ask for this. Neither did Liam. That doesn’t mean you deserve to be treated like that.”
Alessia blinked. “Why do you care?”
“Because I’m not like them.” Siobhan gestured vaguely. “And because you look miserable. That usually means someone’s being forced into something.”
Alessia’s throat tightened. She looked at her reflection instead of answering. “What I want doesn’t matter.”
“It should.”
“But it doesn’t.”
Siobhan sighed. “Turn around.”
Alessia did.
“They laced this way too tight,” Siobhan muttered, fingers already working. “You can barely breathe.”
“I noticed.”
“Hold still.”
The bodice loosened. Alessia drew in a full breath for the first time in minutes.
“Better?” Siobhan asked.
“Yes.” The word came out softer than she intended. “Thank you.”
Siobhan waved it off. “So. Are you being forced into this?”
Alessia hesitated. “Why?”
“Because my brother didn’t want it. Which tells me you probably didn’t either.”
“Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
Alessia met her eyes in the mirror. There was no calculation there. No edge. Just honesty.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I am.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I still am.” Siobhan adjusted the veil. “For what it’s worth, Liam isn’t cruel. He’s angry. He’s carrying too much guilt. But he’s not a monster.”
Alessia didn’t answer.
Siobhan stepped back. “Turn again.”
She stopped.
Her eyes fixed on the small tattoo at the base of Alessia’s spine.
A scale. Balanced. Simple. Coded.
Alessia’s stomach dropped.
“Siobhan—”
“It’s pretty,” Siobhan said quickly. “The tattoo.”
“It’s nothing—”
“You don’t have to explain.” Siobhan’s voice stayed calm as she adjusted the fabric, lifting it to hide the mark completely. Pins slid into place, securing it. “No one will see it.”
Alessia stared at her. “Why are you helping me?”
“Because I know what it’s like,” Siobhan said quietly. “To have something you can’t tell anyone.” She met Alessia’s gaze. “Whatever it is—it’s safe with me.”
Something in Alessia’s chest cracked.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Siobhan nodded. “Don’t thank me yet. You’re marrying into this family.”
Despite herself, Alessia almost smiled.
At the door, Siobhan paused. “Just… be careful. If Liam finds out, he won’t be as forgiving.”
Then she was gone.
Alessia stood alone, staring at her reflection.
The dress fits perfectly now. The tattoo was hidden.
But the words stayed with her.
We all have our secrets here.