“I’ve heard this before,” my grandmother muttered, and you’d think she’d be a little more…self-effacing, seeing as how she had been lying to us for well over a decade.
“Fine, are we going to fake the family records to show they were never married before—”
“No need. I never got the chance to file my marriage with Ivy,” I said, reaching for the file on my desk to show them. “So legally, we weren’t ever married. In fact, publicly, we were never married, either. The only witnesses to that wedding were family. If we say it never existed…it never existed. Besides, legality is all that matters. Should anyone need any further explanation, the story shall be this, Calliope and I got together when we were young, too young, we married in a haste, she got pregnant, and our family kept it a secret. She and I separated but never divorced, hence my time with other women. Now we are back together.”
All of them were silent, and I took the lighter, setting the documents on fire before tossing it back onto the desk, watching the flames eat through it rapidly, watching for the second time as a Callahan burned her. The life of Ivy O'Davoren was tragic. It was not fair, but that is how the world worked. The strong survived, the weak died.
And she was weak.
I would not apologize for that.
I would not apologize for anything. Everything I had done, everything I would do, I did it to survive, whether people understood it or not.
“So…I guess we get to host another house party to welcome Calliope so people can see your family,” my grandmother stated, though it sounded more like a question.
“No,” I said even though it was what we’d normally do, but I didn’t want normal. “Call the family photographer.”
“A photographer?” Uncle Neal asked.
Watching the paper burning on my desk, I nodded. “Yes, the family portraits need to be updated,” I stated coldly.
“Couldn’t a photographer do so at a house party?” My grandmother pressed her lips into a firm line of disapproval. She wasn’t a stickler for tradition, but she still respected the way things were always done.
“All of you do not seem to be getting it…” I blew the ash from my fingers. “There will be no party because she does not need to be introduced. Calliope and her family are already known to Chicago.”
“What does that mean?” Uncle Declan paused; they all did.
“I’ve never heard of her or her weird looking grandfather, either,” Wyatt said. “Only that Nana hates his guts.”
Our grandmother said nothing. She sat in the chair, poised, calm, yet raging.
“Of course you haven’t. You never pay attention to other people.” Which is why he didn’t know Helen had been in love with him since they were kids.
“Well, I am paying attention now.”
I’d let him slide for that tone for now.
“Calliope Seraphina Orsini. She was born on November 28th, in Winnetka, Illinois. Her childhood residence is about twenty minutes down the road from here. She is the daughter of Roman and Camilla Affini.”
His eyes widened
“Affini as Affini Beauty and Fashion?” he asked, staring out baffled.
“Exactly.”
“Roman and Camilla’s youngest daughter,” my grandmother whispered, a bit stunned. “I forgot they had a third one…no. More likely, they wanted us to forget about their third daughter. Many people speculated she’d gotten herself into trouble, so they sent her abroad to hide her from the family.”
Just then, my Uncle Neal snapped his fingers. “She’s the one people said was an addict? Declan, remember last Christmas? The Jamesons heard she’d gotten herself locked up in México.”
“Wait,” Uncle Declan said seriously as he ignored Uncle Neal, sitting up on to the edge of the chair. “If she is an Affini, why does she go by Orsini?”
“Simple, her father, Roman, planned to get revenge on grandpa Sedric, for killing his brothers. So, he changed his identity and moved to Chicago but fell in love with Camilla, her mother, and decided to give up after Liam and Melody Giovanni got married. He did what the Italians and Irishmen asked him to do to: he let go of the blood feuds.”
“Those feuds did not die, Ethan,” Wyatt stated. “They still hate each other. Even now. A few weeks ago they were all planning on revolting. I had set fire to—”
“Yes, yes, I know, do not harp on small victories, brother. It’s annoying.”
He stared at me, then looked at the rest of this little family meeting. “Am I dead? Have I lost my mind? Or did he just tell us that his newfound wife is the daughter of a family of people who fucking hate our guts. And he knows this but still gave her the keys to the house? What the fuck is happening?”